Page 23 of Play Me

CHAPTER

FOURTEEN

Gray

“What the fuck?” I laugh, tucking my towel around my waist.

My phone is propped up against a bottle of lotion with a video from the team chat playing on the screen.

Nico and Ridge are together, presumably at one of their homes.

Nico is wearing an Easter bunny outfit minus the head.

Ridge dons a beekeeper’s veil and gloves.

They each have a hula hoop, one pink and one purple, and are cracking each other up in a contest that involves hopscotch, a swimming pool, and a unicorn raft.

Jory: Have you been drinking?

Sebastian: You can do better than that, Nico. Are you even trying?

Breaker: Try it again. Backward.

Nico: Am I trying? Fuck off. This is hard.

Me: I think the bunny tail is throwing off your balance.

Nico: THAT IS THE ENERGY I NEED, ADLER.

Chase: I’m putting in a trade request.

Ridge: You can come over, Chase. We’ll let you try. Don’t be sad.

Nico: I’ll even let you be the bunny!

“Chase is going to kill them,” I say, chuckling. I grab my phone and head for the kitchen.

The group chat has turned out to be one of my favorite parts of the Royals team so far.

And, unfortunately for Chase, it wouldn’t be nearly as fun without Nico and Ridge.

Although he complains about their shenanigans and pitches a fit about their goofiness, I noticed during practice and at the game yesterday that he respects the two of them more than he does most of the others.

The living room is filled with sunlight as I pass through it. A light breeze sweeps through the apartment from the windows I opened after my Sunday morning run. For the first time in a very long time, I feel almost … settled. And, God, it feels good .

I take a bottle of water from the refrigerator and unscrew the lid. Before I can take a drink, my phone rings. I look down and smile.

“Hey,” I say, pushing the speakerphone button and setting the phone on the counter.

“How the hell are you?” Brooks Dempsey asks from the other end of the line.

A rush of familiarity settles between us. There’s no awkward pause, no stilted conversation. My body sags in relief.

“I’m good,” I say, taking a quick sip of water. “I contemplated coming down to Sugar Creek this morning for church but decided against it when the alarm went off.”

“That’s where I’m coming from now. I ran into Hartley while getting my ass reamed by Violet Crowder about not attending Sunday School, and he said he talked to you this week. I figured I’d see if I still had your number since you never call me anymore, you fucking asshole.”

Thankfully, the lightness in his tone doesn’t match the statement, just like his words don’t match someone fresh from church. Still, I feel like an asshole. A guilty one, at that.

“I’m just fucking with you, Adler. It’s not like I’ve called you either.”

I exhale. “What’s up with that? What have you been doing? Hart said you tore up your shoulder or something.”

“Yeah, tore my rotator cuff. I was going full speed with this new guy the coach brought in to train with us. He blocked an overhand right, and it ripped my shoulder to shreds.”

“When did that happen?”

“Six weeks ago. Doc says I’m out six months before I can even train again.”

“That sucks,” I say, knowing how hard it must be for Brooks to stay out of the gym. I screw the cap back on my water before I knock it over. “So what are you doing now? Hanging out back home?”

“For a while.” A door opens and closes in the background. “I haven’t been back here in a long time, and I figured I might as well use my downtime to visit Mom and everybody. You know?”

I nod even though he can’t see me.

A part of me can’t help but wonder if we feel similarly.

We both left home to do something fun and wound up getting caught in the drama of it all.

Brooks in Vegas, working to stay focused while living in a sparkling city known for sin.

And me in Denver, white-knuckling life in a city that harbors the worst memories of my life.

Does Brooks feel detached from reality? Does he regret many of the choices he’s made? Does he have a sense of loneliness spreading deep in his soul that he can’t figure out how to ease?

Or … maybe I’m just weak.

“I get that,” I say, securing the towel around my waist. “I haven’t visited Sugar Creek in a long time.”

“You’d better get your ass back here now. No excuses.”

I laugh.

“Patsy’s is still going strong,” he says, laughing, too. “She got rid of the dollar shots on Monday nights, and hardly anyone line dances on the weekends anymore. But the place still smells like cheap cigarettes and piss, so it’ll still feel like home.”

Memories from nights at Patsy’s Bar and Grill come back to me like clips from movie reels.

Late nights at the booth below the mounted deer head, sipping beers and making plans.

The time Brooks and I decided to hold a dart tournament that resulted in an emergency room visit for an out-of-state hunter who vowed never to return.

Patsy’s bright pink lips, the burgers she served only on the weekend from a grill that probably hasn’t been cleaned since the seventies, and the table in the back by the dance floor with names carved in it spanning decades.

“Do you remember my eighteenth birthday?” I ask.

He barks another laugh. “Roughly. It’s still a haze.”

“How in the hell did we get away with that?” I lean against the counter and think back to one of the craziest experiences of my life. “How did you convince Patsy to let us in, because you know damn good and well that she knew we weren’t twenty-one.”

“True. But do you know what she did know?”

It’s the tease in his voice that has me grimacing.

“She knew I packed a hard eight inches.”

“ Fucking hell ,” I say, chuckling. “Don’t tell me you screwed Patsy. She was in her sixties back then.”

“Damn right, I did. Remember that little apron she wore when she made hamburgers?”

I laugh in a mixture of disbelief and absolute belief, shaking my head. I’m not certain if he’s telling me the truth or just messing with me. But if he really did fuck Patsy, I won’t be surprised. “Stop it.”

“I only banged her out once,” he says, egging me on. “She sucked me off once after that?—”

“Dammit, Brooks. Stop.”

“—but it did get me a free pass into the bar as long as I didn’t abuse it.”

“Abuse the privilege or her pussy?”

“Both.” He cackles. “I’ll admit to you that I’ve done a few things that I look back at and can’t believe I did them. Patsy is one.”

I open my water again and take a long, cold drink. “How did I not know about this?”

“You were at rugby camp, I think. I was left to my own devices.” He sighs. “So enough about me and my sexcapades. How is it going with you?”

How’s it going with me? Instead of answering, I chug the rest of the water.

There was a time in my life when I told Brooks everything. Hell, if he wasn’t involved in whatever I was doing, he got pictures of it later. But the idea of spilling my guts to him—spewing the bullshit in my brain all over him—feels weird. And feeling weird makes it even stranger.

“It was my first week,” I say, starting slowly. “So you know, there were a lot of things to figure out. Systems, processes. That sort of thing.”

“But it went well?”

I nod. “Yeah, it went fine. My teammates are great.” Except Breaker. “The staff is the best of the best. And the culture here is results-driven. It’s a total championship mindset, which is nice.”

“Hartley said you play your first game with them next weekend?”

“No. Next weekend is a bye week. I’m not sure whether we’re practicing on Friday or not because a few guys said that they usually take a three-day weekend just to let their bodies heal up and rest.”

“Well, damn. I was going to come up and watch you.”

I place the empty glass bottle into the sink and try to ignore the warmth rising in my chest. No one has come to watch me play since Caroline.

I’ve learned not to look in the stands. I don’t scan the crowd before we play.

I don’t listen for my name anymore. The idea of walking onto the pitch and knowing Brooks was there would mean a lot to me.

“That would’ve been great,” I say, glancing at the clock. “I think I’m going to drive down Friday or Saturday. Will you be around?”

“Hell, yeah. Let’s do it.”

“I’ll let you know for sure by midweek,” I say.

“Sounds like a plan.”

I clear my throat as my heartbeat picks up. “Okay, I gotta get off here. I have a meeting with my assistant in a couple of hours, and I need to get a few things sorted.”

“Hart mentioned you had an assistant. How’s that going?”

A grin tugs at the corner of my lips. “Oh, it’s going.”

“A truce it is. But the first time you turn around and bite my head off for no good reason, I’ll have Gianna taser you.”

Brooks waits for an explanation, but there’s not one that comes to mind that accurately depicts Astrid Lawsen.

She’s frustrating and a giant pain in my ass, but she’s also surprisingly great at her job.

I can’t lie. My schedule is packed and a little overdone, but I’ve been more prepared the last couple of days than I’ve been in my life.

Every morning when I wake up and have my coffee and reach for my supplements, I think about how nice it is just to have it all at my fingertips.

That would be easy enough to explain.

The other parts of her? Not so much.

I don’t want to be curious about her—I want to dislike her and forget her—but Astrid is a porcupine. She’s sharp and dangerous on the outside to protect what I suspect is a delicate and vulnerable inside.

And that’s too complicated to get into with Brooks.

“I’ll get with you next week,” I say, heading toward my bedroom.

“All right, my man. I’ll talk to you then.”

“Bye.”

“Later.”

The line disconnects, and I turn off my screen. Before I can toss it on my bed, it rings again in my hand. I look down at the name and my stomach sinks.

I take a deep breath. “Hey.”

“Sorry to call on a Sunday.”

“No worries, Joe. What’s up?”

Papers shuffle. His breathing’s labored, which makes me wonder how much longer he can do this before he drops dead.

“Did you get confirmation on the money?” he asks. “Because you’re already late making the payment.”

“I sent you a text about it on Friday.”

“You know I don’t text, kid. Don’t waste my time with that shit.”

I roll my eyes. “My agent worked some magic, and the money will be in my account on Tuesday morning. I’ll transfer it to you as soon as it hits.”

“Good. Because they’re going to want their chunk by the first and, right now, I don’t have enough to give them.”

I sit on the edge of my bed and sigh. My stomach sours as I deal with the mix of emotions that erupt every time Joe and I have this conversation. They come so fast, one after another—grief, guilt, and anger. More guilt. More anger. So much resentment for so many things.

But resentment’s the worst … because despite all the money that I’ve made, it’s why my checking account barely has a five-figure balance. And all I own is my truck.

“You’ll have it,” I say in a monotone voice that sounds hollow, even to me.

“Call me when you send it.”

“Okay.”

The call ends as abruptly as it began.

I stare at the wall, letting myself feel what my mind is processing.

The therapist I saw for a while in Denver suggested it.

If you allow yourself to feel things, your body doesn’t have a chance to get emotionally constipated.

She thought my migraines were my body trying to expel the emotional shit backing up inside me.

That sounded like horseshit. But when I started just letting myself get angry or upset, the intensity of those things did lessen over time. Maybe that’s a small win in all of this. I have to just live with it.

“I have to be.”

I rest my elbows on my knees and let Astrid’s words slip into my brain. It’s a curious choice of words. Those nine letters feel heavier than the entire English language as I roll them around my mind.

Since Wednesday, I’ve pondered that sentence often. I’ve paired it with the things she’s told me and the way she holds her body. Her behavior at the gas station. The flashes of gold in her eyes.

“Some of us didn’t have our needs met as children.”

I might be a dick because I’m tired of trying to convince people that I’m not. What if she’s a control freak because she’s given up relying on people for help?

My eyes widen, and I sit up, wincing like I’ve been punched in the gut.

I open my phone, noting the witch emoji beside her name. I click the info button, and her picture enlarges on my screen.

She’s in a car with her hair pulled back away from her face. Her cheeks are a faint pink, like she’s been laughing. A smile parts her lips and touches the corners of her eyes. I’ve never seen her like this before.

And I know why.

Because I’m ruining her, too.