Page 14 of Play Me

CHAPTER

EIGHT

Gray

“Shift it wide!” Coach Farrell shouts from across the pitch, watching the backs unit work on attacks for this week’s game. “When that happens, I want you to use the overlap.” He claps twice, motioning for them to regroup. “Let’s run through that again.”

A breeze ripples across the stadium, bringing with it the scent of freshly cut grass and sweat.

It delivers a hit of nostalgia, of being young and playing in the spring, not far from here, with my parents in the stands.

Brooks would be beside me, and girls would be yelling at us from the bleachers.

After the game, we’d go home with a large Piper’s Pizza and Brooks in tow.

Mom would always let him come over, as long as Hartley and I still completed our barn chores before bed.

I tuck my hands into the pockets of my hoodie and take in the energy and activity around me.

Each unit runs through its job-specific tasks, honing ways to create opportunities during Saturday’s match.

The rhythm of the game—the movements, the patterns—restores a beat to my life that’s been missing over the last few days.

“So what do you think, Adler?” Coach Farrell smiles. “Are you ready to get out there, or are you enjoying your break?”

“Hell, no, I’m not enjoying it. Not sure I’ve ever gone six days straight without being on the pitch since I was a kid.”

He clamps a hand on my shoulder and chuckles. “Spoken like a true rugger.”

I shrug, smiling at him.

“Can’t play you this weekend since you’re not eligible until Thursday,” he says, gesturing to Jory to wind the guys down. “I’ll have you out here for Thursday’s practice, though. We’ll throw you right into the fire.”

“Looking forward to it, Coach.”

He steps in front of me, looking me in the eyes. His intensity makes my heart pound, but I don’t look away.

“We have a great team here,” Coach says. “It’s a great group of men. I believe you can find a home here and make a significant contribution to the team’s success if you put your head down and bring your best. This can be the start of something special, if you want it bad enough.”

I lift my chin and boldly meet his gaze. “You can count on it.”

He stares at me for a moment, then two, as if he’s weighing the truth of my statement. As if he’s not sure whether he believes me. I stare right back, choosing not to clear up any misconceptions.

I see the questions in his eyes. The rumors he’s heard and the conversations that have been had behind my back sit on the tip of his tongue, poised to launch my way.

I don’t blame him for being curious, and I sure as hell don’t blame him for being concerned.

I haven’t played with my heart for two years—and anyone with eyeballs can tell.

But when I left Denver, I promised myself that I’d leave all the baggage that I could behind. I owe it to myself, and Caroline , to start fresh and make the most of this opportunity. For both of us.

If I open the door to questions and start trying to explain myself, then I may as well have stayed in Colorado. Because one inquiry will beget another. And all of the shit I tried to leave in Denver will be firmly lodged in my life here. I can’t do that. I can’t survive it.

I love this game, and now, more than ever, I need it —but I keep that to myself, too.

Satisfied with whatever he sees in my reaction, he pats my shoulder again and joins the forward coach at the touchline.

“So what do you think?” Jory Plath rubs a towel emblazoned with the Royals logo across his heated face as he approaches me. “Think you can work with this?”

He flashes me a wide, toothy smile that matches his personality. He’s easygoing, as far as I could tell yesterday, and welcomed me to the team with no hesitation. Tall, with a body built for the strength and agility of a top winger, he’d be imposing if it wasn’t for that damn grin.

“Abso-fucking-lutely,” I say, bumping his outstretched knuckle with mine.

Practice is adjourned on the pitch below, and players head to the locker room in small groups. Jory and I follow everyone toward the purple double doors.

“Have you been added to the group chat yet?” Jory asks, running the towel over his head.

“Group chat?”

“Yeah, the team chat on text messages. It’s currently called The Unemployed because Chase got pissed at Nico and Ridge for posting memes all the time. He told us we were gonna be unemployed if we didn’t take shit seriously, then he changed the group name and left it.”

I chuckle. This is gonna be fun . “Nope. I didn’t know there was a team chat, but it sounds like a good time.”

“I’ll add you,” he says, flipping off one of our hookers as we pass him.

“The forwards come in early on Sundays for recovery.” He looks at me and grins.

“Whatever the fuck you do, don’t get here before noon.

Those motherfuckers come in, arguing about whose bruises are worse.

They hog the saunas—and they’re gross. I’ve never heard a group fart as much as those fucks.

Don’t stand behind any of them during yoga. You’ll thank me later.”

He gags, his face twisting into a horrified grimace.

I laugh, returning Nico’s nod as he jogs by. “This is all good information.”

“It’s the least I can do since you’re gonna be leading us to a championship this year.”

I look at him out of the corner of my eye to see if he’s joking or poking around for a reaction. Much to my surprise, there’s no humor or nosiness in his expression. Huh .

It takes a second to absorb the words he stated so matter-of-factly. “ Since you’re gonna be leading us to a championship this year.” His confidence in me brings a genuine smile to my lips.

“Have you been to Nashville before?” Jory asks, tossing the towel over his shoulder.

“Oh, yeah,” I say, clearing my throat. “I grew up about an hour from here in a little place called Sugar Creek. What about you?”

“I’m from the Bay Area. Played in Chicago after college, then spent a couple of years in Hartford before I got the call to come here when Renn Brewer took over.” He laughs. “I about pissed my pants when I got that call.”

“You and me both. I told my agent that I was getting pranked when I got word about the trade.”

“How’d you like playing in Denver?”

There’s a loaded question . I scratch the top of my head, trying to separate playing in Denver from my time living in Denver—two vastly different yet interconnected experiences. It’s hard, nearly impossible, really, to separate them since one affected the other so much.

“It’s a great program,” I say fairly. And leave it at that.

We pause at a gate that separates the player facilities from the practice pitch to allow a large group of our teammates to go first. I spot Breaker entering the locker room ahead of us.

With a bald head the size of a bowling ball and the shoulders the width of a barn, he’s hard to miss in any crowd.

Everyone seems to like him, and he has a good rapport with the Royals staff.

And I want to like him too … I just can’t.

“I’ll get you added to the chat,” Jory says as we step inside the clubhouse. “See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah. See you tomorrow. Thanks for the heads-up about yoga.”

He laughs, heading across the room.

The air’s heavy with sweat and body wash. Rock music plays from a speaker propped up on a shelf above a bench. I head to my locker to get my bag and a box of tip sheets that need to be signed, but end up stopping every few feet to chat with someone new.

Each conversation is smooth and painless—much easier than I anticipated.

I can’t help but get caught up in Chase’s retelling of a play from last week’s game, and I chat with Ridge about game play for a full twenty minutes.

We share the theory that the game is best played primarily off instinct, and it was a relief to know that I connect with someone here on that level.

By the time Ridge and I are finished, the room has thinned out. I pull my locker open and take out my bag. The back of my hand brushes across the first-aid kit Astrid left me dangling on a hook. The contact—the reminder of yesterday—claws at my insides as our conversation replays through my head.

“The correct response would be thank you.”

“I told you to back off.”

My gaze drifts to the laminated schedule that fell to the bottom of my locker this morning, and I pick it up. It’s heavy in my palm—much heavier than a plastic-coated paper should be.

“This is my job. What part of that is difficult for you to understand? What’s not registering? I mean, God knows I’m not doing this out of the kindness of my heart.”

“That would be hard to do, considering I don’t think you have one.”

The flash of emotion through her green eyes lived with me all night.

No matter how hard I try, I can’t quite get it out of my mind.

It was so quick, barely noticeable, and too fast to identify.

But it was present—a burst of something other than ice-queen vibes.

Although I shouldn’t wonder what it was all about or what part of our sparring triggered it, I do.

I tell myself that I’m only curious because this is the first time she’s shown a human side. And I write off the heat creeping up my neck as leftover fury from her being in my space. But there’s a wobble in my stomach, a dead weight in my sternum, that has me shifting uncomfortably.

“It doesn’t matter what that was all about,” I mutter, glancing at the date on the schedule. “That’s her problem. You have bigger fish to fry, Adler.”

I set my bag on the chair in front of me and dig out my phone.

Me: Hey, I haven’t seen my bonus hit my bank account yet. Is that still happening this week?

I start to slip my phone back in my bag, but my agent surprises me with a quick response for once.

Chuck: I’m 99 percent sure. Let me check on it and get back with you.

Me: I’d appreciate it. I have bills due.

Chuck: Understood.

I force a swallow, the pressure of the moment rising so high inside me that I worry it might spill over—and I don’t know what that would look like. “No, Chuck, I don’t think you do.”

“Hey, Adler,” Ridge says, distracting me. He’s standing across the room with a bag over his shoulder. “A few of us get here an hour early on Wednesdays for extra recovery treatments. You’re welcome to join us, man.”

“Yeah. Thanks,” I say, thankful for the redirection. “I’ll be here. It’ll be good to get back into a routine again.”

“Wednesdays are heavy lifting days. I only survive if I go into it prepped.”

I laugh. “Sounds about right.”

“He knows what Wednesdays are,” Breaker says, coming out of the showers. His slick grin immediately puts me on edge. “Brewer gave him a fine piece of ass to help him prep. You should see this bitch, Ridge. She’s a fucking dime.”

“Whoa, Break,” Ridge says, holding out a hand.

An eerie calm settles over me, erasing any thoughts outside of what’s happening in this room. His words were lodged at me like an arrow. Is he waiting to see if I’ll bleed?

My hands dangle at my sides as the air surrounding us impregnates with a static charge.

Breaker squares his shoulders to mine, standing tall as if to confirm my suspicions.

He’s trying to get a reaction out of me.

Why ? I’m not sure. Is he implying that I’m getting unfair treatment by having an assistant?

Is he insinuating that I’m fucking Astrid? Or is he just being a dick?

This blowhard has a problem, and we’re going to solve it right fucking now.

My jaw flexes as I stare Breaker down. He’s a big piece of shit—easily three or four inches taller than me and about one hundred pounds heavier. And, by the looks of it, just smart enough to get himself killed.

“You have a decision to make,” I say to him, my voice stone-cold.

He smirks. “Is that so?”

“ Fuck ,” Ridge says, sighing. “Let’s not do this, guys.”

“Shut the fuck up and keep your teeth, or run your mouth and don’t,” I say to Breaker.

He laughs, projecting the sound louder and more obnoxiously than necessary.

I smirk back. “ You better think this through ,” I warn, taunting him.

In the back of my mind, I know I should get my shit and get the hell out of here.

Fighting a teammate before I’m even officially on the squad would ruin everything—and maybe even get me tossed out of the league altogether.

But his insinuations can’t go unchecked.

I can’t let that shit begin to take hold here.

“Let’s take a breath,” Ridge says. “Let’s think this through.”

Breaker takes a step toward me.

“I will knock you the fuck out before you get your hands up,” I say calmly. “Take another step …”

His confidence wobbles, likely because he didn’t count on me to still be standing here. But that’s all I need to know to understand that he doesn’t want any part of this. Of me . That’s both a disappointment and a relief.

Finally, Breaker’s lips twist into an amused, cocky grin. “Calm the fuck down. I was just messing around.”

“Good choice.” I close my locker, my heart hammering like a drum. I keep an eye on Breaker in case he’s the kind of guy to throw a sucker punch when my back is turned. “See you both tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow,” Ridge says.

Breaker doesn’t say anything, but I expected that.

I make my way through the facility, not making eye contact with anyone. It’s one foot in front of the other until I’m inside my truck.

My jaw aches from grinding my teeth together, and my breaths are still haggard from the adrenaline coursing through my veins like a roller coaster. The enormity of what nearly happened hits me in the center of my chest . I just about fucked all the way up.

I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white.

But the thought of letting Breaker run his mouth is too much to let go.

And allowing him to belittle Astrid behind her back feels like fucking up too.

I’m no knight in shining armor—not that she needs one, the woman can handle herself—but it would be hard to look at her and know I let this go without saying a word. Dignity isn’t disposable.

“Dammit,” I say, smacking my palm against the armrest.

I glance down as my phone lights up with a text. Astrid’s name flashes on the screen. I’ve summoned the beast.

My chest tightens as I read her words, reminding me that she’ll be at my house in an hour. It’s the last thing I want to do tonight, but I can’t call it off. Because, after today, I need her gone more than ever.

Me: Okay.

Then I start my truck and leave the parking lot and the locker room behind me.