Chapter 12
CREW
Well, that was a bitch.
Not the fact that I’m finally home, but the soreness.
I run through my nightly routine: setting out Doodle’s meds, prepping her lunch for tomorrow, and signing off on school paperwork and her behavior chart. All of the things that make mornings run smoother the weeks she’s with me.
My body is on fire after the killer therapy session I had. Not only did we focus on getting full range of motion back in my elbow, we also worked every other muscle group in the body. I’m already wrecked from practice and my morning runs, now throw in intense therapy, and I’m fucking toast.
I already know the morning is gonna suck even more. The next day hurts the worst. I don’t care what anyone says about it.
Alternating ice and heat are the only things on my agenda for tomorrow. Well, that and spending the evening at Boone.
It’s been a while since I’ve been able to stay through a full dinner rush and then some. I’m excited to have my hand in the kitchen again. It’ll give me a chance to assess my staff, what’s working and what’s not, along with the things I can implement to make service better.
After my run-through of evaluations, I plan to bartend. God, something about doing it makes me feel young again. I already called Troy to let him know I’m stepping in.
I need something to make me feel the slightest bit successful.
Not like anything else is doing that at the moment.
This injury has imposed on all of my career plans.
Not only depleting me of what feels like my talent, but serving as a painful reminder of it on a daily basis.
There’s not a day I wake up that I don’t feel pain.
Some days are worse than others, but now that spring training has passed and the season has begun, my elbow is spent.
The beginning of the season is when I should perform my best. Feel my best.
The days of being at the top of my game are over, and I feel a bit lost in that reality.
I check the time on the stainless steel stove—9:00.
It’s early compared to when I typically get home on training days.
I had to call Vanna last minute to see if she could stay with Addie a little while longer.
Coach had physical therapy lined up for me without even thinking to check my schedule, something I’d usually give him hell about, but I sucked it up today.
Addie is fast asleep as of an hour ago, but I can never really be too sure. There are days when she takes ages to calm herself down enough to fall asleep. Her body is exhausted, but her brain doesn’t understand the message.
Because I fucking deserve it, I grab a beer from the garage fridge and get comfortable on the couch. I don’t drink often, aside from random nights out, which are few and far between. I hate the repercussions. Nothing about waking up and feeling like horse shit is appealing.
But tonight, I need something to unwind. Even if it means I take a few sips and trash it. Settling myself between the oversized pillows some designer from People Magazine told me I needed, I stare at nothing, wondering how I got here.
Single. Close to retirement before I turn forty. A beautiful daughter, whom I often feel helpless in helping. A restaurant that runs itself, while I’d love nothing more than to be a part of its growth.
If only I could clone myself and be in four places at once with great health and time management.
Top of that priority list is my Doodle. She’s my reason.
Juniper’s face shouldn’t be the next thing I see.
Thoughts of our conversation in my car are at the forefront of my mind.
There’s something different about her. She’s stunning, that much is true.
But she also has a layer of depth to her that I wasn’t expecting.
She asks questions, and I know it’s not just to fill conversation gaps.
There are no gaps. It’s because she actually gives a shit about people. I can tell.
She gives a shit about me each time she asks about my life.
About Addie. And you know what really sets her apart?
The only time baseball has ever been brought up is when it relates to my injury or plans for retirement.
Not once has that beautiful woman dug for answers on my net worth or attempted to shallowly ask my playing stats or compliment my form.
The shit I hear on repeat from other women.
Surface-level women.
But not Dr. Juniper Wilde. She’s an extraordinary case of uniqueness.
And I can tell there’s much more to her story than patient check-ups and an all-black wardrobe.
I shake my head, knowing I shouldn’t be thinking about my daughter’s pediatrician in any way other than professionally. If only Tenley stayed in her lane and didn’t invite her to shit. Not that I don’t want her there—I do.
That’s the issue.
I want Juniper to make friends. She’s new to town, and everyone needs a friend. Plus, mine are the best ones to have. But sharing friends will only make not thinking of her as anything other than friends that much more taxing.
The same way I shouldn’t be picturing her naked in my bed, sans slutty little glasses.
I’m supposed to be lessening my life load, not tempted to add a woman who could not only ruin my plans, but improve them in the best way possible.
The struggle is real.
I take a sip of my beer, humming as the bitter sensation rolls down the back of my throat.
I should get some sleep. I know I need it, yet this seems to be the only time in my day when I can relax and not think.
Joke’s on me, it’s when I haphazardly overthink.
I’ve done so much fucking press and interviews lately that my head hurts.
What do you see yourself doing in ten years, Crew?
Any plans to be drafted by the San Francisco Staghorns in the next couple of years? We hear team manager, Clarke Harris, has his eye on you.
Plans to reveal your current love life? All of Atlanta wants to know.
It’s debilitating living up to the expectations of strangers. I just want to be a good dad, provide for my daughter, meet a woman who understands me, and not spend the rest of the very short life I have regretting not doing something different.
I don’t think that’s too much to ask.
I’ve made the money. I’ve built the career. But when do I get to enjoy the hard work?
Deciding to shower and hit the sack, I stand from the couch but stop short at the sound of Addie’s voice singing from upstairs.
I check my watch. 9:30—she should be asleep. I set my beer down and make my way up the stairs. The closer I get, the more her spirit-filled song registers. And I use the word spirit-filled lightly. Really lightly because fuck Kingston Baylor for teaching Addie Lil’ Wayne.
“Go DJ” projects off the walls of my too-big home, my eyes homing in on Addie’s small frame standing in front of her disco mirror, hairbrush in hand as she sings her heart out.
I tap the door and lean my hip against the frame. “Sold-out show tonight, Doodle?”
Addie spins on her feet, eyes wide as saucers. “I couldn’t sleep. I promise not to do it again!” she rushes, and I step forward, wanting nothing more than to hug my little girl.
“Get over here, rockstar.”
Her smile is infectious as she abandons her brush and rushes to my arms. “I’m hungry, Daddy. Ms. Vanna gave me popcorn, but it was the yucky sweet kind.” Her face scrunches in disgust.
I had a feeling.
One of the side effects of the new medication Addie’s on is suppressed appetite.
At night, when the medication has worn off, is when her hunger from the day is so strong it keeps her awake.
Vanna and Hilary already preached to me about making sure any late snacking is kept to minimal sugar and higher protein so she stays full longer.
It makes bedtime a bit more of a struggle, but the benefits during the day have been much greater. With time, we’ve seen small improvements, both at home and school. I’m optimistic about what’s to come in the future, but know this is one of those things we give and take.
So, since Addie’s caloric intake is less during the day, she’s starving at night. Too bad she always wants junk food. “And let me guess, ice cream would make it better?” I tease, knowing what’s coming.
“I was thinking…” She taps her pert chin. “Pancakes!”
“Pancakes.” I gape. “It’s almost ten o’clock, Doodle. You have school tomorrow.”
“Please, Daddy. Please!”
This is why I have zero willpower with her. She’s so fucking cute. I’m a weak man.
“Sweetie, I don’t think I even know how to make pancakes. What about waffles? Pretty sure Ms. Vanna grabbed some chocolate chip ones from the store the other day. You’re favorite.” I grin.
Addie’s shoulders drop, but her smile stays. “I guess that’ll do. Let’s go!” And she grabs my hand, dragging me down the stairs and to the kitchen.
Note to self: learn how to make pancakes.
I’m sure I can find someone to teach me. Or at least guide me to make sure they’re edible.
“First, we need syrup!” Addie cheers, running to the pantry while I secure the frozen waffles. I own a restaurant and can’t even make pancakes. I really need to up my parenting game.
“I’ll put the waffles in the toaster,” I tell her, popping them in quickly.
“What about toppings?”
I stare blankly, remembering I still need to grocery shop. “Uh, we have strawberries.”
Addie tilts her head in disbelief, and I know sometime in the near future, she’ll be the one teaching her old man all the tricks of the trade. In this case, what counts as appropriate waffle toppings. I bet her pancake toppings will be even more extreme.
I’m up for the challenge, baby girl.
“Add sprinkles, and we have a deal.” She holds her hand out, bartering with me like the strong little girl she is. I’m proud and also really hoping I’ve got sprinkles somewhere in this kitchen.