Chapter 5
I hate dating apps. Despise them. Unfortunately, in my line of work, the best way to get sexual needs met is sometimes anonymously through dating apps.
I know there are more upscale and selective apps, meant for celebrities and sports professionals, but it’s still a crapshoot to me.
Any woman on that app, especially, is only there to meet a celebrity. I fucking hate that.
So, when I found Kale Kween, I was pleasantly surprised at how naturally our conversation flowed.
Yeah, it got sexual incredibly quickly, but that’s the whole point.
I’m not trying to find a commitment here, especially a two-hour flight from where I live.
I know I’m tightly wound up right now, and some good sex will alleviate some of that tension.
Unfortunately, our sexting seems to have only heightened my need, and I roll into Opening Day two seconds away from fully snapping.
“What the fuck is this?” I hiss, looking down at my boxed lunch that the nutritionist prepared for me.
“Your lunch. See? It has your name on it. M - A - X,” Layla says slowly, pointing to the letters of my name. “You can read, right? Should I slow it down a little bit?”
Growling, I glare murderously at her. “This is not the meal I requested.”
She shrugs. “Coach said I could give you whatever I wanted.”
“And what exactly is this?” I ask, looking down into the cardboard to-go container. “And why is it so fucking green?”
“God, you’re such a child,” she whispers with an eye roll. “It’s grilled chicken in a pesto sauce, a side of whole wheat pasta in the same pesto sauce, and sautéed veggies.”
“Oh, couldn’t cover those in pesto as well? Totally understand. That would have been overkill,” I snap sarcastically. My stomach groans, angry as it realizes the usual fried chicken I’d eat before each game may never show back up if Layla keeps this job.
“The vegetables are seasoned a ton. Trust me, you don’t need pesto on those,” she says with a light giggle.
“I don’t need pesto on any of this shit,” I reply angrily, dropping the container onto the table. Placing both hands on the surface, I lean toward Layla and lower my voice. “I want my regular meal.”
Her eyes narrow as she mimics my posture. “Well, that’s too damn bad, Old Man. Coach said you’re not playing until you get on my meal program. How important is fried chicken to you? Enough to end your career over? Or is this just because you hate me?”
Hate her? That’s an odd choice of words. “I don’t hate you, Layla. I don’t know you. But I also don’t like someone crashing into my life and expecting me to change all kinds of things about my expectations. I’ve been in the Majors for over a decade, and fried chicken treated me just fine.”
There’s a flash of relief in her eyes as she registers my words, but then she schools her expression, putting up shutters that hide her thoughts from me.
For that brief moment, I saw a different Layla.
It makes me wonder who messed with her head that made her immediately jump to questioning if I hate her.
Layla straightens her posture, popping her shoulders back as she raises her chin to look at me defiantly.
“Just because you’ve eaten it, doesn’t mean it’s been working.
And you can’t compare what you ate as a twenty-five-year old to what you do now.
Your body changes. Your metabolism slows down, and you have to start making healthier choices.
How about before you toss that meal, you at least try it?
I’m telling you that you’re going to be surprised. The flavor explodes on your tongue.”
Somehow, my eyes drift down, and I lock on one of Layla’s hands, resting idly on her upper thigh. A fingernail scratches back and forth against her uniform pants, and I immediately think about how I’d like her flavor to explode on my tongue. Jesus Christ. I need to get laid.
“Are you okay?” she whispers, and my eyes whip up to find hers studying me. “You zoned out there for a good minute or two.”
“Shit. Sorry,” I tell her sheepishly, feeling an awkward smile grace my face. I bet I look constipated and angry instead of embarrassed. While I don’t avoid smiling, it’s not something that comes naturally to me. “I, uh, didn’t sleep well last night. I guess I’m more tired than I thought.”
“Oh, okay,” she murmurs, her head swiveling to look around. Stooping down, she rummages through a box under the table, then stands up again. “Here. These are my favorite electrolyte products. There are a couple of different flavors, so see if you like any of them. Just add them to water and shake.”
“I do know what an electrolyte is,” I remark dryly. “Career in sports. Remember?”
“Oh. Um. Yep,” she says cheerfully, but a light pink color stains her cheeks beautifully. “You just seemed out of it, so I wasn’t sure.”
“I seemed out of it.”
“You did. You were staring, and you didn’t blink once. And honestly, since it seemed like you maybe were staring at my …” she leans in, lowering her voice, “… my nether regions, it was highly inappropriate.”
Now it’s my turn to blush. Jesus, I stared at her pussy long enough that she noticed? Fucking hell. “Sorry. I guess I did zone out. I wasn’t staring at … well, I wasn’t staring. Not purposely. I need to go.”
“Okay,” she whispers, her eyes wide. More silver than blue today. My mind zings off to another inappropriate place, wondering what color her eyes are when she comes. “Max, you’re doing it again.”
“Fuck me,” I croak, dragging a hand down my face. “I’m really sorry. I need a pre-game nap.”
“Coach said if he sees you eat that, he’ll consider putting you on the lineup.
” Some of Layla’s bravado comes back as she straightens her posture and clears her throat.
“So don’t run back to your room, intent on throwing it out and ordering whatever you want.
Either Coach or someone has to see you eat it. ”
“God,” I groan. “I’m getting treated like a child.”
Slinking over to the nearest table, I slam down into the chair.
“Yeah,” Layla calls out, laughter in her voice. “You’re totally not acting like a child right now.”
I huff heavily as I pull out the fork attached to the box.
Bending down, I take a whiff and don’t find the entire mixture to smell abhorrent.
I let out an amused murmur as I poke each of the vegetables with the fork, surprised to find them mostly soft.
I hate raw vegetables, even with a dip. Gnawing on a carrot just isn’t for me.
But when one of the carrots here seems to almost disintegrate as I push my fork into it, I quickly shovel it into my mouth.
And, just as Layla says, the flavor bursts on my tongue.
Christ Almighty, it is so damn good. I detect a little bit of pepper, garlic, and maybe some thyme on the carrots.
It isn’t overpowering, and the spices work together to accentuate the carrot instead of blurring it completely.
Cutting a piece of the pesto chicken, I legitimately moan when it hits my taste buds. I’m lost in a whirling maze of flavor combinations I’ve never thought about, and I inhale the food in record time. Only when I’m scraping the bottom of the box do I realize I’ve attracted an audience.
Looking up, I find Coach, Jake, Ryder, and Alberto watching me with varying stages of laughter.
Off to the side, I see Layla grinning smugly at me, but there’s also excitement in her eyes.
Like she can’t wait to see what else she might get me to eat.
Challenge accepted, Peaches. As far as I’m concerned, this is a one-time thing.
“Alright,” I finally say. “This’ll do for a pre-game meal. But that’s it. Nothing else.”
“Why?” she asks belligerently. “I can do so many things with chicken. Salmon is a great alternative too, and I haven’t even introduced you to the wonder of cauliflower rice —”
“Absolutely not,” I interrupt. “No cauliflower rice. Regular rice. Brown rice even. Don’t you dare try to grind up a vegetable and tell me it’s something else. Now, can I play tonight?”
Coach smiles victoriously. “Never took you out of the lineup. Just figured I needed to light a fire under your ass to take your health seriously.”
I turn to Layla, raising a brow at her. “Did you know this?”
Her smug smile returns. “I did.”
“Fantastic,” I mutter, grabbing my things. “Well played, Peaches.”
“Have a good nap, Sunshine,” she calls out as I walk out of the room.
I have a great nap.
And a phenomenal game.
It might be the best Opening Day game I’ve ever had.
I went three-for-five, two RBIs, and a double.
We won the game in convincing fashion, which is apparently a rarity in Colorado.
I guess the Raptors don’t win Opening Day very often.
I would have liked a home run, but I’m happy with my stats for the game.
In the back of my mind, however, I’m wondering if it was Layla’s damn meal that did it. Or was it the nap? Luck? Coincidence? Who knows.
Once I’m back in my hotel room, too keyed up to go to sleep, I message Kale Kween to see if she wants to meet up. It’s true what they say about athletes and endorphins after games. I need a release, and a woman who will let me take control.
Me: I’ve had an excellent day in Chicago, and I’m really hoping to end the day with someone. You game?
Kale Kween: After our convo last night, do you really think I’d say no? I’ve been on edge the entire day thanks to your filthy mouth playing in repeat on my mind.
Me: Oh yeah?
Kale Kween: Yeah. So where should we meet?
Me: Would it be crass if we met at a hotel? Away from downtown. It’ll be a little quieter. I don’t want to run into someone who knows me.
Kale Kween: You have that happen often?
Me: Often enough that I don’t want it to happen as I’m trying to get a woman into a hotel room.
Kale Kween: Send me an address.
Fuck yes.