Page 8

Chapter 8

Logan

The team and I are in the locker room after a long training day. People chat, rest, and hit the showers before changing into fresh clothes. My stall is between Dom, a tight end, and Rafa, a defensive tackle. Rafa is a quiet guy, silently untying his cleats, which makes him a great neighbor for me. Dom, on the other hand…

"I think I'm breaking out of my routes too slowly," he says. "I keep missing the timing."

Dominic Wright is the team's starting tight end, and another serial dater. His hair is black and buzzed short, and his beard is short and dense. It suits him. He's as tall as I am, with similar complexion and build but, unlike me, he has tattoos down his arms and up his shoulders.

"We'll get there." I hang my hoodie in my stall and take off my shirt. I stuff it in my bag.

Encouragement doesn't come naturally to me. Theoretically, I've always known it's important. I've wanted it myself. But even if I believe that the right people will like me how I am, I know I have to do my part .

I clear my throat. "We need to practice more. Wanna get together earlier next week and get ahead?"

"Might have to reschedule a couple of dates but priorities are priorities." He grins. "I'll let you know."

The smile is cocky rather than a sign of friendship. The guys are cordial to me, but I know better than to take that gesture as a sign of closeness. It's too soon for that. Maybe that's why he's non-committal, but I don't bring it up.

I stare at him. "You have dates at seven in the morning or…?"

"I’ll let you guess," he laughs, before we're interrupted by a mild commotion.

Saint comes into the locker room carrying a big panel of some sort. A ruckus follows him.

"Finally," Dom says. "Come on, King. You're going to want to see this."

Rafa joins us and we approach everyone by the wall that separates the locker room from the showers. It's been an empty space up to this point, but Saint hangs the panel from a hook, and I raise my eyebrows at what I see.

Glitter and shiny ribbons surround a whiteboard. Bold patterns in wildly cut paper letters title the monstrosity. It reads, The Seattle Strike Best of the Best Betting Board Team destroyer Builder : The B-Hypercubed!

"Who made that?" I ask under my breath.

"No one knows," Dom replies. "Saint has never revealed it."

The board is in place now, with some initial bets written in whiteboard marker. One of them places the bets for the highest score on the bullpen pinball machine, and one for the Pac-Man machine. There are a couple others, and also plenty of space to add new ones.

Bear places a crown on a hook above the board, and mocks a trumpet sound effect.

Saint faces us with a big grin, and gestures to the board and the crown like he's the ringmaster of the circus we're in.

He bows. "Good folk of the Strike's locker room, homed in the revered Callum Fraser Athletic Center for the Seattle Strike, our beloved Thunderdome. "

A couple people cheer and clap. I wear only my training shorts, and cross my arms over my naked torso.

"The season has officially begun, thanks to the annual, honored, illustrious, Hypercubed Team Builder!"

Now everyone claps and cheers and I can't help it— I snort laugh.

"Place your bets, everyone," Bear roars. "You know you want the crown! But only one of us can claim it for the off-season."

Damián, a kicker, takes the marker attached to the board by a string. He writes his name under the highest pinball score of the season .

"Whoever gets the most points takes the crown," Dom explains. "Side quests happen— extra bets not on the board that may or may not involve bragging rights and or embarrassing dares."

"I see." I rub my chin. "Would it be fun or asshole-y if I came in to destroy everyone in pinball?"

Several sets of eyes land on me and take my measure. Some of them are playful, most are suspicious. If everyone jokes around, I know better than to take it as a ready welcome. The team is a pack with a fresh wolf in their midst, and the new pecking order hasn't been determined yet.

"Oooh." Dom grins and raises his voice. "The new quarterback is ready to throw down! Damián, you have a contender."

"What?" Damián turns to face me. "Did you see the record on the machine yet, King? It hasn't been rebooted for the season yet."

I shrug. "I'm not scared."

I take the marker from him and write my name on the board.

"Oooh," comes out of several onlookers.

"You're on, King," Damián adds.

I give him a confident smirk and shake his hand. Being accepted into the group requires that I be myself and join in their traditions in equal measure.

We move to the side and let others add their name to the board. I aim for my stall, when Evie's voice reaches me from the hall .

"Please cover all goods! I don't want to see any dicks in the wild unless it's mutually consensual!"

I raise both eyebrows and turn toward her. She enters the locker room with her hands at an upward angle on her nose. It's a well-placed screen to keep her vision above our necks.

No one seems to react, except for a couple of the guys coming out of the showers. They wrap their hips in a towel and go on as usual.

Not a rare occurrence, then.

Evie stops near the entrance. "Is everyone decent?"

"Come in, Evie." Rafa, the quiet guy, motions her forward with his hand. "You're always welcome."

"Thank you, Rafa." She drops her hands. "You know how it is."

He nods but doesn't say anything else. She returns his nod, before gazing across the room and settling her eyes on me.

She puts on what I'm starting to think is a professional smile and strides to me. There's something about it that seems… restricted. No one else seems to notice or, at least, no one mentions it. I frown and keep my impressions to myself.

"I don't know how it is." I'm still shirtless and my arms are still crossed. "If you don't want to see dicks in the wild, why come to the locker room? This isn't the place to care about modesty."

Her eyes scan my shoulders, my arms, and go as low as my navel. Her face is neutral but, at the last second, she adds a downward curl to her lips.

She doesn't look impressed. "I don't announce myself to protect my virtue. I don't care about your guys' dicks."

Saint walks by and adds his two cents. "We all have a small crush on Miss Moreno, but I'm afraid she's immune to us."

"Mmh," I utter.

She wasn't immune to me once.

Except the way she left, maybe she truly meant to use me to get laid and nothing else. She could still be immune, if she rationally picked me for the task more than half a decade ago.

Evie raises an insistent index finger. "Immune."

"Wonderful news, I'm sure." I raise an eyebrow and let my words drip with sarcasm.

The fact she doesn't remember me scratches down the walls of my mind. Long nails on a blackboard kind of thing.

I haven't decided what to do about it yet.

She sighs. "You're a little bit of an ass, did you know?"

"I've been told."

"But we shook hands and now I'm going to help you."

"Can't wait."

She rolls her eyes and it's salve for my prickled ego. It helps to know that while she's not someone to shrink in the face of my grumpiness, she's still bothered by it. That she may not be spooked, but she's irritated.

I'll take it. It means I can affect her today, even if she forgot about me.

Fuck. I hate that she forgot about the one night I think about the most.

If I could jog her memory, I could make her remember. I could drop hints here and there. A word that echoes those hours we shared. It can be a game, one where I poke and test how far I'll go, before I remind her we had sex once. All for the moment I get to look into her eyes, and demand answers to all my questions.

"Anyway." She jerks her head in the general direction of the hall. "Follow me to my locker room office, a.k.a. the service room around the corner."

"Are you serious?"

She doesn't respond and starts walking that way instead. "We could also go on a journey all the way to my actual office but, unless you want that, this is a simple place where we can talk in private."

She's wearing a dress that hugs her hips. My eyes fall to her behind. It sways as she walks, and it's indulgent enough that little tremors echo her steps .

Just like it did when her hands were on the wall that night.

Dammit, I need to keep myself in control.

"Fine." I follow her and stop complaining.

A man can look. Once in a while. Recreationally. As part of this game with loose rules I'm embarking on. But letting myself get hard with the memories has trouble written all over. Especially while surrounded by witnesses, and while so early in this one-sided match.

We enter the service room. It's bigger than I thought it would be. A cleaning cart much like the ones they use at hotels waits at the back of the room. Behind it, what I think are industrial size washing and drying machines. The side walls are shelved and full of cleaning supplies and folded towels.

The space is filled with the smell of laundry detergent and cleaning products. Even so, I can smell traces of wet towels waiting to be washed, and the faint odor of a mop in need of replacement.

Evie turns to me and crosses her arms. "This is where I come with your teammates when I need a quick word with them."

"You could have sent me an email."

"Sure, and then you would have ignored it."

"Only if I didn't like what you had to say."

She grins. "Exactly."

I close my eyes and groan. "Can I still avoid you for a couple of days?"

"Can you be a little less irritating?"

I smirk to hide the smile that wants to curl my lips. "Can't make any promises."

"And this is why I don't want to date you."

I should be happy to hear her say that, but confusion overpowers it.

"Thanks for letting me know." Sarcasm is my go-to. "But that's coming out of nowhere. Explain."

"We're not going to date, even if it looks like it," she adds.

It quiets everything inside.

Fuck, it reminds me of that night when she left while I slept. We had agreed on one night, and yet I wanted to get her number in case I made my way back to town. We could have had more nights like it, no strings attached. Instead, she gave me a few hours and disappeared into the night.

The same feeling I had the next morning drips down my back.

"Excuse me?" I ask.

"It's how I will help. We're going to go on pretend first dates— in private. We'll let it be awkward and stilted and push through it."

"Is this a joke?"

"I would never joke about work! It's a great plan. We're going to desensitize you to small talk."

I blink a few times. I'm frowning so hard the muscles on my brow threaten to cramp.

I scoff. "You mean, you're going to torment me with small talk."

"We're going to let you loosen up and answer random ass questions." She smiles and gives me finger guns.

Finger. Guns. I'm tempted to grab some of the bleach I'm sure is here in the room somewhere, to erase the image from my brain. It's way too cute, and it threatens the severe persona I need to keep. Her proposal is too chilling to have fun with any of it.

"I changed my mind," I say. "Role playing sounds good all of a sudden."

"You're lying. No one likes role playing."

"But how is this any better?"

"We're going to meet in my office. Just coffee or you bring your energy drinks or whatever. I ask questions. You answer. Easy!"

She's smiling like this is a wonderful plan. It doesn't do much to soothe the knot in my stomach.

I'm still wearing my training shorts, but I feel naked.

To think she didn't even want to know my name, once upon a time …

"Listen." She takes a step forward, hands between us in a gesture that one might see on someone approaching a wild animal. "Your interviewing skills need work. Your answers should consist of more than five growled words. You need to pretend to be interested and engage like you're trying to impress whoever is listening. Doesn't that sound like a first date?"

"It does. It's sickening."

And precisely the reason I don't date. I hate the performance of it all.

"Evie, you're not helping your case."

"Okay, so how about this. We talked about getting close to the team. How's that going?"

"Well enough."

"Right. The thing is, I know these guys. They're a close bunch. After Matt— the previous quarterback— left, everyone was shaken. They understand why he was released, and why they brought you in, but they're going to need more than time together on the field to truly feel connected with you."

I frown. I'm sure she's thinking of cohesion and team spirit, and how that can lead to winning, but her words tickle my interest for a different reason. I want to find a family with them, and I'll take any clues that might help me get there.

"How would these fake first dates help?" I raise an eyebrow.

"Did you see the betting board? That's only one way they bond. They have group chats and get togethers and like to spend casual time with each other. How are you going to build rapport if all you do is frown?"

I'd offered Dom more time to practice, but my gut told me Evie was right about this. It might not have been the right call. Besides, challenging Damián on pinball might show I want to be part of the team, but it won't necessarily ingratiate me with a lot of them. And unless they understand my humor is dry where theirs is lively…

She reads my thoughts as doubts.

"Logan, we shook hands. Let me help you the best way I know how. "

I purse my lips and study her. Hope glimmers in her eyes. A soft smile curves her mouth. She's showing me who she is with everyone on the team.

"I prefer it when you bite back, Evie."

A gasp escapes her. The shake of her head is subtle, but I'm looking closely. She composes herself quickly, and her warm smile turns into a smirk.

"Then see you on Monday after you're done with training. My office. Bring your own food and drinks."

She turns to exit the service room, and goes as far as to flip her straight hair over her shoulder.

"Mmh, quite the date, I see," I grumble.

I tell myself I'm not looking forward to it. I highlight the part of my brain that knows I hate dating. That I find the spectacle of it dreadful and useless.

But I know I'm lying.