“You didn’t get any homers after your trade. Did you know that?” Ryder comments.
“You keeping tabs on his stats, Sully?” Jake teases.
“I like data. I heard Coach say you hadn’t homered since you were traded from Bridge Point.”
Damn. “I guess I hadn’t realized.”
“Kinda interesting, considering our ballpark is known for how easy it is to hit a home run,” Jake says casually. “Dozens of games in Denver, and you didn’t hit one until you were forced onto a high-protein diet. I’m sure you’ll say it’s a coincidence.”
I roll my eyes as I unbutton my uniform jersey. “Really stretching the reasoning there, Holloway. No way is it due to a couple of healthy meals.”
No, it’s much more likely that it’s due to the beautiful vixen who blew my mind last night. And it is a coincidence that she’s responsible for the healthy meals. God, this is so fucked up.
The following day, after we lost the game to Chicago to end the series at two-to-one, we are back on the airplane and headed to Dallas. Three more games there, and we’ll finally be back in Denver to have our home opener.
I’m interested to see how Denver does Opening Day. Bridge Point was always fun. Much more of a family atmosphere, but still a great time. I have a college friend who plays for Cincinnati, and he can’t stop talking about how it’s basically a city-wide holiday there. Of course, Cincinnati is basically the birthplace of professional baseball, so it has a long history ofOpening Day activities.
I recline my seat to almost flat, laying my baseball hat over my eyes. It’s dark outside, but ambient light from the airplane interior, plus a multitude of people around me on devices, means I can’t get the shut-eye I need. It’s a two-hour flight to Dallas, and I hope to sleep at least one of them.
When someone unceremoniously slams down in the seat next to me, I groan. I just know it’s Holloway. “Seriously, Jake? Can’t you find someone else to bother right now? Old men need their sleep.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Sunshine, but I want to go over your meals for this series,” Layla says smoothly.
I launch into a sitting position, then attempt to bring the seat upright. I hit every incorrect button, somehow manage to call the flight attendant, then awkwardly watch as the seat slowly inclines. “Sorry. I assumed you were Holloway.”
“He’s asleep.”
“Of course he is,” I mutter, irritated. The kid could fall asleep against a rock, and only seems to be wide awake when I’m exhausted. Then he’s like a six-year-old who chugged a can of Mountain Dew.
“Are you actually mad that your teammate is asleep?” Layla asks incredulously, her expression one of disbelief with a tiny bit of disgust thrown in.
“I’m not mad he’s asleep, although it does piss me off how easily he falls asleep.”
“I take it you don’t go unconscious as soon as your head hits the pillow?”
I shake my head. “Ten or fifteen years ago, maybe. Not now.”
“Ahh,” she says with a laugh. “It’s tough being so old.”
“I guess that means you fall asleep like Holloway.”
Layla nods. “Doesn’t matter where I am. I can always manage to turn my brain off. It’s possibly one of my favorite things about myself.”
I open my mouth to reply, intending to tell her how fast she fell asleep after we’d fucked, then slam my lips shut. Jesus. Admitting that on an airplane, seven or eight miles in the air, where I’msequestered with the entire coaching staff, would end so fucking badly. I have got to get this woman out of my mind. “What did you want to discuss about the menu?”
Layla winces slightly, clearly noting my quick shift in demeanor and icy tone. “A couple of questions, mostly. Are you allergic to anything?”
“No.”
“Are there any specific deal-breakers that you absolutely will not touch? It can be anything, really. Chicken thighs, ostrich eggs, roasted beets …”
“Are ostrich eggs really going to show up one morning?” I ask, my brows raised so far they probably blend in with my hairline. “I’ll admit, I’ve never had one, but it weirds me out thinking about how big they are.”
Layla’s lips twitch as she fails to hide a smile. “One ostrich egg is equivalent to close to two dozen chicken eggs, so I highly doubt I’ll be whipping out a ton of ostrich egg scrambles for the team. It was just an example.”
“Two dozen? Huh,” I answer. “I could probably eat that. Is the taste the same?”
“Not exactly, no. The texture is different as well.” Her tone has changed, and it occurs to me that maybe Layla is the one with the aversion to a food.
