Chapter 3 #2
Grabbing my phone, I use the camera to check for puncture wounds in my shoulder, but it looks like my arm took the brunt of the attack.
I don’t know how I managed to spend more than twenty years of my life in Australia and never get on the wrong side of a dangerous animal, only to be attacked by a house cat within my first month of being back in the States.
It feels like bad karma, and I only wish I knew what I did wrong to deserve it.
Maybe I’ll have to blame it on the several times I’ve had a go at the other starting wing on the team, the one everyone calls Bean.
It happens more than it should, usually when I fly past him in sprints.
He’s fast, but he could be so much faster if he stopped letting me get in his head and hurting his game.
Reckon going forward I should be more helpful than hurtful and hope that saves me from future encounters with wannabe Tasmanian devils.
But that’s easier said than done. I’ve tried to be helpful, and Bean takes it as an insult every time.
“Ready to go?” Moxie asks when he returns far too soon. He picks up a coat rack that must have been the source of the original crash, then flips off the light.
As I follow him out, I can’t help but point out the obvious. “You’re missing your chance, mate.”
Pausing at the end of the hall, he waits until I pass before turning that light off as well. “What chance?”
“With the spitfire who’s using her cat as an excuse to see you.”
He laughs. “Savannah? No.”
“Yeah, mate.”
Flipping off the last light, he leads me outside and shakes his head as he locks the clinic door. “First of all, she’s a client.”
“It’s not like she’s your patient,” I argue.
“Second,” he continues, ignoring me, “I know nothing about her. She could be married for all I know.”
With the way she was looking at him, I’m thinking not.
“And third,” Moxie says as he unlocks his car and slips inside. He waits until I’m in my seat before turning on the car and finishing with, “There’s no way I’m losing the bet this soon in the game.”
“Bet?”
He chuckles as he pulls out of the car park. “Surprised you haven’t heard about it yet. Pretty sure the team’s got bets on the bet.”
My teammates would have to talk to me for me to know what their conversations entail. “Explain,” I say, too curious not to.
“Four of us have agreed to avoid dating for the season, and we’ve been putting money behind it to make sure we follow through. The last single man standing gets the pot.”
Frowning, I look out the window to see where he’s taking us—back toward my flat, thankfully—before turning to him again. “Why would you do that?”
Moxie shrugs. “We all have different reasons. Bean and Tink want to focus on the game. French Roast is doing it to support Bean.”
“And you?”
His jaw tightens. “Like I said, we all have our reasons.”
“So you won’t date your client, even though she clearly has a thing for you?”
He shakes his head. “No, and she doesn’t.”
“No one brings a cat to their pet doctor that many times in a month if they don’t have an ulterior motive,” I point out. “Particularly a beautiful woman who should be spending her Friday nights out having a crack.”
Moxie glances at me, amusement in his expression. “Do you try to sound extra Australian, or is that just how you talk all the time? And you think Savannah’s beautiful?”
I roll my eyes, ignoring his jab and focusing on his second question. “Don’t claim you don’t see what I see.”
“Sure, she’s attractive, but she’s not my type.”
“Because of the bet?” What sort of idiot makes a bet like that anyway?
“Because she’s not…” He stops himself and shakes his head. “Not my type,” he repeats. “But apparently she’s yours.”
I scoff. “Nah. I have no use for an American woman.”
“Says the American.”
“Half.” Eyeing him sideways, I hold back a glare.
Yes, I’m technically American, but I’ll always claim Australia as my true home.
Just like my adoptive parents did soon after we moved there.
And who knows where my real heritage lies?
According to the DNA test I took a few weeks ago, I come from all over, which is part of the reason my parents convinced me to come to California in the first place.
If I can find one of my birth parents, I might get a better idea of where I actually fit in the world. Then Mum and Dad can stop worrying about me and focus on living what’s left of their lives. The less they stress about me, the better.
“Maybe I should join the bet too,” I mutter a few minutes later as Moxie pulls into my complex. “Might as well make some extra bucks while I’m here, and it’ll give me another way to be better than Bean.” I open the door and slip out of the car.
“Logan.”
With a groan, I lean back down and look him in the eyes as I say, “Joking. I promised I’ll behave.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Calling him slower than your nana is behaving?”
“He’s falling short of his potential, and you know it,” I argue with a roll of my eyes. “I’m trying to give him the push he needs.”
“There are nicer ways to do that, you know.”
If I had to guess, Moxie and the coaches have been using those “nicer” methods since the day Bean joined the team.
I’ve seen footage of Bean’s game in the past, and he can play better than he has been these last few weeks.
The season hasn’t started yet, but I intend to help turn this team into a winning one while I’m here.
The Thunder needs the confident Bean of the last couple of seasons, not the self-conscious bloke he is now.
“Nice isn’t working, Mox,” I say, lifting my eyebrows and daring him to contradict me. “Until he pulls his head out of his backside, I’m going to push, and you’re going to live with that because it’ll make him better.”
Exhaling a soft laugh, Moxie shakes his head at me. “Yeah, I’ll admit he’s not playing his best, but you’re not going to do yourself any favors if you keep being so hardheaded. It’s okay to make friends, Logan.”
“Don’t need them.” I shut the door and head to my flat, ignoring a twist in my stomach. I meant it. I don’t need friends. When I’m only here temporarily, I don’t need my teammates to like me as long as they play a good game.
My arm twinges as I unlock my door and step inside, and I glance down at the bandages there.
The scratches along my forearm still sting to an annoying degree, and more than ever I wish I could have stayed home tonight so I could have avoided the pain.
And the distraction. I don’t need to start thinking about fiery women with demon cats any more than I need to make friends.
Who names their cat Beef Wellington? That’s what my mum makes when she wants to come across as more Australian and impress new neighbors.
It’s not what you call a twenty-four-pound ball of fur and claws with no manners.
The spitfire might not be Moxie’s type—he must be blind—but she’s more intriguing than she ought to be.
It’s a good thing I have no reason to see her again.
As I make my way into the kitchen, my phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out to see who’s calling me this late. Mum.
Debating letting it go to voice mail, I hit the answer button. “Hey. You know it’s late here, yeah?”
“Oh, I forgot about the time difference! I’m sorry, Logan!” Mum’s voice is warm and smooth and one of my most favorite sounds on the planet. But I know why she’s calling, and this is not a conversation I want to have tonight. Not when I’m already testy.
“It’s fine.” Opening the fridge, I pretend for half a second that I have anything to eat, then grab a protein shake.
I should go to bed, but I’m starving. The Thunder doesn’t have a nutritionist on staff like I’m used to, and while I can cook the basics, I’ve been spending my mornings trying to track down my birth mum instead of shopping, so my meals have been… lacking.
I reckon that’s why I’m in such a bad mood tonight.
“Well, I won’t keep you for long,” Mum says, “but I wanted to check in and see how things are going. Are you liking California? How’s the team?”
I hear her unspoken question: Have you found your parents yet?
Since any talk about my birth parents will only make my mood worse, I stick to the questions she asked out loud. “California is fine. The team’s fine.”
“You’re having a bad day.” It’s not a question.
This woman raised me, so of course she knows me well enough to judge my mood from a few words. But I wish she didn’t. “Nah, just a long one. Practices are later than I’m used to, but I’ll get in the swing of things soon.” Probably just in time for me to leave.
“Have you made any friends?”
I roll my eyes and settle on the sofa, wishing I’d been a worse son and not answered the phone. “The captain’s decent. You’d like him.”
“But do you like him?”
“I’m not seven anymore, Mum. I don’t need your help making friends.”
She hums, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she was remembering my first rugby practice, when I stood in the corner of the pitch and talked to no one because I was overwhelmed by so many strangers.
Mum arranged a play date of sorts with a few of my teammates, and thankfully I hit it off with them.
We were on teams together for years, all the way until most of them went off to uni and I turned pro, but I’m sure we would have eventually bonded without her intervention.
Most likely.
“Logan,” she says, her tone chiding, “I know how hard it can be for you to settle into a new place. It’s okay if you’re strug—”
“I’m not.” It’s a lie. But if I tell her that I’m spending most of my time alone at home and actively avoiding my teammates because I don’t have the bandwidth for social interactions on top of looking for my birth mum, she’ll fly out here to put her motherly skills to use.
As much as I would love to see her, she needs to be home with my dad while he recovers.
“Mum, I’m glad you called, but I should—”
“Are you eating enough, Logie?”