Page 5

Lovie

C hrys calls me the moment I’m in the Uber, headed to my short-term lease in the city.

The moment I see her name on the caller ID, I’m certain she’s felt the shift in the atmosphere, some sort of loud, universal pronouncement.

Lovie did something impulsive and stupid, and it is clearly a cry for help.

Last night didn’t feel like a cry for help. It felt like, for the first time in months—years—my mind finally went totally, blissfully silent. My mystery man was in control, and he definitely knew what he was doing, which meant I could relax and just feel good.

It’s not a feeling I’m accustomed to.

“Hey, I saw your location marker come back online,” Chrys says, when I bring the phone to my ear. Her voice doesn’t sound imploring, like it might if she actually felt a call from the universe. She sounds like her normal, slightly tired self.

“Yeah, just landed,” I say, watching the old brick buildings move silently outside my window. The city of Baltimore is waking up for the day. When we pass a bakery, it smells so good my stomach actually growls loudly, earning me a glance from the driver.

“It was a bit off schedule, right?” Chrys asks.

The storms delayed us, so we landed an hour after we should have. And when we did, I realized I was still cuddled against the handsome man from the night before, his cock already hard again behind me.

Shamelessly, if we’d been anywhere other than on that plane, I might have woken him up then and there, taken advantage of it. Taken one more for the road.

But instead, I delicately disentangled myself from him, shooting back to my seat as quickly as I could. The old woman sitting next to my original seat gave me a strange look, likely wondering how I disappeared for the entirety of the flight.

I’d ignored her and gathered my bag the moment the plane landed, turning into one of those people who stands in the aisle while waiting to get off. Normally, I wouldn’t bother getting up until things cleared out. But, then again, normally I wasn’t very anxious about avoiding someone in first class.

I just wanted to get out of there before I saw him again. Clearly, a man like that isn’t good for me and can urge me into stupid, stupid decisions. Luckily, I made my way off the plane, to the baggage claim, and straight to the Uber without seeing him once.

Now, my sister’s voice comes through the line, bringing me back to the present in the car. Outside the window, people hurry along, wearing messenger bags and holding steaming cups of coffee.

“Okay, good.” Chrys pauses for a moment, clears her throat, and says, “Dad already misses you.”

I bite my tongue, thinking about every awkward silence between us when I was a kid, even as I grew into being a teenager. Growing up in the Waters household as a Type A meant I was the only one who thought the way I did.

Chrys, Mom, and Dad were always a lot more flexible. Creative. Far less interested in STEM or making color-coded chore charts.

Finally, knowing I’d taken too long to say something, I go with, “Tell him I said hi, and love you.” I pause again, then add, “Does he know that I’m doing this for him? That I only left to take the job?”

The last thing I want is for our dad to think I’m abandoning him.

“Yeah, he knows,” Chrys says, her voice low. “But you know you don’t have to, right, Lovie?”

“Right.” It’s completely wrong. Of course I have to. Our dad needs the money, and I’m the daughter equipped to make it. That means I will come here, learn about the sport, cash in on this ridiculous salary, and send all the money home to pay for his medical bills.

Whatever is left over can pay for my IVF. And when it doesn’t quite stretch, I’ll just start putting expenses on credit cards.

The call drops with Chrys as we go through a tunnel, and I text her that I’ll talk to her after my first meeting.

Luckily, the Blue Crabs have put me up in a historical building downtown.

It’s not a very big place, just a studio on the second floor, but it’s enough for me, for now.

And it’s fully furnished, so I don’t have to worry about finding an air mattress.

I look around as I wheel my suitcase inside, loving the large, square windows facing the water. If I squint, I can see it shimmering through the spaces between buildings.

There’s a little sofa, a TV on the wall, and a stacked washer and dryer. It’s the kind of clean that most people are okay with, but when I look, I see plenty that needs to be done. Many cracks and crevices are full of gunk and dust that should be taken care of.

It will give me something to do when I’m not at work.

I open my suitcase, take out my outfit for the meeting, and hang it in the bathroom, spraying it down with a wrinkle releaser before I step into the shower and steam up the room.

By the time my hair is dry and styled, the pantsuit is wrinkle-free, and I step into it, feeling the surge of confidence that comes with a good outfit.

These suits have seen plenty of action. Back in Portland, after earning my MBA, I started working as an operations strategy consultant, first at a firm, then independently.

I whipped businesses into shape, cut away the excess, made sure employees were trained properly and treated fairly, all while improving the company’s bottom line.

I made good money, but not the kind of money a consultant could make somewhere else. With the salary I had, I was able to invest in a few nice suits. I still wore these pieces of clothing that paid dividends in the respect that they earned me.

I’d need those suits in a place like New York City, with the big jobs and the big paydays. Coming here had always been the next step.

Until the accident.

Pushing those thoughts from my mind, I check my makeup—simple, neutral, natural—and step into my heels. My bag is packed with my tablet and my notes, and the car has been scheduled since the day I found out I had the job.

Ten minutes and a second coffee from the place down the street later, I’m stepping into yet another Uber, except this time it’s taking me toward the Blue Crabs arena. The administrative offices are on the top floor.

As we pull through the city, I sip on the coffee, realizing it’s making me more jittery than normal. My hands are shaking from a combination of nerves and caffeine.

Coffee doesn’t normally make me feel like this because I don’t normally get this much sleep. A solid three hours on the plane with that man, tucked into his arms was the most consecutive period of sleep that I’ve gotten in months.

I shift in the backseat. I should be thinking about the upcoming meeting, reviewing my notes, and not reminiscing about what it felt like to wake up to the sound of his breathing and the feeling of his warm chest pressed into my back.

But it’s like each time my mind goes quiet today, it drifts back to him, those memories filling in all the cracks, my mind running away with the details of what happened.

Even thinking about it now makes a hot flush run up my spine, and I shift again, taking a deep breath, trying not to think about the part of my brain that didn’t want to use a condom. It would be wrong, and besides, he doesn’t seem like the kind of man that would want a kid.

He probably already has a bundle of them, adult children who were devastated at his divorce, or something like that. Children my age.

The thought occurs to me for the first time—maybe there was no divorce? Is it possible that he was married? There was no ring—I checked—but men take their rings off constantly.

Even as I’m thinking it, something inside of me, something like intuition, rejects the idea. Even though I was only around him for a few hours, there was something about him that made me certain he would never cheat on a wife.

These thoughts are still racing through my head when we pull up to the Blue Crabs arena. Tall, chrome, and reflecting in the bright Baltimore sunshine, it could blind you if you looked right at it.

I step out of the car and drop my sunglasses onto my face, liking the sound of my heels as they click up the sidewalk.

My email from Ki Park instructed me to park in the employee lot and follow the walkway up to the doors, so I make my way around the building, taking in the details.

Immaculate landscaping surrounds the arena and there are sapphire-blue tulips lining the front of the building, the shade perfectly matching the color of the team’s jerseys. It’s tasteful, unlike the shining metallic exterior of the building.

I’m a bigger fan of old brick stadiums, buildings with history. But the Blue Crabs arena was built just a few years ago, so they had to go futuristic with it, I suppose.

“Good afternoon!” a bald, pot-bellied security guard meets me at the door, his grin jovial. “What can I do for you?”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Lovie Waters.” He looks surprised when I offer him my hand, but takes it and gives it a firm pump.

“Jason Franklin,” he says, “but most people around here call me Jay.”

“I’m a new employee,” I say, taking my bag from my elbow and setting it on the conveyor belt. “Here for a meeting with Ki Park.”

He nods and types, then prints me out a visitor’s badge.

“They should get your employee badge soon. Until then, you’ll have to wear one of these while you're in the building. Follow this hallway straight back, and you’ll find the escalator to go up.

Unless you want the elevator, which is around the corner here. ”

“Perfect.”

“Good luck with your meeting, Lovie Waters.”

“Thank you, Jay.”

I take the tag, grimacing when I have to stick it to the breast of my suit.

I’d much rather have the kind that clips, so I won’t destroy the fabric with adhesive, but there’s nothing to be done about it now.

I collect my bag and follow his instructions to go up an escalator, which deposits me in the administrative offices of the Baltimore Blue Crabs.

This is it. This is the last moment I could possibly turn around and go back, give up the Blue Crabs money and head home to Portland.

But I’m not giving up. My dad needs me. Chrys needs me.

So I take a deep breath, locate the conference room listed on the email Ki Park sent me, and push through the door, putting a professional smile on my face.

A professional smile that threatens to crack and crumble when I see the man from the plane sitting right at the head of the table.

The man that I was with last night, his body against mine, his breath hot on my neck. The man whose scent I recognize from across the room, whose hands are familiar to me in ways they shouldn’t be—not if we’re attending this meeting together. As professional associates.

I’m finally able to place what made him so familiar to me. The man from the plane is Harrison Clark.

Harrison Clark, handsome and controversial head coach of the Baltimore Blue Crabs. Known for his illustrious career, his public scandal with his wife and best friend, and also for his charisma and charming ways in front of the cameras.

He’s been gracing the covers of magazines for years, popping his dimples and flashing his broad smile.

I’ve seen him at least a dozen times on my TV screen, charming late night TV hosts and flirting with every reporter asking questions after a game.

I’ve heard him promising the Blue Crabs fans an exciting season.

I’ve watched him show up to ask for donations for this year’s canned food drive on social media.

For all my careful planning, after all my research and preparation for this job, I didn’t even recognize the head coach before sleeping with him on a flight. The first major reckless thing I’ve ever done in my life, and I’m already facing the consequences.

Just hours after slipping out of his first-class pod, I’m face-to-face with him again.

He’s sitting at the table, turning around, his eyes settling on my face as the door shuts noisily behind me.

And I am so fucked.