Page 12 of Play Me

CHAPTER

SEVEN

Astrid

Gray saunters through the archway into the Royals performance center, one hand in a pocket and the other running along the top of his head. With a bag slung over his right shoulder and a pair of sunglasses hooked in the front of his crisp white T-shirt, he’s fresh and relaxed. Unrushed .

A wedge of irritation lodges itself in my throat, and I fight the urge to release a mouthful of expletives. He could’ve at least had the decency to show up breathless or in a half jog—something to imply that he cares that he’s wasted my time. We do have a job to do, after all.

I push away from the table I’ve inhabited for the last half hour with more force than necessary.

“You’re late,” I say, irked that this doesn’t seem to bother him.

“It was ten minutes. It’s not that serious.”

Excuse me?

“There are two things you should know about me.” I snap my clipboard off the table. “One is that I operate under the premise that if you’re not ten minutes early, you’re late. And being late conveys a lack of consideration for other people’s time.” I lift a brow. “In short, it’s rude.”

“I could’ve left an hour ago, and it wouldn’t have made any difference. I was stopped behind an accident three miles from here.” He lifts a brow. “Besides, don’t act like you’ve never been late before.”

Sure, I have. But I’ve also apologized for it.

Ignoring him, I proceed. “The other thing you should know is that I don’t do excuses. We can’t communicate or problem-solve if you give me a bunch of bullshit when you fuck up. Got it?”

“Then it looks like we’re not going to solve many problems, doesn’t it?”

He holds my gaze like a vise. They’re like looking into pools of the cheap chocolate you get at Easter. On the surface, it’s dazzling. But once you settle into it, you realize it’s highly unsatisfying and will only give you a stomachache.

A woman from the media department walks by, opens her mouth like she’s about to say something, but reads the room and waves instead. Before she slips into the staff entry to The Royal Café, she does a quick, not-so-subtle perusal of Gray. I roll my eyes at her little grin.

The lobby of the performance center is one of my favorite places in the Royals facilities.

When Renn bought the team a couple of years ago, he completely remodeled every square inch of the building.

Nothing was overlooked or untouched. However, the best transformation occurred here, in the entrance hall, where both players and staff are welcomed every day.

The glass ceiling gives it a bright, solarium-like vibe.

The team colors of purple and gold lend a sense of regalness to the space.

Several plants dot the area thanks to Renn’s plant-loving sister-in-law, and screens highlighting team facts have been deftly positioned on the walls.

It's exciting and inspiring—unless you’re here to be a babysitter.

“I don’t know how things were done at the other teams you’ve played for,” I say. “But here you’re expected to be on time.”

“I’ll do my best.”

His cool aloofness—and complete disregard for the seriousness of the day—irritates me.

I don’t know how anyone walks into their first day of work with the casualness of a beach day.

And I really don’t know how I’m supposed to manage this.

Sure, I expected a level of incorrigibility, but I expected it aimed at me .

I didn’t think he’d fly a fuck-you flag to his team on day one.

May God help me.

“All right. Let’s get on with it since we only have forty-five minutes before you meet with the strength coaches,” I say, glancing at the time on my phone as I turn toward The Royal Café.

It took me forever to organize his first day and fit as much as possible into his schedule.

He won’t appreciate it, I’m sure, but it makes me feel accomplished …

and it’s good for the team, which means it’s good for Renn. That’s what matters to me.

“There’s no rush.”

I stop so suddenly that my sneakers squeak against the floor. “There’s no rush?”

“Yeah, there’s no rush.” He shrugs, the corner of his lips lifting. “I moved the strength assessment to this afternoon.”

A flush stings my cheeks. I clutch my clipboard, trying to process his statement. “I’m sorry,” I say, trying to shake the apparent cobwebs clouding my head. “You did what ?”

“I had a workout at four forty-five, anyway. I just moved the assessment in that slot.”

“ You can’t just do that .”

“I can.” He leans forward, that ridiculous dimple dotting his cheek. “ And I did .”

My heart pounds as I struggle to keep from losing my absolute shit.

“While we’re at it, I shot an email to the nutritionist who created my diet plan,” he says, grinning with an air of arrogance. “We’re modifying it. So if you’re going to send groceries my way again, you better make sure you check that out before you screw it up.”

He can’t be serious.

“You need to stop,” I say, the words a thinly veiled warning.

“I need to stop what, exactly?”

“You need to stop screwing with the plan. I spent a lot of time putting that together for you and?—”

“Oh, like you care.” He scoffs. “You didn’t put that together for me. At best, you put it together to save your ass. At worst, you did it to piss me off.”

I start to fire back a retort but pause when a group of players leave the café and head toward the wellness center. Thankfully, they don’t notice us on the other side of the lobby. I’m not in the mood to deal with multiple athletes at once. I’m trying desperately not to kill this one.

“You’re right about one thing,” I say, leading him toward the café. “I don’t care whether you succeed or fail. But I care if I do, and that’s dependent on whether I wrangle you or not.”

He bristles at my side, but I ignore it.

“This is where you’ll get your food, drinks, and snacks,” I say as we enter the cafeteria, fitted as a café. “Obviously, it’s all free. This section is only for players, and the rest of the staff use another area.”

Gray takes it all in.

“There’s a buffet for breakfast and lunch,” I tell him.

“You’ll have snacks with your name on them in that cooler midmorning and midafternoon.

They customize them to meet your nutritional needs depending on the day’s activities.

I also opted you into dinner service. So if you didn’t override that in your flagrant dismissal of my efforts, you can pick up a boxed dinner before you leave the facilities in the evening. ” I sigh. “Any questions?”

“Nope. Renn will give you an A+.”

I nod at one of the chefs as we exit the room, biting back the fuck you that I want to lodge at Gray.

“The elevators are over there,” I say as we move through the lobby again.

“Or you can use the staircase to go up. You can read, so follow the signs. As you may recall from yesterday, the administration offices are located on the upper levels. We can go up there in a bit, but let’s start down here. ”

He doesn’t respond, so I head down the corridor toward the player wing.

Silence looms between us like a gaping chasm that neither of us wants to, or can, cross. We might be shoulder to shoulder as we move through the building, but we couldn’t be farther apart. At least the silence gives me a moment to pull myself back together.

Screens are positioned along the walls, hosting muted videos of great plays and victorious moments in the Royals history. I can’t help but grin at the way the players jump on each other in celebration of a special moment. I’ve never experienced that.

I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be on a team.

The closest I ever got to being a part of one was when Gianna played volleyball in middle school, and I went to all of her games.

My dad couldn’t afford it, choosing to spend his money on vodka and lottery tickets, so I pretended I wasn’t a sports girl.

In reality, it’s all I ever really wanted to be.

What I was after probably wasn’t a team, but a sense of belonging.

I’d come home from school and turn on the television, losing myself in sitcoms. The laughter gave our home a sense of levity, and when I sat down with their fictional families for dinner, my canned ravioli tasted a little better.

I chased that feeling for a long time—until I was old enough to realize it didn’t exist in the real world. It’s called fiction for a reason.

“To the left is the wellness center,” I say, pointing at a sign. “You’ll get Wednesday’s scheduled massage in there.”

He arches a brow. Tell me you at least scanned my email.

“The cold plunges, hot tubs, saunas—all that stuff is a part of the center. You can access that anytime.” I lead him farther down the hallway.

“The strength and conditioning rooms are to your right. We’ll tackle that in a minute.

But this door is the locker room.” We stop in front of the bold purple door. “Go in first and make sure it’s empty.”

He smirks, licking his lips. “Scared of what you might see?”

“It’s called being respectful, asshole. I know that’s a novel idea in your world.”

“You are just a ray of fucking sunshine. Do you know that?” He pokes his head into the room. “All clear. Not a dick in sight.”

“Maybe from your vantage point.”

He gives me a mocking, smug grin. “Aw, are you working on getting a sense of humor?”

“Shut up and move.”

I step in behind him, rechecking the time. I have to be on the other side of town in two hours and can’t get off track because Gray was late—and there’s still so much to cover. I need to hand him off to someone else as soon as possible.

“From here, you can access the wellness center, weight room, and the pitch,” I say, pointing at different doors. “The showers are through that archway, and I’m sure you can figure out which locker is yours.”