Which is exactly what I do six hours later.
Wearing much more than earlier, with a baggy sweatshirt drooping off my shoulder and a pair of spandex shorts beneath it, I upload the video to our conversation, along with a message beneath it.
Crushedvelvet
All done. I hope it was everything you were wanting it to be.
I yawn and stretch my arms above my head. There’s a lingering soreness between my legs that hasn’t quite dulled yet. I didn’t know I had been so rough with myself until I sat down on the couch to edit the video and found myself wincing.
A few minutes pass without a reply, which isn’t exactly surprising. He won’t see that I’ve sent the video until he checks his messages, and this late at night isn’t a usual time for me to be active on here.
My cheeks warm at that thought. Yeah, maybe I’ve been paying attention to his constant presence every single time I go live, as if he’s jotted my schedule down or something. Again, it’s ridiculous. Nobody cares that much about a faceless woman on the internet.
I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make me feel at least a little bit cocky, though, if that did have a bit of truth in it.
I’m only human, after all.
5
ROMAN
“No.”
“Come on, Rome. He just needs a chance.”
“No is my final answer. If Logan wants a real chance at playing first base, then he can focus on spending more time on the field between games than in scandalous photos on the internet,” I command into my car’s Bluetooth.
This conversation with Logan Reed’s agent should have happened months ago during off-season, but the fucker is hard to reach when he knows he’s about to get his ass handed to him. If it were up to me, this would be the last time I’d ever speak to him about any player, let alone the one who’s been dragging the Havoc’s name through the sludge the last few months.
Recently divorced, the thirty-year-old slugger has gone from a household name cheered around a living room to the one cursed under the breath of someone who used to wear his jersey. His gameplay is sloppy when he does get a chance to play, and when he doesn’t, his surly attitude is a giant thorn in my side. If he had any options left, he’d have been tossed down weeks ago.
I’m a fair manager. I give second, third, even fourth chances to my players because I know the game and what it costs you. But when you’re on your fifth chance, I’ve got to put my footdown before it’s my head on the line from the guy who writes my paycheques.
“He hasn’t been to a club in two weeks. I told you he’d make an effort, and he is. If you’d just?—”
“For how long, Clint? We both know the moment we land in a city that isn’t ours, he’s going to be back at the club, chasing skirts and drinking his weight in vodka. That’s not a look we can afford this season.”
Not when we’re shooting for the world title.
“Don’t you remember what it felt like being young and broken-hearted, Rome? Logan’s going through a rough patch, but he’ll reach the other side of it soon. Is this how you treat Beckett Rourke, too? Or does he get special treatment.”
“I have players on my team five, six years younger than him and keeping it together better. They’re going through their own shit, yet they’re in my dugout every damn day with their focus intact. He has my sympathies for the divorce, but until he proves himself to be a reliable member of this team, he sits. And Beckett has put an end to all of that. He’s cleaning his image up for the good of the team. Don’t ever pit my players against each other again. End of discussion.”
Clint grumbles something low enough that I can’t make out before clearing his throat. “I’ll let him know.”
“Great speaking with you.”
He doesn’t respond to my blatant lie. The call drops, and I release the tension in my jaw while rolling down the window. It’s twenty degrees today with a spring breeze that whips across the leather seats. I adjust my sunglasses to the top of my head and watch the sun dance on the tinted windows at the tops of the sky-high buildings I pass. Traffic’s a bitch any day, and given that it’s just past noon, it’s borderline unbearable.
Like I have every week for the last few months, I’m meeting my niece for lunch at the new studio space she’s been renting.It’s not close enough to the stadium as I’d like, not that I had a choice in the matter. Evie’s gotten more vocal about her independence this last year, and I’m as proud of her for that as I am terrified.
She’s only twenty-one, which isn’t exactly young in the general sense. To me, though, she’s still the broken-hearted sixteen-year-old that I took in after . . . Shaking that thought loose, I flick my blinker on and turn left at the next light.
Another call flashes across the wide touchscreen above the dash. It’s not Evie’s name I see, so I jab my finger against the Decline option before it can ring a third time. I’m only five minutes away from the studio, and the longer it takes her to reply to my earlier texts, the faster I seem to drive.
A million fearful thoughts flash through my mind with the businesses I pass. I tap my fingers against the steering wheel and suck in a deeper inhale of fresh air. The takeout bag on the passenger seat nearly topples off when I slam on my brakes at a yellow light just as it turns red.
Maybe I should call her.
