Chapter 8
Hunter
Training feels different this week. For the first time in months, I’m here without the specter of being traded hanging over everything. This team is my home for the next three years.
Unless I fuck it up.
“Hunt, you’re up.” Coach Carroll grunts instead of speaking as he stalks the sideline and watches us handle the ball. I appreciate the break from travel during the offseason, but I miss the energy of playing matches.
My teammate Ritchie Bloor dribbles the ball toward me, and I pivot from side to side, facing him down.
I won’t let him get a shot off, even in training.
If I have to slide tackle him, I will, but I’ll go easy so neither of us gets injured.
People think I’m so hotheaded that I can’t control myself, but that’s not true. Mostly.
I’m not about to be reckless during practice and risk hurting myself or a teammate. But it’s a whole different story during a match. I’ll go hard, do whatever it takes, and throw everything I have into stopping an opposing striker from taking a shot on goal.
It’s second nature. The roar of the crowd fires me up, and my ultra-competitive streak fills in the blanks.
Bloor gets close, and I corner him, running faster as he tries to dribble past me and cutting off his shot the second the ball comes off his foot.
I aim toward the center, keeping the ball on the ground, where we have the most control over it.
It’s like breathing. And today, I breathe a little easier knowing I’m here with a secure starting spot.
“Nice one,” Bloor grunts.
“Almost didn’t get there,” I say.
“Right.”
“Bloor, you know Hunt’s gonna cut off your ground game. You need to be more creative.”
Bloor tips an imaginary hat with his index finger, but he’ll make the same mistake again. We’ll keep working this drill until he stops. That’s what Coach has in mind, and I’ll keep doing my part.
As I jog back in line for the next run, I glance up at the corporate offices that sit right beyond where Coach stands on the sideline.
It’s not like I expect to see Gracie standing at one of the plate-glass windows watching our practice.
But I like the idea that she saw something in me worth keeping around, even if it’s based on data I don’t really understand.
It feels good to sweat and breathe hard, so when Coach has us take a few high-speed laps around the field to end practice, I lead the pack, feeling the blood pump in my legs and the burn in my lungs. I hadn’t realized how much I’ve been holding inside until the energy comes pouring out.
Whether Gracie thinks of it that way or not, she did save my job.
The least I can do is make her a decent dinner.
Two hours later, I push open the front door to Kyler’s house with my foot.
I have two full grocery bags in my arms because I couldn’t decide what to cook, so I ended up with way too many options—pescatarian, vegetarian, and full-on meat.
No idea what Gracie is into, and from the silence that pervades the house when I walk in, I’m not going to find out anytime soon.
I could call Kyler and ask what his sister eats, but he’s in a different time zone and probably asleep or enjoying some Spanish nightlife.
Spreading out the groceries on the ample granite countertop, I survey my options.
Somehow, while I was in the store, the combination of ingredients made more sense.
I scroll through my phone’s recipe app, where I bookmark things that seem interesting.
Admittedly, I’ve made exactly zero of them.
It’s what happens when I spend most of my day, and well into the evening, with the team or the trainers, and rely on a meal delivery service to fill in the gaps.
The first thing that becomes clear is that I’ll do better with a drink in my hand. I know better than to go for the empty carbs in the form of beer, but a scotch never hurt anyone, and I know Kyler has a nice collection of bottles.
I grab a single malt and bring it into the kitchen. I’m banking on the idea that I can cook on the grill outside while I work on sauces and glazes in the kitchen.
I debate the phone call I’m tempted to make, knowing I’ll face more questions than answers if I do it. But I don’t want to burn down another house, and I’m running out of time. So I dial.
“Hi, sweetie. How’s my favorite son?” My mom answers the phone after one ring as though she’s been walking around with her cell in hand, waiting for my call.
She never varies her greeting, and she always sounds delighted to hear from me, even if it’s only been a day since we last spoke. In this case, it’s been a week.
“I’m your only son.”
“Potato, po-tahto. I didn’t want to bother you, but I heard you’re staying with the Devils in LA.”
“Never believe everything you hear. Who told you that?”
“Betsy.” I already know Mom’s sports source is her mahjong friend Betsy, who follows sports news like it’s her job.
“Tell Betsy she shouldn’t spread rumors. But between you and me and the oak trees, I’ll probably be in LA for a while. I’ll tell you more when I have all the details.”
I hear the splatter of water in the background and assume my mom is gardening, which is how she spends most of her time in the evenings while it’s still light out.
Her vegetable garden is legendary, and her organic farming practices have influenced the way I eat.
Kyler likes to take credit, but we both know it’s the way I was raised.
Rattling off the list of ingredients I have on hand, I wait for my mom’s approval. I know she’ll like the emphasis on seasonal produce.
“I’d roast and puree that celery root and put that on the plate as a base. Add some arugula and a mustard vinaigrette—I’ll text you the recipe. Don’t mess with the salmon too much, just put it on the coals in foil with some maple butter… Grill the squash and add some lentils…”
She rattles off the recipes as though she’s had a week to prepare. I make a few notes on my phone while she talks and divide the ingredients into piles.
I tell her I love her and promise to call once my contract is finalized, so she can give Betsy all the details.
“Love you, Boo.” My mom clicks away before I can protest a nickname no one else could get away with. I set to work chopping, dicing, and pureeing, then rifle through Kyler’s cabinets for dishes and silverware to set the table outside.
It’s not an attempt to curry more favor with our new research analyst or stoke some long-simmering heat into a flame. If I wanted sex, there are plenty of women who’ve made it clear they’re available. I’m not interested.
I merely want to thank her for whatever she saw in her spreadsheets that saved my job.
I hate owing anyone anything, and this will make me feel like we’re even.
A simple dinner with a bunch of options to make sure there’s something she likes.
This is normal, good roommate behavior. It has nothing to do with buried feelings I’ve had for my friend’s sister for nearly half my life.
Yes, I said it.
Gracie rocked my world back when I was a freshman scrub on the varsity team, and all I could do was flex and grunt in her family’s kitchen in an attempt to impress her. Small wonder I failed.
That woman is head and shoulders beyond me in intellect, not to mention the beauty she tries to keep buried under layers of clothes.
I’d find it adorable if it didn’t frustrate me so goddamn much.
The other night, I could barely keep from reaching out and running a hand up the milky skin of her legs in those little shorts of hers.
Since then, I’ve only seen her in work clothes, which is just as well.
And now that I’ve given the thought a little room to breathe, I shove it back down where it belongs.
One dinner. Two old friends are eating because it’s a human necessity. Basically, I’m keeping her alive. Starvation would be rude. No reason to make anything more of one dinner.
Then we’ll go back to our separate worlds and our separate lives.