Chapter 3
I’ve never been more thankful to have forgotten my keys.
I got all the way to my car before I realized they weren’t in my pocket. It was all too perfect to listen to Layla talk to her mom and hear how much she hates the peach-related nicknames. I bet her blood fully boiled when I called her Peaches.
Honestly, it fits her.
Layla always has a sweet smell to her. While not necessarily fruity, she routinely smells of sweetness and makes me want to find out what her skin tastes like. Gobble her up like a peach. See if her center is as warm and supple as I imagine it to be.
It’s a complete coincidence that I have recurring dreams about peaches the rest of the week after my run-in with Layla, and that I add a peach-scented body wash to my grocery order.
I won’t elaborate on how many showers I took either, but it’s hard to look Layla in the eye when we have our first meeting to discuss my meal plan.
“How about we agree that I can plan my own meals, and you tell Coach I’m a team player?
Then we stay out of each other’s way,” I say, my eyes darting everywhere around the conference room, except at her.
Because I can’t look at her. If she catches my gaze, she’ll just know I jacked off a gazillion times to her scent, right?
“I will not lie to the coach, Max,” she says quietly.
“Why not?” I ask belligerently. God, I know I sound like a petulant asshole. “I’m making your life easier. One less athlete to keep track of. You can focus on the young ones who still drink their weight in Coors Light.”
“You’re the only one who is making it difficult, you know.
Everyone else has been a breeze to work with.
Why is that?” Layla’s voice is pleasant and airy.
I’m sure if anyone walked past the wall of windows and looked into the conference room, they’d see Layla looking pristine and poised, whereas I probably look like a jerk with a chip on my shoulder.
“How the hell would I know? Do you give them as much shit as you do me?”
“No, but none of them treat me like you do,” she answers evenly.
“What the hell does that mean?” I ask. “You’re saying that every other guy on this team treats you like a princess or something?”
“No. But they do treat me with respect.”
Wait. What? “You think I don’t respect you?”
Layla cocks her head to the side as she studies me.
“How else would you describe it? You refuse to work with me. You speak poorly of my position to anyone who brings me up. Did you think I didn’t know that?
Multiple people have told me what you think of my job, and of me as a person.
This isn’t a big jump for me to assume you don’t respect me, Max. ”
I’m speechless, and I feel like an absolute idiot.
It’s not that I don’t respect Layla. I don’t know enough about her to say that.
But I’m a stubborn ass, and I don’t like someone coming in with the idea to change everything about my day-to-day life.
Have I really spoken poorly about her to others?
I barely talk to anyone, so where is she getting this information?
“Who told you that I’ve talked about you? ”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes, it does,” I answer with a vehement nod. “I don’t talk to people, Peaches. I don’t have friends here. Well, except maybe Jake Holloway, but I think he’s the kind of guy who forces friendship onto everyone. So I need to know who is talking about me behind my back.”
“Ahh,” she says. “It’s not about me. It’s really about you. Honestly? That tracks.”
Heat crawls up my neck as I roughly scratch at my beard. “That’s … that’s not what I meant. Someone in the Clubhouse is spreading rumors.”
Layla raises a brow at me. “You’re saying you haven’t talked about me?”
“No.” I pause. “I don’t think I have. And you’re saying multiple people have told you this? That’s fucked up. No wonder this club sucks.”
Layla gasps. “Did you speak so poorly about your last team? Or are we just super lucky to have you here in all your glory?”
I throw up my hands in frustration. “You’re misinterpreting my words. When a team has a bad seed, it grows and festers. It slowly takes root, bringing the whole team down. I don’t want to be part of a team that lets this kind of thing happen.”
“You’re the newest on the team, Mr. Callahan,” Layla says coolly, her gaze sharp as she purses her lips at me.
Arms crossed and legs spread apart, she looks calm, but her body almost vibrates with energy.
Me suggesting the team sucks because someone is spreading gossip has really struck a nerve with her.
“Has it occurred to you that you might be the bad seed? Why’d your old team give you the old heave-ho anyway? ”
I sigh. “I don’t know. Are we here to discuss meal plans or something?”
“No.”
“No?” I ask hopefully, wondering if maybe she’ll agree to lie to Coach so we don’t have to work together.
“No. I’m not working with you until you make an actual effort to get to know some of the guys on the team. It’s clear you think you’re better than everyone, but a quick look at your batting average tells me that is definitely not true.” Layla turns away, and my mouth drops open in shock.
“Hey, wait a minute! You seriously can’t be suggesting I have to make friends in order to work with you!”
Glancing over her shoulder, Layla glares at me. “I guess the big dumb fielder can understand simple words.”
I sputter as she strides out of the room. “Wait! Coach said he won’t play me until I get meals figured out! Layla, you can’t do this to me!”
“As a matter of fact, I can do this to you.” Her final words are eclipsed only by the slamming of the conference room door. Did this girl seriously just take me off the roster because of an off-the-cuff comment?
Stunned, I walk slowly back to the locker room, where I find Coach waiting for me.
“Did I stutter when I told you about the nutritionist, Callahan?” he asks, his voice reverberating around the open room.
“No,” I murmur. Humiliation burns my skin. I don’t want to feel like I’ve disrespected any of my teammates. I just don’t understand how rumors have been spread about my opinions when no one here knows about them. Or, at least, I don’t think anyone does.
“Fix this,” Coach growls. “Until then, you’re off the roster.”
“How will you explain this to the media?” I ask.
“I’ll put it as a hamstring strain, and list you as day-to-day. But you need to fix this. Layla is an excellent addition to the team, and I won’t have the start of the season marred by your shitty choices.”
“Why not just put it as personal reasons instead of a strain?” I wonder.
Coach’s eyes narrow. “Because I still expect you to travel with the team, Callahan. That’ll give you ample opportunities to grovel with Layla.”
A wave of nausea overtakes me. “She’s traveling with us, too?”
He rolls his eyes. “Of course she is, dummy. How do you think she’s going to feed everyone during away trips?”
“Meal deliveries,” I answer weakly with a one-shoulder shrug. Jesus Christ. Layla is traveling with the team. I’m never going to get a moment of relaxation knowing she’s right there.
And worse, I don’t know how I’m supposed to grovel, because I’ve never had to do it before.
“I’m totally stoked you called me to ask me out for a beer, man,” Jake says cheerfully.
His foot taps incessantly against the barstool step, and it makes me wonder if he’s ever been diagnosed with ADHD.
The kid is moving a part of his body nonstop.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I told some of the guys where we’re at. ”
Warning bells ding in the back of my mind. “Some of the guys?”
“Yeah.”
“How many?”
Jake shrugs nonchalantly. “I mentioned it to Marcus Delgado and Alberto Hernandez, and then Dante Russo overheard and told Anthony Cabrera. I think Rafael Torres and Luis Mendoza were in a group text about it as well. Ryder Sullivan and Jackson Archer said they might stop by as well.”
“Dude, that’s half the fucking team.”
“Honestly, I don’t know if it’s more to see if I lied about this, or if they’re intrigued with seeing if you actually showed up.” Jake gives me a lopsided grin as he takes a long pull of his bottleneck beer. “You cool if we get some appetizers? I bet everyone is as hungry as I am.”
Christ almighty. This is going to be a damn disaster.
“So,” Jake says, “why’d you ask me out?”
“You make it sound like a date,” I mutter.
“I’m a hell of a catch, just so you know,” he jokes. “You don’t exactly give off the gay vibe, so I kinda figured it wasn’t a real date.”
Well, color me intrigued. “Is it alright if I ask you this? Are you gay?”
He shrugs again. “I don’t have a specific flavor. I’m more attracted to a person’s soul.”
“I’ve never heard this about you. Is it widely known?” I ask.
“I don’t hide it. But I also don’t go around shouting that I’m more fluid about sexuality. If someone comes right out to ask me, I don’t lie. But I’ll always protect my partner, if they prefer to keep our relationship a little further in the closet.”
“Huh,” I murmur. “Good to know.”
“So,” Jake says, lightly slapping the bar top. “Why are we here?”
As I’m about to dive into the utmost humiliating discussion about why I’ve been removed from the team roster for our Opening Day series in Chicago, Delgado, Hernandez, and Russo walk through the front door of Putters.
During my time at Bridge Point, I had my favorite haunts where I knew I could enjoy a meal or drink with anonymity.
In Denver, however, it seems the entire team uses one location for their enjoyment: a hole-in-the-wall sports bar called Putters.
Sports memorabilia covers the wall-to-wall wood paneling, and at least a dozen large televisions hang from the ceiling throughout the space.
A back wall is reserved for darts, and the tables are all green.
There’s even a faux putting green hanging over the large bar, right in the middle of the restaurant.
Typical bar food, which I like. The greasier the better.