“Are you moving to Chicago, Peaches? Or are you planning outfit changes for every inning?” The deep and growly voice behind me sends a shiver down my spine, and as I whirl to face Max, I can only hope he didn’t see my visible reaction.
“Excuse me?” I ask haughtily, tilting my chin up to regard him with disdain. One corner of his mouth turns up in a smirk, and it only makes him appear sexier.
“You heard me,” he murmurs. “You gonna manhandle that behemoth up the stairs by yourself, or do you think you canmanage to ask for help? I’d hate to offer and mess with your feminist energy.”
“Please,” I scoff. “You would never offer to help me. You’ve made that clear.”
Another man jogs up to us, giving me a grin. Jake Holloway. “I can grab it for you, Layla. By the way, my mom loved that bean salad recipe you sent to me. She made me promise I’d tell you. I haven’t made it yet, but I’m going to soon.”
I beam as I look at Jake. He’s cute in an earnest way, and I imagine we could be friends. I’m not attracted to his all-American charm, though. Evidently, I’m much more into a brooding grump who is currently scowling at me. “I’m so glad she enjoyed it, Jake. It’s such a lovely way to add protein and flavor to your diet.”
“Have you tried her bean salad yet, Max?” Jake asks, smiling innocently at Max.
“No,” Max grumbles.
“Of course not, Jake,” I say cheerfully. “There aren’t enough chemicals and preservatives in there for Sunshine.”
“Give me your damn suitcase, and get on the plane,” he mutters.
Max leans forward to grab the handle, but I swat his hand away. “Nope. Can’t have you upsetting my feminine energy. Besides, Jake is here. I sure do appreciate your help.”
Jake gives me a huge grin as he grabs the handle, then grunts as he lifts it. I know it’s heavy. Denise talked me into multiple extra outfits “just in case.” I’m not entirely sure what kind of trouble she thinks I’m going to get into in Chicago at the end of March. “Damn. What do you have in here?”
“Extra clothes in case I need them,” I lie, then cover his hand with mine. “I can get it. It’s fine. I don’t want you to injure your arm before Opening Day.”
Jake looks relieved, then trots up the stairs. As I turn to place my hand on the railing, I feel my hair move. Jolting, I realize it’s not the wind, but Max’s face dangerously close to my hair. “Do you always smell like this?”
“Like what?” I ask breathily, my voice quite a bit higher than a moment ago.
“Like you bathe in peaches. Peach everything. But like you rolled in sugar too.”
I let out an awkward laugh. “Leave it to you to take a healthy food and fatten it up. And I don’t smell like peach anything, because I hate the fruit. We’ve talked about this.”
“It’s a fruit, that much I know. Is it pomegranate?” Max asks as he inhales deeply.
It is, but I’m not telling him. “Wouldn’t you like to know? Now let go of my suitcase so I can drag it up the stairs. Unless you’re desperate for extra ways to burn all the calories you ate in fried food today.”
“I’m sure there are other ways to burn calories that we’dbothenjoy,” he mumbles.
“What did you say?” I ask incredulously, looking over my shoulder at him.
“Nothing.” Max motions for me to walk up the staircase. Silently, I march up the stairs, acutely aware of how close his face is to my ass. I thank him for carrying my suitcase, then quietly make my way to my seat.
The Raptors have their own airplane, as I’m sure most of the teams in the league do. It’s a specialty 757 that gives most of the team lay-flat first-class seating. Some teams even add things like card tables to their planes, but the Raptors just have seating. While some of the coaching staff have better seating, I’m relegated to the back of the plane, in a standard economy seat. It doesn’t matter to me. I plan to make notes for new recipes and look at some local distributors to source specific ingredients.
The flight is quiet. I don’t have any close friends on the staff yet, and I honestly figure it isn’t likely to happen anytime soon. I’m the youngest by quite a few years, and also one of the only women on staff. Most of my interactions are with the players, and I get a weekly reminder email from Human Resources about fraternization. I have to wonder if every employee receives the same email,or if I’m singled out due to my age and gender. I laugh to myself when I think about Mike, a physical therapist who is in his sixties, getting a weekly reminder not to canoodle with any of the players.
Thankful for the free wi-fi on the plane, I make a split-second decision to download a dating app again. I already have a profile, using it sporadically throughout my twenties. I mostly use it to find someone for a few dates, or a quick hookup, because I know there aren’t any men of good value on those things. I’m not in a place in my life where I want to date long-term anyway. My job is my partner for now. Maybe in a year or two, I’ll decide I want to share my life with someone. But right now, I could use a release of a sexual nature, and the idea of meeting someone I definitely won’t see again is a huge plus.
Three hours later, after checking into the hotel and confirming the player meals were delivered correctly for dinner, I fall onto the bed with a relieved moan. The Raptors try to have everyone under the same roof, but this first trip, a few of us are staying at a hotel across from the team’s hotel. I don’t care if I’m at the same hotel. I appreciate that I’m not having to travel across town to ensure their needs are met every day we’re in Chicago, though.
Pulling out my phone, I open up the dating app. Might as well pass the time with some man-ogling. Swiping through potential matches, I find I’ve matched with someone who only features a silhouette picture of himself, from the back, named Ground Man.
“What the hell kind of name is that?” I murmur to myself. The profile image is somewhat striking, featuring wide shoulders and a strong neck. The man appears to be wearing a hat of some kind, but no logo or label tells me anything about him. His overall profile is mostly vague information, but it does say he’s only in Chicago for a few days and is looking for some no-strings fun. “Took the words right out of my mouth, Ground Man.”
I click through his few pictures, which are all pretty standard and lacking any detail about his physical features, and wonder if it’s a catfish situation. This could be a fifty-year-old woman named Andrea for all I know. There’s a picture of a man climbing the stairsat Red Rocks Amphitheater, and a very tiny warning bell sounds in the back of my head. Could this possibly be someone from the team? Only in town for a few days and a very vague profile? No. These guys would be on that celebrity app, right? Not on a normal dating app. And I’m certainly never getting an invite to the celebrity one.
“What the hell,” I whisper, clicking on the message icon. I send him a very respectful “hey” message, then jolt when I get an immediate response.
