Page 4 of Trick Play (Playing the Field #4)

CHAPTER

THREE

Micah

Now

I hate Mondays.

Not the way some people hate Mondays because it means going back to a job they hate after a weekend off. Not because my day job is annoying, menial, or frustrating. Not because I’m trying to sleep off a hangover from partying all weekend.

No, I hate Mondays because of the people who think the poor planning on their part constitutes an emergency on mine. I hate Mondays because all the other Monday haters make it shitty for everyone else. Oh, your hangover is making you sick and you need something to vomit into? This bag is Coach, but go ahead, I guess. I hate the long line at the coffee shop, made longer by those rushing in late and selling their sob stories to gain sympathy from soft-hearted people until someone lets them cut in line. I hate Mondays because I’m the motherfucker who’s sympathetic to those with stories about their kids sobbing at drop-off, only to let them in front of me before being berated by those in line behind us who don’t want to be cut in front of.

Coffees stolen—not once but twice—from the cafe counter and juggling my personal effects in my hands in lieu of my precious Coach purse—may Theresa rest in peace—I stumble, windswept, into my cubicle only ten minutes late for our morning meeting.

“There he is,” John calls from the large conference room where we hold our meetings. I can’t see him over the cubicle walls—curse my short stature—but he can probably see the cotton-candy-pink bun atop my head floating above the muted blue dividers.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” I holler in return, unceremoniously dumping my things onto my otherwise pristine desk. Well, okay, maybe not pristine , per se, but everything has a place. Each miniature office supply has a purpose, even if it takes the cute little duck several waddles to fully cover a word with the white out it dribbles out of its butt and the tail, which is meant to spread the liquid evenly but gets covered with dried, gunky white out. Not to mention my baby succulents, which all have names. Like Vera (Wang)—who is here to help should anyone burn their hand on . . . um, an overheating stylus? Hey, it could happen!

I rush to the conference room armed with my latte as well as one of apology for my boss. I have everyone’s order down by now since I frequently buy apology coffees, and knowing I would be late after the whole purse incident, I’d bought one for our boss. “Sorry! I am so sorry. Mondays, you know?” Chuckling sheepishly around one of my brightest smiles, I pass David the coffee meant for him.

There’s a chorus of “ really ” and “ what about us ” from the other members of the team, but it’s all teasing. After having worked with me for well over a year now, they know each of their apology coffee days will come again soon. I’m always messing up somehow or needing someone to cover a job for me.

As the graphic design agency currently contracted by the NFL to cover the western divisions—AFC and NFC, thank you very much—our office is always busy. We may be few, but we are mighty. The high-rise that houses our office is owned by Neverending Designs, and each floor has its own team that is contracted out. The guys above us cover an international bowling competition, so not only is there a lot of them—to keep up with all the clips shown between rounds and after each bowl—but they also have a running, and loud, office bowling game, as if they are going to jump the design ship and make their own team. It’s so freaking loud sometimes. Like, come on, guys. You don’t see us tossing a football around, now do you?

There would probably be more of us if we didn’t handle our shit so well. None of us are the slacking type, so every deadline, every cutscene, is completed on time and in perfect design.

Personally, I only handle sketches and minimal animation. My work here is similar to what I did for my best friend and his boyfriend when I made them custom football cards. They were personalized with graphic drawings of them both in their gear and in regular clothes. Tahegin is the reason I even have this job. He’s been a professional football player for years and knew a guy who knew a guy. He got me the interview, but my talent got me the job.

And I like it. I do. I love graphic design, and while the NFL isn’t exactly what I was shooting for after college, it’s still an all right gig. Just . . . yeah. All right.

David’s deep brown eyes meet mine, his full lips parting slightly as he reaches for the outstretched cup. “For me?” he asks in surprise—the same way he always does when I buy him an apology coffee—and takes the drink, fingers skimming mine. At the small touch, his deep bronze cheeks darken. He quickly looks at the floor.

He may be older than me by a good ten years, but it’s obvious he becomes a fumbling, bashful youth whenever someone does something nice for him. It’s adorable, for the most part. At least until he makes it weird.

Sipping the coffee, David self-consciously touches a hand to his dark brown curly fro as if to make sure it’s not too wild.

Oh, David. It’s always wild.

“Mm,” he hums in approval at the taste. “You remembered my favorite!” The awe in his voice and the way he runs an appreciative eye from my feet to my hair makes me chuckle nervously and take a small step back, even though we weren’t that close to begin with.

I know I look good in light tan slip-on flats, a pair of high-waisted loose-legged khakis, and a pink buttoned blouse the same shade as my hair. With the shirt tucked in, my small waistline is accentuated by my cinched pants, something David doesn’t fail to notice, and the ruffles at the front breast of the shirt give an illusion of a hidden bosom. I’m not showing a lot of skin, not even something as innocent as my arms, and not because the days are cool this time of year. I learned my lesson about revealing clothing around my boss, unfortunately.

The outfit was perfectly tied together with Theresa at my side, but alas, her sacrifice will be remembered only in my own mind.

It was obvious, during my interview with David the first time I met him, that he likes the way I look. He’s the shy, nervous type, but something about me seems to set him off worse than anyone else. When we’re both in the office, he’s frequently bumbling over words or spilling things, too distracted by me.

Poor guy.

I’ve never done anything to lead him on. Truly. The apology coffee is a common occurrence from me to everyone in the office, and I’ve refrained from wearing any of my more revealing clothing to work.

“Well, I think I’ve delayed this meeting long enough. Sorry again, everyone. Let’s get started, shall we?” Clapping my fingers together around the coffee cup in my hand, I step even further back and bring the room’s attention to the screen beside David that displays this week’s assignments.

David, thankfully, takes the bait. I sit beside John and David’s empty chair, the only available seat left, and pull up the notes app on my phone. It opens to the last entry I made, a list of songs for potential sets at my night job, so I swipe to a new one and title it for this week’s design to-dos. Our boss is thorough with his assignments. Despite all of us having our own separate areas and talents, he includes everyone in these briefings so we’re all on the same page.

Like with the most recent assignment I completed. We received an updated roster late last week for the Los Angeles Rubies, so I had to design the new player sketches. Luckily, one of the new guys was Tahegin, and having drawn him numerous times in the past, I could use an old file of him with only a few adjustments. Which was great because the last-minute assignment couldn’t have come at a worse time. Weekends are the busiest for me at the club, and between the late nights and image maintenance, I don’t have much time for anything else.

“Micah, great job with the Rubies roster last week. I know it was a late request, but we can always count on you to get the job done,” David says when he reaches the design portion of the brief. The animation team will be using my last week’s designs for their clips this week, with some input from me here and there to add or change details. “We have the newest rosters for the Treasures and the Dragons, and there will be a few changes on those from last year if you could get that to me by the end of the week. I think Maxwell from the Dragons cut off his dreads at the end of last season, so we’ll need to reflect that. Also . . .” Clicking his tongue, David scans through the paper he’s referencing from. “Ah, yes. We’ve been asked to attend the NFL behind-the-scenes awards banquet in May. Corporate suggested I choose myself and one member of the team to represent us at the awards ceremony. So congrats, Micah. You’re the lucky winner.”

Cierra cheers and claps excitedly for me, a wide grin on her face. She’s part of our animation team, but everyone refers to her for color palettes and fashion choices. She’s our go-to gal and an obvious fashionista. With a gorgeous smile and blemish-free skin, I would have voted for her to attend a banquet as our representation. Not to mention all the ways she goes above and beyond for everyone.

So why did I get chosen?

“Better you than me,” John mutters, one meaty palm landing a heavy slap to my shoulder. He sags back in his chair as if a weight has been lifted off him.

Around the room, I can tell there are mixed feelings about this. Some who wanted to be chosen instead. Others who clearly think Cierra should be the one to go, exchanging pointed looks with each other.

And then there’s me.

I pick my jaw up off the floor to respond before my silence becomes any more awkward. “Wow, David. I’m honored, seriously. I mean, I’m just the sketch guy. There are so many others who have been here longer and do way more than me?—”

David nonchalantly waves me off. “Don’t be silly, Micah. You’re clearly the most diverse choice.”

The most . . . What?

Appalled at his words, I feel the blood rush from my face. He really . . . He chose me over someone who deserves the award for their work because I’m gay ? Not just gay, but flamingly so. I’m unashamed of my flashy clothes and middle fingers to gender conformity to the point that I might have even considered a dress for such a special occasion. Not now, though. Not after a comment like that.

A quick glance around the room shows shock on everyone else’s faces, even John, who usually can’t care less and sometimes makes his own oddly worded jokes that can come across as misogynistic or homophobic.

The worst part? David doesn’t even seem to realize what he said is an issue with his staff. He simply smiles at me like he’s done me a favor and ends the meeting.

An amendment to my earlier statement: I hate Mondays because I have to physically face my coworkers while uncomfortable in my boss’ presence when all I want to do is sit at home in my silk and lace pajamas and doodle on my tablet.

At least David didn’t tell me to “buy something nice on the company card” for the banquet. He’s said it before for even less work-related reasons, and I’d gotten judgy side-eyes from several coworkers until I was able to explain to them that I do not, in fact, waste office resources like that.

We file wordlessly out of the conference room, only Cierra daring to catch my eye. She and I haven’t spent any time together outside of work, but she’s always been kind in the office—sometimes too kind. I’ve noticed a lot of extra office work falls on her shoulders simply because she’s the only one who cares enough to do things like cleaning off the break room counter or washing dirty lunch dishes left in the sink, though I have tried to make an effort to help whenever I see her doing those things alone. She is also the only one to compliment my outfits, even if hers are always more exciting.

Today, she’s in a layered skirt and an off-the-shoulder top, displaying long legs and smooth, pale shoulders with freckles. If David were into women—which he might be, though his focus has been almost solely on me for the past year—he’d have his eye on Cierra. I find I’m grateful she doesn’t have to be the object of his attention. She deserves better.

“Hey,” she says, peeking over the drab grey-blue wall separating her desk from mine. “I like your blouse. Is it new? It’d look great with that Coach purse of yours.”

I collapse into my chair with a wail of despair. “Don’t remind me. Theresa met an unfortunate fate with a stranger’s hangover. She lives in the garbage bin a block from the coffee shop now.”

“You”—she tips her head curiously—“let a stranger vomit into your Coach crossbody? Whatever for?”

Sighing, I drop my head into my arms on my desk, and when I speak, my words are muffled but coherent. “She looked like she needed it. It was either the purse or the diaper bag on her stroller.”

“You’re too kind,” Cierra declares, echoing my earlier thought about her. She perks up after a second. “Hey! Maybe it was morning sickness. That’s better than a hangover, isn’t it?”

“You’re right.” I give her a small smile. “That is a better thought.”

“Well, speaking of thinking. I’d love to brainstorm with you about an outfit for the banquet. You’d look gorgeous in anything, of course, but I have some ideas if you’re interested.”

She looks so excited. I hate to turn down her offer, but . . .

Lowering my voice to a whisper, I lean in and confide, “After what David just said, I’m considering the most boring, hetero-male tux I can find at a rental shop without a tailor. Or maybe finding a way to catch the flu the day before, honestly. I hate the idea that my look is the only reason I was chosen over someone who deserves it.”

“Of course you deserve it, Micah.” She’s unbelievably sincere despite the fact we both know she received an apology coffee from me only two weeks ago for an incident involving a chartreuse and violet color clash. I couldn’t get to a computer to fix the mistake until after three the next morning, and she’d woken up extremely early to finish the animation before deadline.

“I don’t deserve it because of what David said,” I correct softly. “There are more worthy candidates, and not only that, but our team isn’t that big. John wouldn’t come anyway, so why not open it up for everyone to go?”

Cierra casts me a sympathetic look and another half-hearted offer to let her know if I change my mind about the banquet before dropping behind the cubicle wall to get started on her work.

After a night at the club and a rushed morning to wash off glitter and body butter in time to leave my apartment for work this morning, I finally sort through my phone notifications from the past twelve hours. Several are from David liking and commenting on pictures I’ve posted, some old and some new, despite the fact we aren’t even friends on social media. I swipe those away with a grimace.

One series of messages has a giddy smile spreading across my face, all thoughts of my sour morning vanishing from my mind.

Zeke: I’m going into kiss withdrawal (it’s a real thing, I swear)

Zeke: I think I need someone to kiss it all better

Zeke: Come over tonight?

Zeke: Wear something pretty for me

Zeke: I’ll make it worth your while ;)

I take back what I said—all of it.

Mondays are perfect.