24. CADE
CHAPTER 24
CADE
A jerk snaps me awake and I immediately know something’s up when I can barely open my eyes. It takes several attempts until I’m able to crack one open and I lay there disoriented for a long moment. There’s light streaming from the bedroom window, which is weird. This time of year I usually get up before dawn. It’s during the regular season, where games are at night, that my alarm goes off mid morning. Did the alarm not go off?
Wait, that’s what the annoying blaring sound is.
Groaning as if I was trying to lift four hundred pounds, I manage to roll my two hundred pounds over to the edge of the bed. I swing my arm over, pawing around the night table until I feel the rectangle under my hand. I tap around the center of the screen, but the sound doesn’t stop.
“What now?” I mumble with the same delivery of a drunk man who has screamed all night long.
I bring the phone to my pillow and crack the eye open again. No wonder the alarm wouldn’t shut off—it’s actually a phone call, and from my agent of all people. I swipe the green button, set the call to loudspeaker, and drop the phone on my pillow so I can pull my bed sheets over myself again.
“Lou.”
“You sound like garbage,” is his greeting. “Is that team of yours abusing you too much?”
I like that the too much implies that some abuse is fine. Snorting, I say, “No. They’re even forcing me to rest against my will. Those villains.” My voice breaks at the end and trying to clear it results in a few coughs.
“Well, good. The last thing we need is for you to play while sick.”
“I’m not sick.”
“And I’m Jason Momoa.” I keep my trap shut because if a movie was made about Lou DiMarco’s life, his role would be played by James Gandolfini. But I understand the sarcasm. “Did you see the team doctor?”
“No, Mom,” I deadpan. “I got home last night, went to bed, and you just woke me up.”
“Call them if you start feeling worse.”
Lifting a hand to rub my bleary eyes, I can’t help but being weirded out by this conversation. Lou isn’t a warm and fuzzy kind of guy and I’ve never been at the top of his client list. So I voice as much.
“You’re freaking me out, Lou. Why did you call me to mother hen me?”
The man huffs. “Side effect of having some good news for you.”
“Oh?” I don’t know if it’s because I’m not feeling well or what, but I can’t fathom what kind of good news my agent may have for me when I’m already happily employed and uninjured, if a bit under the weather.
“Thanks to that viral video of you talking about your ideal woman, and the spectacular pitch from yesterday, you’ve been pitched for a great promotional opportunity.”
“Great pun,” I mumble.
He ignores that. “ SPORTY magazine has reached out to Orlando Wild PR and me to feature you, front page and full body spread. We both want you to say yes. We’ll respect if you say no but I will judge you.”
I snort.
“When you say full body, would I be wearing clothes?”
“Yeah, it just means they’ll turn one of your pictures into a poster in the middle of the magazine.”
I didn’t know that still existed in this day and age, but there are still plenty of sports fans who enjoy collecting physical goods from their respective teams. One of the highest selling merchs from the Wild is actually Logan Kim’s player card, after all.
“But with clothes?” I ask to confirm.
“I didn’t know you were so modest. Aren’t athletes used to being nude in locker rooms all the time?”
Yeah, but I happen to have one female coworker I don’t want to horrify. I have a feeling she wouldn’t meet me in the eye if I go around parading what my unknown momma gave me, consequently sacking me as her dating coach. And I don’t want that. I committed to helping her until she finds the right guy to take to her Friendsgiving, and I’m a man of my word. I also enjoy keeping her around.
“There’s a time and place for everything,” I rasp out the words as I explain. “And my philosophy is that what happens in the locker room stays in the locker room.” See, like yesterday. When Garcia was massaging my arm. If I even allow myself to think about it, things will go south. And by things I mean my blood.
“Fine. I’ll put a clause about bare torso only.”
“Thanks for protecting my modesty,” I joke.
“Does this mean you’re in?” he asks in his sharky tone that got me an extra million dollars in my previous contract, even though my performance was nowhere near what it is today. I owe this man basically everything I have right now, and I don’t intend to short him for the commission that the SPORTY gig will get him, even if I’m not dying for it. I’m a professional athlete and not a model, after all.
“Are you sure they asked for me and not for Logan Kim? He’s the pretty boy of the team, you know.”
“So are you, you little shit. And they called me personally, using the combination of letters that make up your name.”
“Ah.” I bite my lips to suppress the laugh I’m sure would send Lou over the edge and turn his insults even spicier. “Then I guess I’ll do it.”
“Excellent! I’ll review the contract, add that clause, and send it back for your signature once they have approved. Hang tight.”
“When’s the thing going to be?” I ask very belatedly, but I blame my addled brain.
“You’re hot in social media trends right now, so they want it to be in a week. We’ll coordinate with the team’s PR to not interfere with your regular schedule.”
“Great.” I don’t know if it’s because I’m weak right now, or because I’m snuggled all comfy, but I let out the sappy Cade that lives inside of me for a second. “Thanks, man. You’re the only one who really looks out for me.”
And that stuns the great Lou DiMarco shark into silence.
Or maybe he’s just so grossed out that he’s had to mute himself so he can gag.
But then he clears his throat. “You’re welcome, kid. Get better.” And he hangs up.
“Wow,” I mumble. By the awkward inflection in his voice, I’d guess he wasn’t grossed out. More like touched. That’s what he gets for being at the top of a very reduced group of people who watch out for me.
Lou, Lucky, my housekeeper Carmen, maybe Garcia? Probably not.
Both Lou and Carmen are in my payroll so maybe they shouldn’t count. But Lou was the only one who caped for me so hard that eventually a team scouted me. Carmen brings homemade food for me, even when that’s not part of her contract. I think this all goes beyond a paper relationship.
Or I just don’t know what the real thing is. I close my eyes. Lucky’s declaration of brotherhood still has me reeling. I had to look up what that even means online but I’m not sure I get it. Like, of course I know how to read—the logic is clear. But the real concept? I have no idea. It wasn’t a sentiment I shared with other orphans I grew up with, maybe because it was always a temporary arrangement.
But one day Lucky and I will play for different teams. Or one of us will retire. Then what? Does the brotherhood go on?
And the same for Garcia. She’ll find her guy soon. Maybe I get traded. Maybe she finds a different job. That’ll be the end of our relationship.
I scrunch my face. What relationship, though? She’s employed by my team to mind my physical health and that of thirty nine other guys. We’re barely friendly now.
So if not people I employ or people I work with, who do I have left?
I swallow hard and turn to the opposite side, my face against the sun. I force my breathing to even, and my mind to focus on the feeling of my sweatpants against my legs, the sheets under my skin, the coolness of the pillow, and nothing else. Being on light duty means I can sleep in a little longer, get to the facilities and train a little less, and I decide to do just that.
*
This time I’m marginally more aware that my phone is ringing because of a call, and not the alarm. I roll over, intending to reach for my bedside table, when my cheek falls directly on my blaring phone.
“Shit.” The sound is extremely annoying this close and I try to move away, but my body feels like lead. I barely manage to lift my head to free the device, or myself, depending on how I may look at it.
My eyes feel even blearier this time around as I try to focus them on the screen. It takes a moment for the caller ID to register in my brain.
Little Darlin’ .
Huh?
I answer the call. This time I don’t have the mojo to put it on loudspeaker, so I drop my phone on my face with the receiver on my ear. “Garcia? Why are you calling?”
“Why am I calling?” she shrieks. I wince, but there’s no earthly force that can make me move more than that. “What do you mean why am I calling? Half of the team has been calling you!”
I half groan, half ask, “Why?”
“It’s six in the evening! You never showed up for training. Of course everyone is up in arms.”
“What the—Shit.” Grunting, I pick myself up to sit. The bed sheets slide to pool around my waist and I take a look around. My bedroom is dark except for the faint light of the clock on the wall, and the sliver under the door that tells me Carmen must be around—and probably thinks I’m at work.
“You sound horrible.”
“Thanks,” I rasp out, running a hand through my hair. Grabbing the sheets, I push them away and sadly they don’t go far enough, which is the moment I realize I really am sick after all.
She sighs loudly. “Are you home?”
“Yeah.” I all but crawl to the edge of the bed and my head swims as I reach to turn on the light.
There’s some rustling on her end, followed by her furious typing on a keyboard. “I’m putting you on the injured list for the time being. Get some rest and don’t forget to eat properly.”
“Ugh.”
“You did eat today, right?”
The weird twist in my stomach reminds me, first, that no. I did not. And second, that I don’t want to. Like, anything I put down the guzzler will come out like a fountain.
Maybe I should at least drink some water, though. I grab for the room temperature water bottle on my bedside table. Uncapping it feels like a feat and the water feels downright freezing once it hits my mouth. My stomach swirls the one sip like it’s a blender, and I stop.
“Uh…”
“Starr.”
“Garcia?” I wince.
“Do not make me force you to eat.”
“Ha ha,” I rasp out, and there’s only silence on the other end of the line. “Oh, you were serious.”
“Give me your address, Starr.”
I blink hard, as if the dim light hurt. “Huh?”
“I will make you my dad’s famous chicken soup and have you pitching cutters again in no time.”
Something happens in my chest, like a fever is breaking out there and expanding across my entire body. But it’s not uncomfortable. It doesn’t churn my stomach or make my head spin. I want to lean into it, just the same as when I’m tired and want to lay on my pillows.
“I’ll text you,” I say, touching my free hand against my chest. My heart beats rapidly underneath.