Caleb
Three weeks in and I’ve got a routine, which should scare me more than it does.
On Tuesdays and Thursdays, she comes over once the building clears out. I cook. She takes the stool with the wall behind it and tells me about her day in the flat little voice that means she’s relaxed. We watch her show. She calls who’s going home before the roses even come out. We laugh.
Last night, she pointed her fork at some guy on the screen. “He’s gone. Tonight.”
“He got a one-on-one,” I said.
“He got a pity one-on-one. Watch his hands. He keeps touching his own face. He already knows he’s losing.” She took a bite. “Gone by the second commercial.”
He was gone by the second commercial.
“How do you do that?” I said.
“People are easier on a screen. They slow down. Out here, everybody moves too fast and says the opposite of what they mean.” She shrugged. “On the show, somebody edits it, or scripts it, so it makes sense. I like things that make sense.”
“I don’t make sense.”
“No.” She looked at me a beat too long, and it took everything in me not to shove my tongue down her sexy ass throat. “You really don’t. It’s extremely inconvenient.”
That’s the closest she comes to saying it out loud. I take every inch she gives me, because I think I know exactly how hard it is for her to do it.
Then she fell asleep. Sitting up, halfway through the next episode, like she still didn’t trust lying down all the way in a place that wasn’t hers. I didn’t move for an hour. Arm dead, foot gone numb, didn’t move. A guy who can’t sit still through a TV timeout sat still for an hour so she could sleep.
That’s where I’m at.
That’s how bad it is.
And the math hasn’t changed one inch. One strike and I’m out on my ass. I should have been paranoid. I wasn’t.
But Coach has just called me into his office.
And now?
I’m paranoid as fuck.
“Sit,” he says, and I do, because there’s something in his face I haven’t seen before.
“There’s a recruiter coming to the Saturday game. He’s from Carolina’s development staff.” He lets it land. “He isn’t coming for the team. He’s coming for you.”
The room goes real quiet, the way it does when a thing you stopped letting yourself dream about walks up and knocks.
“How is that possible? I just got here.”
“I made some calls,” he says. “I see you trying, and you’ve definitely got the talent. What you’ve never had is a clean year. A man like this doesn’t fill a roster spot with a kid who might put somebody in the hospital come February.” He leans back. “This is the door, Adams. It doesn’t open twice. Play your ass off Saturday.”
I keep my face flat, but inside I’m already gone. Carolina won the Stanley Cup last season. They are the gold standard. This could mean one hell of a contract. And a contract means real money coming in, so that my brother stops working doubles and my sisters grow up thinking the world’s a safe place. A contract with Carolina is the one thing my old man swore I’d never have the discipline to get. And now the shit is so close I can taste it.
“Keep your nose clean,” Coach says. “And this could be life-changing for you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“One more thing.” He shuffles a folder, not looking at me, which is how I know it matters to him. “I know you’ve been keeping all your appointments with my daughter.”
Everything in me goes very still.
“Yes, sir, I have.”
