Page 20 of Offside

“That’s the job.”

“It is.” He pushed off the doorframe. “Anything you need, staffing, equipment, and whatever might not be working the way it should, you come to me directly. Not Calloway. Me.” He paused, easy and unhurried. “We spent a long time finding the right person for this department. Glad you’re here.” I had been a little nervous when he arrived unexpectedly, but this was a welcomed visit to be sure.

I held his gaze. “I appreciate that.”

“Have a great day, Maren.” He gave me a single nod and left, moving on to wherever he was going next before I could reply.

I sat with his visit for a moment. Then Griffin appeared in my doorway radiating grievance, and the moment passed.

“The boys,” he said, “are being idiots.”

“About what?” I got back to work, only half listening to him.

“About you.” He dropped into the chair across from my desk with the weight of genuine suffering. “Cole has been unbearable since you started. Sutter—Sutter, who says maybe twelve words a day—told me at breakfast that my sister was ‘very impressive.’ Two of the rookies asked if you were coming to The Rusty Nail on Friday. They have all asked your relationship status. There are rules.” He held my gaze. “It’s a lot, Maren.”

I put my pen down. “Griffin.”

“I know.”

“I am a professional colleague who works with the team in a medical capacity.”

“I know that. And you’re good at your job.”

“Thanks. I guess? Look. This is your issue to manage, not mine.”

“I know that too.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I just want to go on record that this is not what I pictured when I imagined us working together.”

“What did you picture?”

“I don’t know. You being invisible, maybe. Just here for me.”

“Very helpful. Thank you.” I gestured at the door. “Go be rude someplace else.”

He went, still aggrieved. I stared at the ceiling for a moment and went back to my notes.

I was gathering my things to leave when I heard Cole and Theo laughing in the corridor, loud and delighted, and Griffin’s voice behind it tight with disagreement. I took the back exit.

The afternoon heat was a wall I walked into. I was almost to my car when the bag shifted on my shoulder. I’d overstuffed it; I always overstuffed it. My water bottle worked free from the side pocket. I grabbed for it. Missed completely. The bottle hit the asphalt, bounced with what felt like personal intention, and rolled in a long, smooth arc under the car parked next to mine.

I stood and studied it.

Fuck. Oh, come on.

I crouched down. The bottle had come to rest in the exact center, equidistant from every edge, as though it had been placed there by someone with a personal grievance against me.

“That’s impressively far.”

I raised my head. Ryan was standing a few feet away in a T-shirt and gym shorts, bag over his shoulder, watching the situation with an expression arranged carefully into neutrality that was not even slightly neutral.

“I’ve got it,” I said.

“I can see that.”

I reached under the car. My fingers cleared the bumper by a wide margin and fell at least six inches short of the bottle. I shifted, stretched further, and my knee met the asphalt with a pointed lack of cushioning.

A beat passed.

“Still got it?” Ryan asked.