Chapter 8
I’m subdued the majority of the time in Dallas.
All of my interactions with Max have thrown me for a loop.
He seemed so angry about Javier Morales, and I don’t truly understand why.
All I mentioned was an ostrich egg, and Max homed in on it so quickly, immediately recognizing there was more to the story.
I can only hope he never finds out.
I was brand new to Atlanta, and Javier flirted with me relentlessly.
Like every team in the League, there are strict fraternization rules about staff and players, but Javier didn’t care.
He’d approach me often, begging me to spend one night with him.
I always turned him down, citing the contract I signed, but it only seemed to fuel him even more.
A few years my senior, Javier was gorgeous.
He knew how to bat his dark brown eyes at women, thickening his accent when he wanted to sound especially sexy.
He’d lived in the US for close to fifteen years, moving to Miami specifically for baseball, and at times his accent was almost nonexistent.
I’d recognized he’d make it sound more prevalent when he was really trying to gain a female’s attention.
It worked often enough, but he took offense to me not giving in.
After a full season of Javier badgering me about sleeping with him, I finally approached our Human Resources manager about it.
I loved my job. Loved living in Atlanta and was incredibly fond of the bond I’d built with the players.
I wanted to stay there, but I knew I couldn’t take another season of Javier constantly harassing me.
Instead of anything being done in my favor, the coach and Javier were told about my report.
Javier cornered me as I was entering my hotel room, barging in behind me.
He called me every nasty name he could think of, including some in Spanish that I chose not to Google.
He forced me onto the bed, unceremoniously ripped off my pants, and proceeded to rape me.
He covered my head with a pillow so I couldn’t scream, and held my hands behind my back. I guess I’m lucky I could even breathe.
Afterward, he smiled creepily at me and told me it was my own fault.
He didn’t like bad girls. They had to be taught a lesson.
If I’d just said yes months ago, I would have enjoyed it.
He then waltzed out of my hotel room, whistling.
The way he’d snarled that I was a bad girl …
it’s why I have a visceral reaction to the term now.
Before then, I could have laughed at being called a bad girl.
Found it humorous or silly. Javier made me feel disgusting.
I doubted myself. Maybe it truly was my fault.
There is nothing more humiliating than trying to find a pharmacy in a different town, grabbing a Plan B, and having to think about tests for sexually transmitted diseases.
I didn’t tell a soul, not even my mother.
I felt humiliated. Dirty. Horrified. I was tempted to quit my job with the team, but with student loans eating away at my income each month, I knew I couldn’t go more than a month without a steady job.
Heading into the offseason, I was thankful Atlanta didn’t make it into the playoffs, and I hoped I’d be able to avoid interacting with Javier while I searched for a new job.
No such luck.
While a lot of players head to their hometowns during the winter months, Javier stayed in Atlanta.
He proceeded to make my life miserable. He requested an entirely new dietary plan focusing on new proteins, needed weekly meetings to go over everything he ingested, and daily meetings to handle his supplements.
Javier claimed he couldn’t “remember” how to take his supplements correctly, and requested I hand-deliver them every morning.
The stupid ostrich egg was when he expected I’d cook them in multiple ways, in his home, showing him how to replicate it on his own time.
When I asked the Coach for a reprieve, he got an attitude with me and threatened to fire me on the spot.
The morning that he answered the door completely naked was the morning I decided to quit.
Conveniently, it’s also the morning I received an interview from Baltimore.
While I didn’t know if I’d get the job, I couldn’t stay on with Atlanta.
Thankfully, Baltimore offered me the position the following day, and I took it immediately.
I considered leaving without ever speaking to the HR team in Atlanta, but decided to file one last report about every single thing that happened with Javier over the previous year.
On the off chance that anyone else would be hurt by Javier and come forward, I wanted there to be evidence that not only had he violated me, but the Atlanta HR department and management team had both completely ignored it.
Finally, I went to the Atlanta police, who bluntly told me I didn’t have any evidence, and if I moved forward with any charges, I’d be obliterated in the press. On that wonderfully optimistic note, I hightailed it out of Atlanta.
I don’t know if my report is why Javier was traded to Houston not too long after that, but I felt that the timing was too close to be coincidental. When he wouldn’t stop blowing up my phone, I changed my number, and blissfully lived peacefully.
Until now.
Javier was out most of last season with an ACL tear that required surgery, and he didn’t travel with the team when they played Baltimore. But Max is right. We play Houston in a few weeks, and I may come face-to-face with him. At least I can report he didn’t give me herpes, so I guess that’s good.
“Yo, Chef!” I hear called from down the hallway. We’ve been back in Denver for less than twenty-four hours, and the home opener is tomorrow afternoon. I watch as Holloway strides toward me, a more grumpy-looking Max following behind, along with two other players, Ryder Sullivan and Jackson Archer.
“What’s up?” I ask casually, refusing to look at Max. We barely interacted in Dallas. The conversation about Javier left me rattled, and I think Max knew it. He maintained a steady distance from me at all times, which I appreciated.
“Callahan told me you created some kind of bean salad for him. I’m intrigued. How bean-y is it? Like how farty will I get?” he asks innocently.
“I don’t know,” I reply, failing to hide my smile. “That’s pretty much between you and your digestive system. I have no control over how flatulent you become.”
“Why do beans make you fart so much?” Jackson asks. He turns to Max. “Did you fart a lot?”
Max’s face reddens slightly as he purses his lips. “I don’t know, I didn’t exactly keep track.”
“Come on,” Jackson teases. “We all know when things are worse, and you’re ripping them left and right.”
We all stare expectantly at Max, who rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest in a way that makes his biceps ripple. Good Lord, he is one attractive man.
“I guess it was more than normal,” he finally says.
Jake points at him. “Thank you. But why is that? Why do beans do that?”
“Well, it’s a couple of factors,” I begin, suddenly feeling quite awkward.
Discussing flatulence in the hallway of a baseball stadium with a group of guys who make more money than I could ever imagine was not on my bingo card for the year.
“Beans are full of fiber, and when you suddenly eat a lot of fiber, your body can’t digest it all at once.
The further it goes in your digestive system, the more it gets broken down, and it creates gases like methane and carbon dioxide.
The more fiber you eat, the more likely it is that your body will get used to it, and you won’t pass gas as much. ”
“It’s literally called passing gas because it’s gases,” Ryder says slowly. “Holy shit. I totally never knew that.”
“Glad I could teach you something,” I say awkwardly, then make a tiny curtsy. Who the hell am I right now? “Um, I’m gonna go.”
As I hurry away, Jake calls after me. “But can I get that recipe?”
I nod emphatically without turning around. I’ll be sure to give him the recipe after our next road trip, because I don’t want to be stuck on an airplane with him if he’s not used to a tremendous amount of fiber. I can only assume that Max has been through it because he eats like crap.
As I exit the stadium, walking quickly to my car, I hear the door behind me open, and I just know it’s Max.
“You know, you could have warned me,” he says loudly. I stop suddenly, and he almost runs into me. As I turn around, I bite my lip to keep from smiling. He looks completely infuriated. “I thought something was wrong with me. It kept me up all night.”
“Aww,” I gush, reaching up to lightly slap his cheek in mock dismay. “Poor little Sunshine. Didn’t get enough beauty sleep because you were breaking wind all night long?”
He scoffs. “How was I supposed to know I’d have a reaction like that?”
“Well, a good chunk of the population knows that beans lead to passing gas, as Jake pointed out a moment ago. I honestly didn’t think you’d eat it, so it never occurred to me that I needed to pop a disclaimer on the package.” I pause. “You did eat it?”
Max nods. “Yes, of course I did. I ate the whole damn thing.”
My mouth drops open in shock. “Max! That was a side dish meant to last you the entire week! It went with the barbecue chicken I included!”
His eyes narrow. “Exactly how was I supposed to know that, Layla?”
“I put a note on there!” I wait for him to acknowledge it, but his face never changes. “I — I put a sticky note on the package. I did. How to reheat the chicken and everything. I swear I did. At least I think so?”
“Absolutely no note, Peaches,” he replies, his voice dropping a bit. He glances down at my lips, then back up, and I feel like the outside temperature is rising quickly.
“Well, that was my mistake,” I say hurriedly. “I have to go, I have an appointment. Have a nice afternoon.”