Chapter 14
Logan
Moxie:
How did things go with Savannah last week? And don’t pretend you’re too busy to answer. I know you’re sitting in the parking lot.
As soon as I read Moxie’s text, I look up and try to find him among the sea of cars outside the Thunder facility.
A couple of the lads are heading inside for Monday night’s practice, but I don’t see Moxie.
Granted, I’ve been scrolling on my phone for the last ten minutes, so it’s not hard to believe I missed him walking past my car.
Or he’s starting to know me a little too well.
I’m not supposed to be here—courtesy of my suspension—but at least Moxie didn’t tell me to get off the property. If I play my cards right, he might let me come inside and watch the practice, but I’ll have to be careful.
Logan:
Apologized. Helped her with an event. Told her she can use my kitchen for her business.
I chuckle as I think back to the way she punched me in the arm when I impulsively offered my kitchen after leaving the event on Friday.
Not sure if it was excitement or disbelief that prompted her violent response, but she immediately apologized and accepted my offer with a lot less hesitation than I expected.
She’s a stubborn thing, but something’s been different the last few days. Since her networking event, she’s been warmer than ever.
So have I.
My phone buzzes with another text from Moxie.
Moxie:
Your kitchen?
Logan:
Beef Wellington is a health code citation waiting to happen.
Moxie:
So you’re letting her do her food prep at your apartment?
Logan:
What’s hard to understand about this?
I had to help Savannah drag all sorts of food and supplies from her car to my kitchen this morning so she could prep for her other clients as well as for me, but she was so happy to have more space that I didn’t mind.
Not even when she bemoaned my lack of proper tools and appliances.
In fact, I made a note of anything she was missing and added it to an online shopping cart to be delivered tomorrow so she doesn’t have to take things out of her own kitchen.
A knock on my window makes me jump, and I look over to find Moxie frowning at me. What’s his problem?
I hit the button to roll the window down. “G’day, Mox.”
“Your kitchen?”
I lift an eyebrow. “You asked that already.”
“Right.” He furrows his brow, looking as confused as I feel. “And an event? What kind of event?”
“Some networking thing she was a part of. Didn’t pay much attention to the details. Why are you—”
He opens my door, silently telling me to get out of the car. Once I’m on the pavement and facing him, he folds his arms and studies me carefully. “You’re actually doing it. Changing your ways and fixing things. Just like that?”
I match his stance, folding my own arms and hoping I don’t internalize his shock in a bad way. With how I’ve been behaving before now, he’s allowed to be surprised, and I don’t have to let it bother me. “I said I would.”
He grunts, still giving me an examining look, and then he glances at the practice facility and grimaces. “That’s great that you’re helping Savannah, but you’re still suspended.”
“Well aware, mate.” I gesture to the two coolers full of ingredients sitting on my backseat. “Sav’s cooking for the team tonight, but she had a client meeting this afternoon and won’t have time to go back to my place for all of this.”
“Oh.” Moxie runs a hand through his curly hair as he stares at the coolers. Apparently this is taking him some time to process. “Did something happen between the two of you?”
I bristle at that. “You think the only reason I’d help her is because I got some action?”
“Dude.” He’s glaring now, and I’m keen to glare in return. “That’s not what I meant.”
“And that’s not what happened,” I growl back. I spent a lot of time with Savannah over the weekend, but she was working most of it. I’ve never seen her not working, and while my attraction hasn’t dimmed, I’ve thrown my energy toward coming up with ways to get her a break now and then.
So far, I’ve come up blank, but I’ll figure it out.
“You should get all that inside,” Moxie says with a quick shake of his head, like he’s trying to get his thoughts to fall into place.
I glance at the coolers. “Mel will kill me if she sees me carrying one of those.” Honestly, getting them to the car in the first place was rough, and my shoulder is still aching.
“Yeah,” Moxie agrees with a grimace. “How about we split one and come back for the other.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be leading practice?” Not that I really want to turn down his offer.
Opening the back door, Moxie hauls the first cooler out and sets it on the ground between us with more ease than I’d like. I remind myself that he didn’t sprain his shoulder. “You need help,” he says with a shrug.
The team also needs their captain. Coach is good at his job, but it’s Moxie who holds everything together. “I’ll grab a cart or something,” I tell him.
“Nah. Grab your side.”
I’ll stop arguing. Lifting one handle, I follow Moxie toward the facility and silently hope we don’t run into any of the Thunder.
They were all too happy when I got suspended, and I can’t imagine they’ll be thrilled to see me here.
There are always some stragglers, but hopefully most of them are already—
“Hey, French!” Moxie shouts, pulling my attention to the left, where two players are heading our way. “Bean!”
I groan, knowing what he’s about to say to them. “Couldn’t have been anyone else?” I mutter under my breath.
Moxie chuckles—apparently he heard my question—and lowers the cooler to the pavement. “You still have to be nice while under suspension.”
“Tell that to the string bean,” I grumble.
“What’s the hero doing here?” Bean asks, glaring at me.
“Do us a favor and grab the other cooler from Logan’s car,” Moxie says.
French Roast doesn’t look much happier to see me than his friend, but he nods and looks back the way we came. “The black Audi, yeah?”
I grit my teeth and grunt in acknowledgment.
“And here I thought I only had one diva to worry about today,” Bean says with a roll of his eyes. But he follows French across the car park anyway, his shoulders tight with tension.
I should probably check my tires when I get back to my car, just in case they’re no longer intact.
Moxie grabs the cooler’s handle again. “Come on.”
We walk in silence for a minute, but once we get inside the building, I can’t hold back the question that seems to crawl out of my throat. “He really hates me, doesn’t he?”
Moxie chuckles. “You haven’t given him a lot of reasons to like you.”
“I’ve been trying to help him.”
“I doubt he sees it that way.”
Because Bean and I play the same position, I know how much work goes into every match and how much pressure there can be.
The Thunder won their match on Friday, but only because of a solid forward kick from the scrum-half that led to a try from one of the centers.
Bean didn’t get anywhere close to scoring, and from what I could tell by watching replays of the match, his heart wasn’t in it.
He’s had far better plays in practice than what he delivered last weekend.
When talking to Blaze at the high school, I realized I can’t help anyone if I don’t know the real pain point.
Moxie reinforced that idea last week when he asked what the real cause of my anger was.
Without knowing anything about Bean or his life, I’ve just been poking at his sore spots instead of offering solutions.
No better time than the present to learn who he is beneath the gusty personality.
“Who’s the other diva?” I ask, glancing behind me to make sure Bean and French haven’t caught up to us.
“Hmm?” Moxie follows my gaze. “Oh, someone he’s working with, I think.”
“What does he do for work?”
“Music. He’s a producer.”
I nearly drop the cooler and have to scramble to adjust my hold. “Yeah?”
That gets a laugh out of Moxie. He opens the door to the small kitchen area and leads the way inside. “You don’t know anything about your team, do you?”
They’re not my team. Those words sit on my tongue, waiting to be said, but they don’t taste right.
I may only be with the Thunder temporarily, but they are my team.
I’m finally starting to recognize that. “Reckon I don’t,” I mutter.
Moxie’s the only one I can say I’ve had a whole conversation with, and that’s mostly because he does all the talking. None of the rest of them try.
Can’t say that I blame them.
After we set the cooler on the floor near the fridge, Moxie gives me a long, searching look that seems to confuse him.
Before he can say anything, Bean and French shuffle into the room with the second cooler between them.
Neither man looks at me as they place it next to the first, which wouldn’t have bothered me a week ago.
It bothers me now.
“Hey,” I say before they slip out the door. “Thanks. I couldn’t have brought that in on my own.”
French Roast offers a nod, but Bean stares at me like I’ve spoken nonsense. I’ve been prickly, yeah, but is gratitude so far from his expectations that he thinks he misheard me? I can imagine the laughter in Savannah’s eyes if I were to ask her that question.
No matter how hard I try to keep her at arm’s length, she sees right through me and knows exactly who I am, and that’s almost as terrifying as the notion of having an actual conversation with Lola.
Ever since that moment I got my first look at the woman who gave me life then gave me up, something has felt out of place inside me. A piece of my soul has been knocked loose, making it harder to breathe properly. It hurts less when Savannah’s around, but when I’m on my own…
I nod at French, then look Bean in the eyes as I resist the urge to try to rub the pain out of my chest. “Have a good practice, mate. We need a solid wing out there while I’m benched.”
He clenches his jaw, hands curling into fists as he takes a stiff step back. Being this tense isn’t going to do him any favors during practice, and he’s likely to get himself hurt if he doesn’t loosen up. “Sorry I’m not up to snuff, Hero,” he grumbles. “We can’t all be you.”
“Not what I meant,” I snap, then take a breath before my frustration gets the better of me. Soften my tone. “I meant I’m glad you’re out there.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Wyatt,” Moxie says firmly and fixes a hard stare on Bean. “You good, man?”
“Peachy.” He shoves past French and into the hall.
What’s his problem? It’s getting worse, whatever it is. “I really meant that,” I mutter.
“I know,” Moxie replies.
“Did you?” French asks, his skeptical expression more open than it was before. He might believe me today if I say yes.
I run a hand through my hair. “Yeah. He’s got talent. When he uses it.” Sighing, I open the first cooler and try to figure out where I need to put everything.
“Mox?” French waits until Moxie steps closer to him, and he drops his voice low.
But not low enough that I can’t hear him, so I pretend not to listen as I start loading food into the fridge.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with him. Something happened at the studio with one of the artists, but he won’t tell me about it. ”
“Keep trying to get him to talk,” Moxie says. Worry colors his tone. “Logan’s right, and we need him. Whatever it is, he’s not handling it well, and I’m worried about him.”
“He won’t listen to me. Not when I’m…” French trails off, and when I glance at him, he’s pinching the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed. “You know how he gets.”
“Yeah.” Moxie sighs, suddenly looking exhausted.
But it only lasts a second before he’s standing straight and smiling.
“We’d better get to practice. Logan?” He claps a hand on my shoulder as French Roast heads out.
“You’re welcome to hang out on the sidelines and watch, as long as you keep your ‘helpful tips’ to yourself.
” He uses air quotes when talking about my tips and gives me a warning look, then follows French.
Anything I say to Bean won’t be taken well, genuinely helpful or not, but I appreciate Moxie’s willingness to let me stay.
Coach may have a different opinion, but it’ll be nice to have a wider perspective and see how the team works as a whole.
The Thunder are scraping out wins by the skin of their teeth, and there has to be a way to get them back to a championship team like they were last year.
Maybe I’ll see something I can pass on to Moxie or Coach.
I get Savannah’s supplies situated first, and then I head out to the pitch and find a seat in the bleachers, high enough to have a decent view of what’s happening below. Right as I sit down, my phone buzzes with a text, and I grin as I read the words on my screen.
Savannah:
Moxie just texted me to ask if you’re actually letting me use your kitchen. Why didn’t he believe you?
Logan:
He must think it’s beneath me to be altruistic.
Savannah:
Guess I’m not the only one who’s convinced you think too highly of yourself. *tongue out emoji*
Logan:
Is my opinion wrong?
Savannah:
I REALLY wish I could say yes.
I snort a laugh, feeling the unspoken praise settle warm in my chest. For years, the media have showered me with well-deserved accolades as I’ve helped my Aussie team stay ranked among the best in the world, but no journalist has ever warmed me to the core the way Savannah has.
Praise from her is pure sunlight after a storm.
Savannah texts again, changing the subject before I can come up with a response to her last message.
Savannah:
Did you get everything to the Thunder facility okay? I’m on my way there now.
Logan:
I’ve got you covered, Spitfire, don’t you worry.
Savannah:
Are you still there?
Logan:
Why? Need your incredibly helpful assistant?
Savannah:
I’m not letting you anywhere near my food, or your teammates might be afraid to eat it.
That loose piece of soul inside me juts out a little farther, and I rub my chest as if that might push it back into place.
Savannah Blair might be starting to like me, but it appears I have a long way to go if I want to turn her ‘maybe’ into a sure thing.
As much as I shouldn’t want her to like me, I do.
And I might want a little more than just like.
Logan:
Then I guess I’ll have to settle for being a spectator like I was this weekend.
Fine by me. I’m getting fond of that view.