CHAPTER 15
GRAYDON
“I’m guessing you don’t want to talk about it,” Hutton says as he takes a seat next to me, returning from the bathroom, at the bar that’s walking distance from my place.
“What gave you that impression?” I ask as I tip back my fourth beer of the night.
“Well, we’ve been here for about a half hour, sitting in silence, just drinking, and nary a mention about the girlfriend proclamation that happened in the training room, so…”
“So what?”
“So…I guess we’re not talking about it.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“Cool.” From the corner of my eye, I see him nod. “Well, if you’re not going to talk about it, then I think I might just go home and fuck my wife, if you don’t mind.”
“Do whatever the hell you want,” I answer.
He stands from the barstool and pats me on the back. “When you need to vent, you know where to find me.”
“Between your wife’s legs.”
“Precisely.” He squeezes my shoulder and then takes off, leaving me alone at the bar, feeling like a steaming pile of shit. I appreciate that he sat with me, but he’s right. I’m in no mood for company. Not that that’s unusual. And I don’t begrudge him going home to be with his wife.
Christ, today was a compilation of fuck yous.
From Maple being late, to seeing her hurt, to her tears that gutted me, to wanting to shield her from the pain and impending firestorm on her privacy, to seeing my dad, to him being a fucking slimeball all over her, to needing to do something, anything, to make it up to Maple after she had to meet him.
She has no real idea how messy this will get.
It’s why I needed to drive her home to her apartment.
Then, once I caught sight of her meager dwellings, I just wanted to…
make it better. Can’t say I’ve ever shopped for someone else before.
I doubt I’ll ever repeat it either. How did she have so little?
She’s…she’s so bubbly and feisty…Shouldn’t she have all that pretty shit?
Like, Jesus, she didn’t even have a coffee maker.
A plant.
Her bedding looked like it was from middle school, pulled straight from a trunk in the attic.
And her apartment was so bland that I couldn’t imagine her going through all of this bullshit she’s about to embark on and retreat to that…joke of an apartment.
And I shouldn’t care. I really shouldn’t. She grates on my nerves, there’s far too much tension between us, and the last thing I want her to do is feel any sort of…empathy toward me. But I couldn’t just stand there and not do anything when I feel this impending need to do everything for her.
I drag my hand over my face. What a goddamn mess.
And then there was my dad. I can’t remember the last time I saw him, probably at my last game of the past season. Disappointment was written all over his face then, and even though I did my job, it wasn’t good enough for him.
I was a disappointment to him. He’s told me over and over again I was wasting my time with a front office that wouldn’t know how to draft and trade players if their life depended on it, but I couldn’t leave. I had to stay here.
I fucking had to stay here…
I down the rest of my beer and plop down a one-hundred-dollar bill on the bar, nodding at the bartender. He offers me a nod back, and I head out the door and walk the block back to my apartment.
It’s a calm Friday night, not many people out and about, the wind whipping around off the bay more strongly than it normally does, cutting through the streets of San Francisco. And as I walk, my mind goes to Maple and how she’s only four blocks from my place.
Fucking four blocks. I didn’t mention that to her because she doesn’t need to know, but how are our apartments so different with just a four-block distance in between?
It’s not that my place is anything to write home about, but it’s newly renovated, offers me a sizable garage for my truck, and doesn’t have chipping paint coming off the walls.
I bought below my means, but that doesn’t bother me. I don’t buy fancy things, nor do I care to own them. I live a simple life with a truck that gets me around, an apartment that keeps me warm and dry, and a job that lets me get out my rage.
And when I can’t get out my rage because I’m attempting to play nurse on a white horse, I have a bar a block away that allows me to drown all the rage and confusion with a pint glass.
I jog up the steps to my duplex and unlock the door. I flick the lights on, take off my shoes, then head into the living room, where I flop down on my couch and turn on the TV so I can watch the highlights from the day.
I fish my phone out of my pocket and notice a text from Gretchen.
Gretchen: The inundation from press after today’s post has been insane. You’re bringing the team positivity up faster than the other two. And you were the one who I thought would fail.
Wow.
Isn’t she fucking sweet.
Also…what post?
I pull up Instagram and go straight to Flock and Tackle, where I see a picture of me watching over Maple as she gets her wrist wrapped with a splint.
It’s a candid shot of us together. Maple’s face is tilted down so you can’t see the bruising, and my eyes are concentrated on her, like if she’s not okay, I might find my last breath.
Jesus Christ, was I really that concerned?
I mean, thinking back to it, I was concerned, yeah, but I was angry. I was irritated that she thought she was going to work out with a fractured wrist.
I was a whole bunch of things.
And I was also really pissed that Gretchen was seizing the opportunity, which clearly she had no problem doing.
I read the caption and feel my barely suppressed anger resurface all over again.
“Things got a little intense over at Flock and Tackle, but thankfully the Foghorns training staff was more than happy to help me out. A fractured wrist won’t slow me down…just the big guy watching over me.”
No doubt Gretchen wrote that.
I’m about to pull up my text thread with Maple when I hear a ding and a text shows up on my phone from Maple herself.
Maple: Um, sorry to bother you, but we never discussed if I’m meeting you at the venue tomorrow?
Sorry to bother me?
She’s not bothering me.
This entire thing is a fucking bother, but she’s not bothering me.
Graydon: I’m picking you up.
Maple: Where?
Graydon: At your apartment. Where else?
Maple: Oh, I didn’t know. Okay, so you’ll just come here then?
Graydon: That’s usually how picking someone up works.
Maple: Right. Okay. Around 6?
Graydon: Yeah.
Maple: Hair and makeup should be done by then. I hope they are at least. I really don’t want that much.
Graydon: For what it’s worth, you don’t need it.
And I fucking mean that.
Even with her face bruised, she’s easily one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever fucking set my eyes on.
Maple: Oh, thank you.
Graydon: How do you feel? Do you need anything?
Maple: I’m fine. You’ve done enough.
Graydon: I’m serious. If you need something, tell me.
I swipe my hand over my face, hating this desperate feeling I have to make sure she feels okay and safe. It’s driving me mad, leaving me feeling unsettled, like I can’t quite get comfortable in my own skin.
Maple: I appreciate that, but I’m okay. And um…thank you for today. Sorry I ruined your training plans.
Graydon: Don’t apologize.
Maple: Well, I am sorry. I know you have training camp next week, and I’m the last thing you want to deal with.
Graydon: Stop apologizing.
Maple: I’m being serious, Graydon.
Graydon: So am I.
Maple: I don’t want you thinking you need to take care of me. I know you don’t want to talk about it, but I don’t want to be a burden to you. So, yeah, I’m sorry you missed your training today.
And here I thought the beer calmed me down. She’s getting me riled up all over again. She needs to stop apologizing about things out of her control.
Graydon: Don’t call yourself a burden.
Maple: I wouldn’t if maybe you didn’t make me feel like one most of the time.
I pause, staring down at her honest words. Fuck. How do I respond to that?
Because she’s right, I do act like she’s a burden most of the time, but not because she’s the burden. At least, I don’t think so.
The situation is a burden. Taking on the responsibility of trying to boost the fans’ perception of the team, now that’s a goddamn burden. But she’s just wrapped up in it.
Then again, she didn’t say no to the whole PR relationship.
Yeah, and I was the jackass who proclaimed it this morning.
I drag my hand over my face again, disgruntled and confused.
It’s not even the official start of the season, and I already feel like I’m about to fucking blow.
How the hell will I deal with this for the next five weeks during training camp and then beyond?
Maple: From your silence, I assume you agree with me. It’s fine. I’ll try to make this as easy as possible for you. I’ll meet you at the event tomorrow, and I’ll put on a show.
Brows turning down, I type her back.
Graydon: I said I’ll pick you up.
Maple: Don’t sweat it. See you at the venue.
Growling, I toss my phone to the side and push my hand through my hair.
I’ll be damned if she meets me at the venue.