God, it pissed me off to see him like that. How dare he act all remorseful like this? How dare he look genuinely regretful when all I wanted to do was yell at him?
“Well, a sorry isn’t going to fix this,” I huffed, kicking at the ground in frustration. “He thinks I’m just some unprofessional kid, one more fuckup, one more scene, and I’m out of here. I haven’t —”
“Absolutely not. I won’t let him fire you,” Kean said, leaning so far forward that he had to brace himself with one hand on the floor.
“What?” I asked, just sort of blinking at him. Because where the hell did this attitude come from? Just a few minutes ago he was acting like he couldn’t bear to talk to me.
“I just mean …” He settled back against the wall, fingers tapping against his knees. “I caused the problem, so I’ll fix it.”
“Ha. Like you’ll fix your chances of being benched?” Kean immediately rolled his eyes and I straightened, energy renewed. I shifted forward, hands to the ground. “I’m serious, Kean. This could make or break your long-term career. Social media is how fans and other team managers see you. And right now all they see is a grumpy asshole not willing to make time for anyone else. That won’t sell tickets and it won’t make you easy to trade if the owners do decide to go with Lunez.”
Kean stared at me for a long while, eyes lingering on the tear stains on my cheeks. I must look like a hot mess. And as pathetic as it was, I didn’t care. There were so many ways I could be out of a job, but Kean getting benched shouldn’t be one of them.
“If I give you thirty minutes before every practice, would that be enough?” he asked and I shot forward, taking his hand in mine.
“Seriously?” I asked, eyes wide, tears returning for a completely different reason.
Kean’s eyes went wide too, focused on my hands, his jaw tightening. “Will it make you stop crying?”
“Probably,” I answered through a laugh, letting go of his hands and sitting back on my feet. “But I promise, this won’t affect anyof the PA work you need done. And I’ll work on a strategy that doesn’t disturb your schedule either.”
“Uh-huh,” Kean murmured, staring at his hands that were still in the air where I left them.
“Do you have anything set up? Like an old account you don’t use?”
“No. I don’t use any of it, never have.” He dropped his hands into his lap before looking back up at me, head tilting ever so slightly. I let him have a second to think, maybe give some input on what kind of account he wanted or set some boundaries. But he didn’t say any of that.
Instead, he leaned forward and brought a hand to my cheek, his thumb wiping away a tear line.
“Just don’t cry anymore, all right?” he whispered, voice so much softer than I expected a man like him to be capable of.
“I’ll …” My voice caught in my throat, caught off guard by Kean’s attitude shift. The guy was definitely trying to be nice here and it felt … good. It didn’t feel like he was creeping on me or would ask for favors later or any of that kind of shit. But it was so different from how he tried to run from me on the field.
And if I’m being completely honest, the softness of his hand, the warmth of it, did a little something to me. It slowed things, made me feel fuzzy and safe. It felt a little like nostalgia.
“I’ll do my best.”
Kean’s eyes focused on mine, searching for something. And since he was looking for something, I tried to do the same. But all I saw was a shiny green that reminded me of baby palm trees.
“Okay.” Kean pulled away and stood up. He took a deep breath before bending to hold out a hand for me. I took it and he yanked me to my feet like I weighed nothing, making sure I was settled on my feet before letting go. “See you tomorrow, then.”
A Dastard Inquisition
Olli
Christenson took pity on me and held our post practice decompress at TJ’s, a restaurant and pub in Destin proper that overlooked the harbor. It was a nice place, a little on the touristy side downstairs, but the top floor, where the bar and live music was, felt like a local haunt. Mostly because there weren’t as many ads for boat tours up here.
The hostess sat us all at a couple of high-tops in the corner, on the opposite side of the band. I pulled out a chair and Brooker slid right in, bumping my arm with his fist.
“Thanks, man, very gentlemanly of you,” he said, throwing me a wink. I rolled my eyes and moved to the next seat. Before I even slid the chair all the way out, Gallagher’s gangly ass slid in.
“Seriously,” I grumbled, stepping back to look for another free seat. And of course the only one left was at the head of the table. “Y’all are fucking assholes.”
“Nah, these are the consequences of your actions,” Sosa said before turning to Alvarez to say something in Spanish. He’d spoken too quickly for me to catch it all, but I did hear him call me the equivalent of a dick face.
“I don’t approve of the language,” Christenson said, eyeing the other two before looking at me. “But they’re kind of right. You were running away from her like she had cooties.”
“And your footwork was shit,” Ricci shouted from the far end of the table. Taylor bopped him on the head with his menu.
