“What was that? It was like you’d never had a bat in your hands.”
“My mind was elsewhere. This is why I don’t like to talk to my agent before a game. He knows this, but …” I trail off, pausing. How can I explain this? “He had to tell me something important. It had to be dealt with right then.”
And threw me off my game, so now I’m second-guessing every fucking decision I make. Thanks, Troy. So glad I pay my agent toberate me right before I’m on a nationally televised baseball game, looking like a complete tool.
“Do you want me to drive? You seem really out of it,” Layla says softly.
I can’t do that. Who knows what would happen if the paparazzi got a picture of us together? I can only lie so much. “No. I’m sorry, Layla. As much as I’d love to — and I really want you to hear me when I say that I’m so fucking pissed I can’t — I need to go home. There’s a lot going on, and I can’t talk about it yet.”
I see the flash of pain in her eyes. The purse of her lips, as she nods. “Oh. Well, goodnight, Max. Sorry about tonight.”
Layla quickly walks away, head down, and I have to force myself not to run after her. God. I want to grab her. Wrap her up in my arms, breathe her in, and try to forget that today ever happened.
My phone rings, and I look down to see it’s Troy calling. Answering, I simply say, “Asshole.”
“Alright. I deserved that.”
“You sure as fuck did.”
“In my defense, I’m on the East Coast today, and I mistakenly thought your game was a West Coast one.”
“It wasn’t, and my stats show how well I managed,” I sigh. Reaching up, I rub my eyes before dragging my hand through my hair.
“You’re a shitty liar, man. I appreciate that you try, because you’re obviously trying to protect her, but this is an absolute mess.” Troy pauses. “If Coach sees it, then management will too.”
“I know.”
“Max.”
“What?” I snap. “You’ve made your point. What did you say? Don’t shit where you eat. Very classy, by the way. I get it.”
“I’m just saying, now isn’t a good time to ruffle feathers. Your contract is up at the end of the season. If you decide you want to stay there, we need to plan accordingly.”
“I never said I wanted to stay here.”
“Things change. I’m going to take a deep dive into your contract again, as well as the no fraternization policy, and make sure there aren’t any loopholes. If you do like the girl, then maybe we can find a way to make it work.”
“I don’t want to talk about this right now. I’m exhausted. Goodnight, Troy.” I end the call, then turn my phone back off. From the moment I got on the bus this afternoon until I turned my phone on as we taxied here in Denver, I had five voicemails from my parents. Multiple texts from the guys in Bridge Point, an unknown number of tags on every single social media app, and emails from older coaches who don’t like to text. I’m ignoring everything.
After waiting a few minutes, I finally trudge into the parking lot. We park in a gated lot near the terminal, and the press weren’t allowed here, so I don’t have to pass them until I leave the lot. There are more than I thought would be out here, including a handful of fans. Usually, I’d stop if one gestured to me. Maybe pull over, get out to sign some autographs, or talk to someone from my car. Not today. I peel out of the lot, tires screeching, and take off toward my apartment building.
Yet somehow, I end up in Commerce City, staring in disbelief at a taped-off crime scene in front of Layla’s apartment.
Scrambling to turn my phone back on, I immediately call her. I can’t get out of the car. People will see me. I can’t be on the news right now.
“Hi,” she says meekly, her voice timid and frightened.
“Are you okay?” I blurt out.
“Yes?” she answers, confusion evident in her tone. “Why do you ask?”
“Layla, I’m outside your apartment.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “There was a man inside my apartment when I got home.”
“Jesus Christ,” I snap. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you? Are your guinea pigs okay?”
“The pigs are fine.”
