“How come you’re okay with Lard in bread, but you make a face when I suggest pizza rolls as a dinner option?” I tease.
“Because it’s a small amount of Lard, Max. And there aren’t any preservatives in it, which is not what I can say for your much-loved pizza rolls,” she replies. “I bet I could try to recreate your pizza rolls in a healthy way. Would you be willing to try them if I did?”
“I’ll try anything you cook,” I blurt out. Feeling embarrassed, I almost take it back, but decide not to. Frankly, I think I will try anything Layla cooks. Looking back, it makes me wonder where we’d be today if I’d given her a chance back at the beginning of December when she was introduced to the team.
“Anything?”
After a quiet moment, I answer. “Yeah. I trust you, Lay.”
I hear her intake of breath, and I realize it’s the same as the last time I called her Lay. I think she likes it, but nowhere near as much as she likes it when I call her Peaches.
“You like that, don’t you?” I finally say.
“What?”
“When I shorten your name to Lay.”
She’s quiet for a heartbeat. “Yeah, I do. More than I should admit, I think.”
“If it helps any, I sort of like when you call me Sunshine.”
Her giggle is music to my ears. “I already knew that.”
“How?”
“Your ears get a little pink around the edges.”
“You’re lying,” I state, hearing her loud laughter through the wall.
“I’m not! Maybe it’s your tell. I’ll always know something’s up when your ears get pink.”
“For the sake of my masculinity, I sincerely hope not,” I answer. “You can always ask me questions. I’d prefer that over you checking out my ears.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she says softly. “Night, Max.”
“Night.”
Late the following afternoon, I’m on the field for batting practice. The temperature is hot, probably in the mid-eighties, but the humidity is stifling. Layla was smart to offer everyone incredibly light meals for dinner, focusing on grilled chicken and vegetables, because the thought of trying to run around in this heat with a full stomach makes me want to hurl.
With a game time of seven, we’re allotted an hour of batting practice right before the stadium staff preps the field. I do my part, then hustle back inside the building to find some much-needed air conditioning. It’s only by chance that I come across Layla being cornered by Javier Morales.
“I warned you to keep your fucking trapshut, you stupid cunt,” he hisses, his hand around her neck. I’m two seconds away from throttling him when Layla surprises me by planting her hands on his chest, shoving him as hard as she can. Javier stumbles, clearly surprised at her show of aggression. “What the fuck, Layla?”
“I do not consent to your hands on me,” she murmurs, her voice shaking. She has both hands wrapped around his forearm, and all I see is red. This motherfucker.
Javier takes a step toward her menacingly, before Layla’s eyes find mine. Javier turns, and his expression changes instantly as he drops his hand. “Callahan.”
I don’t acknowledge him, focusing on my breathing as my attention locks in on Layla. “You good?”
Her expression is part frustration, but mostly a healthy dose of fear. “I’ll be fine. I need to speak with you and Holloway about your meal plan for the remainder of the series. Do you have a moment?”
“Of course,” I answer, motioning for her to walk toward thevisiting locker room. As she steps away from Javier, I crowd into his space. Leaning down, I growl, “Touch her again, and I will end you.”
“Oh, so that’s how it is?” he says, laughing. “Can’t get with a good player, so she goes for the senior citizen?”
I give him an evil grin. “I’m not with her. But I’ll protect anyone with my team, and certainly will protect a woman from a man who puts hands on her when she clearly doesn’t want it. Keep that in mind, Morales. Also worth mentioning that being a senior citizen means I have friends in every fucking house. Would be a shame if they all found out about what I just saw.”
I see the flash of fear in his eyes before he tightens his expression. “Whatever, asshole. They’ll believe me. They always do.”
