“You don’t like ostrich eggs, do you?” I can’t help the wide grin that breaks across my face. Layla has taken such joy in making me uncomfortable with this healthy eating bullshit, and now I’ve found something she won’t eat.
Her face screws up in disgust. “No, I think they’re awful. It’s like eating pudding! I don’t want my eggs to be sweet and so gooey they almost fall off the fork. Do you have any idea how long it takes to hard-boil one of those bastards? I’ve got better things to do, thank you very much!”
“Why would anyone want to hard-boil a massive egg? Did someone make you do that?” I ask.
“A jerk from a previous team. I know he was just being a bratabout it, because he didn’t even touch the damn thing. He just liked making me miserable.”
Fully alert, I watch her carefully. “Was this another baseball team?”
She nods slowly.
“Who was it?” I ask, my voice far deeper than I intend. I don’t know why it makes me furious, but it does. No one should be able to fuck around with Layla like that.
Her mouth drops open. “Why? You planning to go fight for my honor or something? Besides, it doesn’t matter. I don’t think he’s on the team anymore.”
“Traded?” I whip out my phone and go to LinkedIn. Typing in Layla’s name, I find her profile. “You worked for Baltimore and Atlanta before you came to the Raptors. Which team was the guy on?”
“I’m not telling you anything else,” she says hurriedly. “You’ve got a crazy look in your eyes, and I refuse to take part in whatever shenanigans you may come up with.”
“Shenanigans? Come on, Peaches,” I cajole her, grinning wickedly. “I think we can come up with a better label than that.”
“Nope.” Layla jumps up, scooting past me. “I’m not taking part in this. You’re acting like a child. I’ve left it all in the past, and there’s no reason you should be digging it back up.”
I grab her wrist before she can bolt down the aisle. “Wait! I thought we were discussing food?”
“You’ll get what you get, and you’ll like it,” she snaps, flouncing away dramatically.
Looking back at my phone, I swipe out of LinkedIn. I should let it go. Not stick my nose where she’s been very clear I need to avoid.
But that’s not really my style.
Opening up my browser, I type in Layla’s name again. The first few searches are her social media pages, and I’m disappointed to find that nearly every single account is private. Her Instagram, however, is not. Scrolling through, I find virtually no personal information. Most of it is food-related, a lot of recipes, and sheseems to share new-to-her ingredients. What the fuck is a kumquat? And Romanesco is some kind of broccoli and cauliflower hybrid? I let out a breath as I chuckle, imagining that’ll undoubtedly make an appearance in a meal soon, as she just shared it last week.
I happen upon a picture of an incredibly fluffy cat, who, Layla says, recently crossed the Rainbow Bridge. She claimed the cat was sixteen, and had been with Layla since she was a teenager.
“Damn,” I mutter. I’ve never been a pet lover myself, but one image of Layla and her cat tells me she loved the feline. I’d imagine the pet dying must have been incredibly hard for her.
I spend the remainder of the flight scrolling through her Instagram, but I find no mention of anyone from either of her previous teams. The way she spoke so negatively about the guy makes me wonder if there was something else going on. Did he just antagonize her, or did they date? Was it a bad breakup, or were there unrequited feelings on his part?
Once settled in my hotel room in Dallas, I have a moment of clarity. Pulling up Layla’s Instagram account again, I check out who she follows. I’m oddly disappointed she doesn’t follow me, but I rarely use Instagram anyway. She follows a couple hundred accounts, none of which are baseball-related. Switching to her followers, a name jumps out at me immediately.
Javier Morales.
The dude is an asshole. There are rumors he’s had multiple women accuse him of a variety of things, but nothing has officially stuck. Athletes can get away with a lot of things, unfortunately. Morales must be coated in oil, because everything just slides right off him. A few years younger than me, he’s jumped teams often in his career. Fortunately, I’ve never been on the same team as him. I don’t know why, but I have a feeling he’s the guy Layla had an issue with.
Clicking on his page, I find it as I expect: mostly just not-so-humble bragging about how amazing he thinks he is. Lots of selfies, muscle flexing, and showing off his expensive cars. Women in the comments ogling him. I find it peculiar that there are seeminglyno negative comments on any old posts, but the one posted today is full of women saying he’s a vile person. I wonder if he deletes all the negative comments, or if he has someone do it for him. He’s probably the type of guy who thinks monitoring comments is beneath him.
I do find a post that cements my theory on it being him. Two years ago, right before Atlanta traded him to Houston, he posted an image of a menu, and his comment was, “Food police thinks this is tasty? This is why women need to shut up.”
Oh, I’m going to fucking murder this asshole.
Remembering the team gave us a link with the entire staff’s phone numbers, I find Layla’s, and open up a text.
Me
Found him.
Unknown
