“Croix,” Aspen calls, but he just smiles at her.
“Good to see you, Pen. I’ve got to get back.”
“I—Okay. Thank you.” I can tell she’s not sure how to take Croix’s demeanor.
Croix jogs back toward the field, leaving me to lean my head against the wall. But my eyes remain fixed on the man Aspen was talking to.
She notices, too. “Luca! I’d like you to meet someone,” Aspen says, gesturing toward him. “This is Eros Beaumont.”
My posture stiffens. I recognize the name. And the face. He’s the owner of BSN, or at least one of the heavy hitters behind the network. I mask my irritation with professional courtesy and extend a hand.
“Luca Chidubem,” I grit out.
“A pleasure to meet you,” Eros says, his grip firm. “I was just telling your wife that I’d love to profile the two of you for the network. The 'Power Couple' angle will do wonders for your brand.”
I let out a dry, slightly strained laugh. Did my wife also tell him that our marriage has an expiration date? “I’m flattered you’d come all the way out here to pitch a story to my wife.”
“Actually, I’m on Dad duty today,” he counters easily. “My son, Manny, is out there. I’m just waiting for the day to wrap up.”
“Ah! Manny! Small kid, big brain? Wears glasses?”
“That’s the one,” Eros says, a spark of pride in his eyes. He then looks down at my leg. “Please tell me the little shit didn't assault you. Is that why you had to be carried in here just now?”
I shake my head, a genuine laugh bubbling up despite the pain. “Manny is a great kid. And no, he didn't assault me. Though I'll say this—if the BSN cameras weren’t out there, I’dhave the rest of those little fuckers running suicides until they puked.”
“Luca! They’re second graders!” Aspen gasps, horrified.
“Aspen, they’reassholes!” I vent.
Eros just laughs, turning toward the door. “In that case, I’d better go check on my tiny asshole. It was good meeting you, Luca. Think about that profile.”
As he exits, I shift on the bench, a sharp hiss escaping my teeth as the adrenaline fades and the agony returns.
“Luca, stay still,” Aspen commands, her voice dropping into her no-nonsense medical tone. Her hands move over my leg, checking the tension of the wrap. “We’re going to have to get this looked at. I’ll call Dr. Shoup, the team doctor, to meet us at home.”
Home.
“I know. And thank you for not saying I told you so when you saw me being carried in.”
“Oh, the day is still young, Chillmonger. What the hell happened?”
“Kids were throwing balls at me. From every angle and every direction! I don’t know what the hell was going on!”
“Just you? Why on earth were they all targeting you?”
“I have no clue. And Croix just laughed and shrugged the entire time.”
I’m telling her about the final blow that sent me to the ground when she reaches behind me, her hand brushing against my back. I feel a slight tug, the sound of adhesive peeling away from fabric.
“What is that?” I ask.
Aspen holds up a piece of copy paper with large writing like a sign. Her expression is a mix of horror and suppressed amusement.
In messy, block-lettered Sharpie, the sign reads:THROW BALLS AT ME. I’M A DORK.
I stare at the paper. Then I look out at the field, where Croix is currently high-fiving the boy with the undone shoelaces.
“I’m going to kill him,” I growl.
