Me: Coming!
Ground Man: Damn. Not how I expected our convo to go, but I’m not upset about it in the slightest.
Me: Whew. I needed that more than I realized.
Ground Man: How long are you in Chicago?
Me: A few days.
Ground Man: I’d really like to meet in person. I’vegot an event tomorrow night, and won’t be able to meet until pretty late. Probably around eleven.
Me: That’s actually good for me. I really want to meet you, too. I need to see if you’re exaggerating the thick eight inches or not.
Ground Man: Nope. All me.
Me: Your modesty is remarkable.
Ground Man: Not about modesty. I know what I bring to the table. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, sweet girl.
Me: Until then, Ground Man.
I hate dating apps.Despise them. Unfortunately, in my line of work, the best way to get sexual needs met is sometimes anonymously through dating apps. I know there are more upscale and selective apps, meant for celebrities and sports professionals, but it’s still a crapshoot to me. Any woman on that app, especially, is only there to meet a celebrity. I fucking hate that.
So, when I found Kale Kween, I was pleasantly surprised at how naturally our conversation flowed. Yeah, it got sexual incredibly quickly, but that’s the whole point. I’m not trying to find a commitment here, especially a two-hour flight from where I live. I know I’m tightly wound up right now, and some good sex will alleviate some of that tension.
Unfortunately, our sexting seems to have only heightened my need, and I roll into Opening Day two seconds away from fully snapping.
“What the fuck is this?” I hiss, looking down at my boxed lunch that the nutritionist prepared for me.
“Your lunch. See? It has your name on it. M - A - X,” Layla says slowly, pointing to the letters of my name. “You can read, right? Should I slow it down a little bit?”
Growling, I glare murderously at her. “This is not the meal I requested.”
She shrugs. “Coach said I could give you whatever I wanted.”
“And what exactly is this?” I ask, looking down into the cardboard to-go container. “And why is it so fuckinggreen?”
“God, you’re such a child,” she whispers with an eye roll. “It’s grilled chicken in a pesto sauce, a side of whole wheat pasta in the same pesto sauce, and sautéed veggies.”
“Oh, couldn’t cover those in pesto as well? Totally understand. That would have been overkill,” I snap sarcastically. My stomach groans, angry as it realizes the usual fried chicken I’d eat before each game may never show back up if Layla keeps this job.
“The vegetables are seasoned a ton. Trust me, you don’t need pesto on those,” she says with a light giggle.
“I don’t need pesto on any of this shit,” I reply angrily, dropping the container onto the table. Placing both hands on the surface, I lean toward Layla and lower my voice. “I want my regular meal.”
Her eyes narrow as she mimics my posture. “Well, that’s too damn bad, Old Man. Coach said you’re not playing until you get on my meal program. How important is fried chicken to you? Enough to end your career over? Or is this just because you hate me?”
Hate her? That’s an odd choice of words. “I don’t hate you, Layla. I don’t know you. But I also don’t like someone crashing into my life and expecting me to change all kinds of things about my expectations. I’ve been in the Majors for over a decade, and fried chicken treated me just fine.”
There’s a flash of relief in her eyes as she registers my words, but then she schools her expression, putting up shutters that hide her thoughts from me. For that brief moment, I saw a different Layla. It makes me wonder who messed with her head that made her immediately jump to questioning if I hate her.
Layla straightens her posture, popping her shoulders back as she raises her chin to look at me defiantly. “Just because you’ve eaten it, doesn’t mean it’s been working. And you can’t comparewhat you ate as a twenty-five-year old to what you do now. Your body changes. Your metabolism slows down, and you have to start making healthier choices. How about before you toss that meal, you at least try it? I’m telling you that you’re going to be surprised. The flavor explodes on your tongue.”
Somehow, my eyes drift down, and I lock on one of Layla’s hands, resting idly on her upper thigh. A fingernail scratches back and forth against her uniform pants, and I immediately think about how I’d likeherflavor to explode on my tongue. Jesus Christ. I need to get laid.
“Are you okay?” she whispers, and my eyes whip up to find hers studying me. “You zoned out there for a good minute or two.”
“Shit. Sorry,” I tell her sheepishly, feeling an awkward smile grace my face. I bet I look constipated and angry instead of embarrassed. While I don’t avoid smiling, it’s not something that comes naturally to me. “I, uh, didn’t sleep well last night. I guess I’m more tired than I thought.”
