18. Booker
Booker
The team wanted to visit Colt when he came back from the hospital. Unfortunately, we had to unveil his secret about his parents being gone, since he’s staying at the Warrens’ house while he recovers.
Beau told everyone to wait a while—to let him start feeling better—before we all came over at once. Colt did approve of having a few visitors at a time, though.
Drew, Gally, Simmons, and I make a trip out to the Warren mansion three days after he’s been home and settled, though the entire thing was awkward and severely melancholic.
Colt barely remembered any of us. From what we’ve gathered, he remembers the beginning of the season up until his dad passed, and nothing after. Beau explains that the doctors told them, essentially, Colt’s memory jumped back to his most recent traumatic experience and got stuck there.
We brought Colt some of his favorite snacks and I stopped and grabbed him a couple of books from his apartment. The boys and I hold a steady conversation while were there, but Colt doesn’t participate much. Eventually, he bows out to his room with a headache, and we leave.
“Damn,” Drew says once were loaded back into the car, and, frankly, it’s the only thing to be said.
“Want to hit the gym?” I ask Drew after we get home.
“Nah, I can’t right now. I’ve got someone coming over in a little bit. I can if you want to go tomorrow, though,” Drew replies.
“Who’s coming over?” I ask curiously.
“No one,” he evades, pulling a bottle of water from the fridge.
“Whatever you say,” I reply, pushing away from the counter. Drew’s always weirdly secretive about the people he brings over, and I’m not entirely sure why, but I’ve learned over the years not to push. He likes to hook up, then move on. The more questions I ask, the more he clams up.
“I think I’m going to go for a run, then. Don’t forget about team dinner tonight at Coach’s house,” I continue before heading upstairs to change.
I’m on mile three when a phone call interrupts the song playing in my earbuds.
A call from Ross Booker.
“Yeah?” I answer, hoping I sound as annoyed as I feel.
“James, I heard about your teammate’s accident. I’m thinking about extending my tour to the east coast, and I’ll need to make a stop in at one of your games.”
“You’re extending your tour because Colt got hurt?” I ask, incredulously, slowing to a jog.
“Of course not. I was extending the tour through the New Year. But the sports world is having a fucking meltdown about this Colton Crosby bullshit, so it would look bad if I was on that side of the country and didn’t come support my son and his team.”
I groan inwardly. “You don’t have to—”
“It’s not up for debate, Jameson. I was calling to tell you to expect me the weekend after Christmas. I believe you have a game on the thirtieth, correct?”
“Yeah, but—”
“No fucking buts, James. Just have me a seat saved and quit fucking complaining.” With that, my wonderful father hangs up the phone.
I pull up in front of the Winchester’s house at six p.m. on the dot, and my brain is flooded with memories I try to hold back.
Playing tag in the back yard, coloring in Maya’s room, having camp-outs in the tree house.
“You good?” Drew asks from the passenger seat of my Camaro.
I nod. “Yeah…it’s just strange being back here.”
“Wait, this is the same house they lived in when you were a kid?” he asks, taking in the quaint two-story home in a whole new light.
“Yep. He was an assistant coach when he was with my mom. He’s been at St. A’s for a long-ass time.”
“No kidding.”
We make our way to the front door, a couple of other players joining us on the porch as I knock.
Coach opens the door, and a surreal feeling washes over me when I see him in the doorway—like if I turned my head, my mother would be standing over my shoulder, not Drew.
“Boys, welcome,” Coach greets, motioning us inside.
He offers us drinks—water and soft drinks, no beer.
The other players on the team trickle in one-by-one until all twenty-three of us have arrived. The conversation leading up to dinner is somber and hushed; no one is horsing around.
I get up to use the bathroom, but find the one on this level to be occupied. Coach sees me walking away from the locked door.
“You can use the one upstairs, Cap. While you’re up there, will you let Maya know she can come get some food if she wants?”
Caught off guard by his easy familiarity, I nod.
After drying my hands, I stand, staring into the mirror of the upstairs bathroom, trying to dredge up the courage to knock on Maya’s door.
The voices from downstairs get slightly louder as the boys get more comfortable being in Coach’s house. I make my way down the hall—a hall I’ve traversed too many times to count—until I come face to face with Maya’s bedroom door.
I knock gently, shoving my hands in my pockets when Maya’s gorgeous freckled face graces my sight.
“Oh. Hi.” She smiles timidly, leaning on the door frame.
“Hey. Your dad told me to let you know you can come get some dinner if you’re hungry.”
My gaze travels down, taking in her baggy sweatshirt that covers her shorts; her perfect legs on full display.
I force my eyes back up before I let in any more intrusive thoughts, but the sight of her curls in a messy bun, that cute little nose ring, and her glasses doesn’t help stop me from obsessing over her beauty.
“On second thought, stay up here. I’ll bring you a plate,” I say, trying for a humorous tone, but also half serious. The thought of the other guys seeing her like this is maddening.
Maya laughs, not at all oblivious to my inner thoughts. “You’re cute when you’re jealous, Jamie,” she says, pushing past me, her vanilla sent making me weak in the knees.
Before she can get too far, I wrap an arm around her waist and pull her warm body against mine.
“What are you doing?” she asks, breathless. Flustered.
And I drop my arm because I don’t know.
I don’t know what I’m doing. When it comes to her, it’s like the rational part of my brain’s been hijacked.
Yet being in her presence, my brain also quiets. The serenity…it’s addictive.
After a brief, heavy silence, the two of us just staring at one another in the hallway, I follow Maya down the stairs.
Coach lets her go through the line first, before he lets the pack of wild animals that is the St. A Knights touch the food.
I stand back, leaning against the wall, watching Maya not-so-discretely. She puts one taco on her plate. One chicken taco with no toppings, then grabs a bottle of water.
I squint my eyes as she also bypasses the tray of cookies.
She makes her way into the living room to sit on the couch, leaving the tables open for the team to sit at together.
After making my plate, and against my better judgment, I sit myself on the couch beside her.
She scans the room, listening in on different conversations and nibbling at her dinner.
“Not hungry?” I ask, not so subtly.
She looks down, as if recognizing the amount of food on her plate would barely satisfy a small child.
“Not really,” she says, taking another bite, avoiding my questioning gaze.
I’m not sure why her actions are rubbing me the wrong way. She’s allowed to not be hungry. She’s allowed to have a small dinner. So why does the look on her face as she takes these little mouse bites send alarm bells off in my head?
Drew plops down on the couch beside me, his plate overflowing with food.
“How’s it going, Maya?”
“I’m good! How’s your arm?” she asks him, gesturing to his new snake tattoo.
“Oh, it itches like a motherfucker, but it’s healing up well, I think.” He sets his plate to the side, pulling his arm from his hoodie sleeve to show her.
They continue to talk for a little while, and the sound of camaraderie echoes through the house. This may not be as energetic as most of our team dinners, but Coach opening his home to us means something to the guys.
Eventually Maya takes her plate to the trash and heads back up to her room, and—to my utter annoyance—I know I’m not the only one who sneaks a glance at her ass in those little shorts as she ascends the stairs.
Coach addresses the room after everyone finishes their meals, giving us an update on Colt’s recovery timeline, and on the new line schedule.
He’s trying to sound optimistic, but we all know these next weeks without Crosby are going to be absolute hell.