Page 11 of Play Me
There’s a hollowness in the middle of my chest that has nothing to do with hunger pains. I hate acknowledging its presence, not because of the sensation. Because of what it represents.
My life is lonely but admitting that—even to myself—makes me feel like a little bitch. How can I possibly complain about anything when I’m doing exactly what I want? I’m alive and healthy. I’m getting paid very well to play a fucking game for a living. Things could be so much worse.
Maybe I’ll never quite have it all. But maybe I don’t deserve it, either.
I force a swallow and place a hand on my rumbling stomach.
Before I can decide whether to grab a shower or order a sandwich to be delivered, my phone buzzes again.
I glance down, expecting to see a picture of a baby animal in Hartley’s barn.
Instead, I’m accosted by a series of texts hitting the screen in rapid succession.
Unknown: An email has been sent to the address on file with a list of people, phone numbers, addresses, and other pertinent information you need going forward. Please review ASAP.
Unknown: We’ll go over this week’s schedule in full tomorrow. Here’s a breakdown for your convenience.
Unknown: Monday:
Unknown: 10:00 a.m.: meet me at the training facility for a tour and introductions
Unknown: 11:00 a.m.: appointment with strength coaches
Unknown: 12:30 – 1:30 p.m.: lunch with the other backs in the café (I’ve reviewed and approved your nutrition plan with the dietitian. A copy is in your email.)
“The fuck?” I swipe through the rest of the texts as they come through. My jaw is on the floor.
Unknown: 2:15 p.m.: meet with the equipment department regarding your uniform, etc.
Unknown: 3:15 p.m.: Communications wants to meet with you to sign tip-in sheets for an upcoming media event (more on that in the email). There’s a chance you’ll need to take these home. The turnaround is quick, so prioritize this
Unknown: 4:45 p.m.: I was able to get a quick strength session scheduled for you
Unknown: Dinner will be boxed for you to take home. I’ll show you tomorrow where to find it.
Unknown: Use your discretion for cardio
“Use my discretion for cardio?” I ask, chuckling in disbelief. “Well, damn. Thanks, Astrid, for trusting me to decide whether I need cardio or not.” Ding! Ding! Ding! Her texts pour in for each day of the week, each with a laundry list of shit for me to do. “Who does this woman think she is?”
By the time I get to Thursday, I’m heated.
If she thinks this is going to fly, she’s out of her damn mind.
There’s no reason in hell that she needs to hold my hand through this process like I’ve never done it before.
It’s not just unhelpful. It’s damaging. I need to meet my new team on my own terms—and I need to do it without her as a bridge between us.
What’s it going to look like when I come in with a fucking chaperone?
“I didn’t come here to have my nuts removed,” I say. “If that’s what Renn thinks he’s gonna do, he can suck my cock.”
A doorbell rings through the apartment. The sound jolts me—I had no idea I had a doorbell—and adds to the tension overwhelming me. Now isn’t the time.
I contemplate grabbing a shirt, but the bell rings again. So I march to the door and yank it open, ready to tell someone to fuck off. Before I can utter a word, I spot a kid who can’t be any older than sixteen standing on the doormat with both hands full of grocery bags.
“I think you’re at the wrong place, kid,” I say, squeezing my phone in my hand so hard I think it might shatter.
“Are you Gray Adler?”
“Yeah.”
He smiles. “Good. I got halfway up the sidewalk and forgot your name and apartment number.”
The kid clearly isn’t into rugby. “I didn’t order any groceries.”
“Well, they’re yours.”
“Not possible,” I say, starting to shut the door.
He shoves his shoe in the doorway so the door can’t entirely shut and sighs as if this is killing him.
“Look, I’m a man who doesn’t like to do things twice.
So either take these bags or tell me where to put them, and then I’ll check my phone for information.
They’re cutting off the blood supply to my fingers. ”
“Then take them back to your car. Otherwise, you’ll have to pick them back up. That’s doing things twice.”
He wiggles his nose to reposition the black-framed glasses on his face.
“Do you think I made up your name, chose a random apartment in the city, and thought, ‘Let me go buy groceries for this person I just made up and take it to this random apartment’ where someone with that name actually lives? On what planet is that possible?” He tilts his head, lifting a brow like I’m goofy. “Be real.”
There’s nothing I can say to that. And his fingers do look a little blue.
“Here,” I say, holding my hands in front of me. “Give me the bags so you can figure out where to take this shit.”
He slips the bags onto my forearms, over the phone in my right hand, and then digs his phone out of his pocket. It only takes him a few seconds to locate the information.
“Do you know an Astrid?” he asks, looking up at me.
My jaw sets.
Of course, it’s from Astrid.
I glance briefly into the bags. It’s all things I’d typically eat: milk, meat, eggs. There’s fruit, oatmeal, and some peanut butter. The fact that it’s all things I like makes me even madder.
She probably knows I’m starving, so she sent me poisoned food. Pretty brilliant.
“Astrid?” the kid asks again. “Do you know her or not?”
“Unfortunately.” I consider sending him back with the bags and refusing the delivery, but the look in his eye tells me he has no interest in hauling this shit back to his car.
As much as I don’t want anything from Satan’s daughter, it’s not this boy’s fault—and there’s no sense in bringing another victim into her madness.
“Follow me and let me get you some cash.”
“It’s paid for.”
“I meant for you.”
He lights up. “Hey, that’d be great. Thanks, man.”
I head to the kitchen and set the bags and phone down on the countertop. Then I find my wallet in the bedroom and pull out a couple of twenties.
“Here you go,” I say, coming into the living room and handing him the money. “For your troubles.”
He tries to hand one back to me. “There are two.”
“There are two because I gave you two.”
His eyes are as big as saucers behind his glasses. “No joke?”
“No joke.”
“You’re the best.” He nods appreciatively. “Thanks. I thought you were gonna be a dick. Good save.”
What? He doesn’t wait for a response before turning on his heel and hightailing it out of my apartment.
I wait until the door closes before I exhale.
My stomach wails, begging for food, but my brain can’t let this go. I told her to stay out of my way and things would be fine—and I know damn good and well she doesn’t want to be doing this. So either she doesn’t understand plain English, or she’s doing this to be a pain in the ass.
The woman has a firm grasp on the English language.
I grab my phone and unlock the screen, saving her name with a witch emoji. Then I tap out a response.
Me: Show Renn your receipt like a good little girl and then stop it.
Astrid : Are you upset? I’ll send tissues next time.
Me: There won’t be a next time.
Astrid : Oh, that’s where you’re wrong, sweetheart. I’m doing my job, just like you said you wanted. If that’s not true, you can always give Renn a call. smiling emoji
My fingers pound against the keys.
Me: You really don’t want to play this game with me.
Astrid : We agree. I don’t. I really don’t want to do ANYTHING with you.
I pace the apartment, trying to dispel some of the energy building inside me. It’s like she’s throwing it in my face that Renn thinks I’m this incapable. This inept.
This is not how I saw this going. Even when I was walking out of Renn’s office and she acted like a suck-up, I thought it was because he was sitting there. I didn’t think she’d keep the ruse going once he wasn’t around.
My eyes slide up the text chain again until they hit on a particular line. If you didn’t want this, you should have done something about it.
“You’re playing right into her hand, Adler,” I say aloud. “She’s winding you up, and you’re letting her.”
I take a long, deep breath and blow it out. My chest shakes as my lungs deflate, but I feel myself finding a balance again.
“She can poke at me all she wants because she’s doing the boss’s bidding.
But I need to figure out how I can even the playing field.
Because if one of us is going to quit, it’s not going to be me.
” I glance around the apartment, thinking, until my gaze settles on the mound of boxes in the corner. “Bingo.”
Grinning, I type out another message.
Me: I’m going to need you to come over Tuesday evening.
Astrid : Over where?
Me: My apartment.
Astrid : Why would I do that?
Me: Because you’re my assistant, and I need assistance.
I wait, but no response comes. “Didn’t like that, did you?”
Me: I have about thirty boxes I need unpacked.
Still no response.
The idea of having her here is about as attractive as fighting a wounded badger, but if I’m going to get her to either remove herself or keep a distance, then I have no choice. I have to make this so unbearable that she can’t stand it.
Astrid : Don’t choke on anything. That would be a tragedy.
Me: Have a good day, sweetheart.
I chuckle, knowing that pissed her off, and power down my phone. She’s going to fire back at me, and I’m not giving her the pleasure of getting a read receipt. And I don’t know how to turn that feature off, either.
Satisfied, I take in the bags of groceries on the counter.
There’s a chance they’re laced with arsenic—and I wouldn’t put it past her to go that far—but the toxicology report on my cadaver would point directly at her, and she’s too bright not to know that.
Besides, she’s only doing this to brownnose Renn, and the food is already here.
I may as well reap the benefits of it.
“She’s doing her job, and I need to focus on mine,” I say, heading to the kitchen. “That’ll be easier with a full stomach.”
I busy myself with putting the cold items away and thinking about how I’ll handle Astrid tomorrow.
No matter what happens, I can’t let her think she’s going to call all the shots.
That would be an epic failure on so many levels.
But something tells me that she’s not going to want to show up here on Tuesday, and that might just be enough to get her to back off.
I hope.