Chapter 7
I had to get the hell out of there.
Kale Kween is Layla. Layla is Kale Kween.
What are the fucking chances? I mean, knowing Layla’s job, her affinity for all things healthy, and the fact that she was in Chicago for business, I guess I should have put two and two together earlier than I did.
But the sex … Jesus, the sex. Mind-blowing. Spectacular. Awesome. Pick any adjective and shove it in here. Layla was so damn responsive. I doubt she even knows half the sounds she makes.
I should have left the minute I realized it was her. I know that. But I simply couldn’t. I had a taste of her, and I had to get more. She might be the only drug I’ll ever crave.
I want to stare at her. Watch her every move.
Learn all the things. But I know she hates me, and when she finds out I realized it was her and still fucked her?
There’s no chance for me. Yet I’m still drawn to her.
Maybe that’s why we’ve argued so much. I’ve known the heat was there, right under the surface, dangerously close to erupting.
I’m not busy tonight. I’m half tempted to message her again and tell her I can meet up. Maybe the sex was so good I need it again, and then it’ll be out of my system.
But I know this has disaster written all over it.
I’m pretty sure one of the guys mentioned that there are rules for team employees anyway, and they could risk termination if they’re caught canoodling with players.
Knowing how Coach feels about me, though, makes me think he’d trade me and keep Layla.
I’ve got one year left on my contract, and I’m not ready to think about moving on or retiring yet.
Layla Holmes will only cause trouble in my life, and I need to move on, even if my body seems rooted in the pull to throw her over my shoulder and make a run for it.
I got a home run.
Coincidence, right?
No chance it’s related to Layla. Or her food.
I think.
“Man, that was a doozy,” Jake says, smiling at me in the locker room after the game. “About hit it out of the ballpark. Absolute beauty.”
There are times when a home run does qualify as beautiful.
Sometimes it just barely makes it over the wall or misses the foul ball line by inches.
But times like tonight, when it’s smooth as it sails straight through the center, and the crystal clear smack of the ball against the bat, are when it’s plain beautiful.
“When’s the last time you got a homer like that?” Nathan Bennett, a rookie first baseman, asks.
I stop what I’m doing to think. I’ve never been one to brag about statistics, but I’ve always had a good track record with home runs.
But tonight, I honestly can’t remember the last time I had a homer as good as this one.
“I can’t remember one like that. Could be it has slipped my mind, or maybe it’s never happened to me before. ”
“You didn’t get any homers after your trade. Did you know that?” Ryder comments.
“You keeping tabs on his stats, Sully?” Jake teases.
“I like data. I heard Coach say you hadn’t homered since you were traded from Bridge Point.”
Damn. “I guess I hadn’t realized.”
“Kinda interesting, considering our ballpark is known for how easy it is to hit a home run,” Jake says casually. “Dozens of games in Denver, and you didn’t hit one until you were forced onto a high-protein diet. I’m sure you’ll say it’s a coincidence.”
I roll my eyes as I unbutton my uniform jersey. “Really stretching the reasoning there, Holloway. No way is it due to a couple of healthy meals.”
No, it’s much more likely that it’s due to the beautiful vixen who blew my mind last night. And it is a coincidence that she’s responsible for the healthy meals. God, this is so fucked up.
The following day, after we lost the game to Chicago to end the series at two-to-one, we are back on the airplane and headed to Dallas. Three more games there, and we’ll finally be back in Denver to have our home opener.
I’m interested to see how Denver does Opening Day.
Bridge Point was always fun. Much more of a family atmosphere, but still a great time.
I have a college friend who plays for Cincinnati, and he can’t stop talking about how it’s basically a city-wide holiday there.
Of course, Cincinnati is basically the birthplace of professional baseball, so it has a long history of Opening Day activities.
I recline my seat to almost flat, laying my baseball hat over my eyes. It’s dark outside, but ambient light from the airplane interior, plus a multitude of people around me on devices, means I can’t get the shut-eye I need. It’s a two-hour flight to Dallas, and I hope to sleep at least one of them.
When someone unceremoniously slams down in the seat next to me, I groan. I just know it’s Holloway. “Seriously, Jake? Can’t you find someone else to bother right now? Old men need their sleep.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Sunshine, but I want to go over your meals for this series,” Layla says smoothly.
I launch into a sitting position, then attempt to bring the seat upright. I hit every incorrect button, somehow manage to call the flight attendant, then awkwardly watch as the seat slowly inclines. “Sorry. I assumed you were Holloway.”
“He’s asleep.”
“Of course he is,” I mutter, irritated. The kid could fall asleep against a rock, and only seems to be wide awake when I’m exhausted. Then he’s like a six-year-old who chugged a can of Mountain Dew.
“Are you actually mad that your teammate is asleep?” Layla asks incredulously, her expression one of disbelief with a tiny bit of disgust thrown in.
“I’m not mad he’s asleep, although it does piss me off how easily he falls asleep.”
“I take it you don’t go unconscious as soon as your head hits the pillow?”
I shake my head. “Ten or fifteen years ago, maybe. Not now.”
“Ahh,” she says with a laugh. “It’s tough being so old.”
“I guess that means you fall asleep like Holloway.”
Layla nods. “Doesn’t matter where I am. I can always manage to turn my brain off. It’s possibly one of my favorite things about myself.”
I open my mouth to reply, intending to tell her how fast she fell asleep after we’d fucked, then slam my lips shut.
Jesus. Admitting that on an airplane, seven or eight miles in the air, where I’m sequestered with the entire coaching staff, would end so fucking badly.
I have got to get this woman out of my mind.
“What did you want to discuss about the menu?”
Layla winces slightly, clearly noting my quick shift in demeanor and icy tone. “A couple of questions, mostly. Are you allergic to anything?”
“No.”
“Are there any specific deal-breakers that you absolutely will not touch? It can be anything, really. Chicken thighs, ostrich eggs, roasted beets …”
“Are ostrich eggs really going to show up one morning?” I ask, my brows raised so far they probably blend in with my hairline. “I’ll admit, I’ve never had one, but it weirds me out thinking about how big they are.”
Layla’s lips twitch as she fails to hide a smile. “One ostrich egg is equivalent to close to two dozen chicken eggs, so I highly doubt I’ll be whipping out a ton of ostrich egg scrambles for the team. It was just an example.”
“Two dozen? Huh,” I answer. “I could probably eat that. Is the taste the same?”
“Not exactly, no. The texture is different as well.” Her tone has changed, and it occurs to me that maybe Layla is the one with the aversion to a food.
“You don’t like ostrich eggs, do you?” I can’t help the wide grin that breaks across my face. Layla has taken such joy in making me uncomfortable with this healthy eating bullshit, and now I’ve found something she won’t eat.
Her face screws up in disgust. “No, I think they’re awful. It’s like eating pudding! I don’t want my eggs to be sweet and so gooey they almost fall off the fork. Do you have any idea how long it takes to hard-boil one of those bastards? I’ve got better things to do, thank you very much!”
“Why would anyone want to hard-boil a massive egg? Did someone make you do that?” I ask.
“A jerk from a previous team. I know he was just being a brat about it, because he didn’t even touch the damn thing. He just liked making me miserable.”
Fully alert, I watch her carefully. “Was this another baseball team?”
She nods slowly.
“Who was it?” I ask, my voice far deeper than I intend. I don’t know why it makes me furious, but it does. No one should be able to fuck around with Layla like that.
Her mouth drops open. “Why? You planning to go fight for my honor or something? Besides, it doesn’t matter. I don’t think he’s on the team anymore.”
“Traded?” I whip out my phone and go to LinkedIn. Typing in Layla’s name, I find her profile. “You worked for Baltimore and Atlanta before you came to the Raptors. Which team was the guy on?”
“I’m not telling you anything else,” she says hurriedly. “You’ve got a crazy look in your eyes, and I refuse to take part in whatever shenanigans you may come up with.”
“Shenanigans? Come on, Peaches,” I cajole her, grinning wickedly. “I think we can come up with a better label than that.”
“Nope.” Layla jumps up, scooting past me. “I’m not taking part in this. You’re acting like a child. I’ve left it all in the past, and there’s no reason you should be digging it back up.”
I grab her wrist before she can bolt down the aisle. “Wait! I thought we were discussing food?”
“You’ll get what you get, and you’ll like it,” she snaps, flouncing away dramatically.
Looking back at my phone, I swipe out of LinkedIn. I should let it go. Not stick my nose where she’s been very clear I need to avoid.
But that’s not really my style.