Chapter 11
Did I overstep by encouraging management to put everyone in the same hotel?
Probably. But no one said anything, so I’m running with it.
I only got one raised eyebrow from Dante Russo, who seems to be noticing the electricity between me and Layla.
To counteract that, I steered clear of Layla for the last twenty-four hours.
I don’t need anyone putting two and two together that there may be something going on, even when there isn’t.
But man, would I love there to be.
It’s been fun chatting with her here and there, but especially over text.
I’ve also continued to chat with Kale Kween, although I feel really bad about that one.
I keep hoping I’ll have an epiphany on how to explain that I know who she is, and admit my own identity, but I can’t come up with anything.
Deep in my soul, I know if I tell Layla that I’m Ground Man, she’ll never speak to me again.
The thought of that makes me sick, so I keep up the ruse.
The weather in Houston is hot and muggy, and I grimace as soon as I step off the airplane.
Gross. How do people live like this? Becca tried to explain the concept of humidity and dew points to me at an event for Jamie’s foundation last year, but I couldn’t wrap my head around it.
It all makes zero sense. It’s a measure of moisture in the air, so how can there be negative dew points? I don’t get it.
By the time we arrive at the hotel, I feel like I’ve sweated through my clothes. As we retrieve our bags, grab our room keys, and head up to our rooms, I find that Layla has stepped into the same elevator as me.
“Floor?” I ask.
“Nine,” she answers. I secretly cheer, as I’m also on the ninth floor.
Two others get out on the ninth floor, and I motion for Layla to step off the elevator before me.
I’m even more thrilled when I follow her down the same hallway, finding we’ve been given rooms beside one another.
Knowing others are around us, I avoid eye contact as I swipe the key against the lock, then quickly stride inside.
Whipping out my phone, I wait until I hear the muted sound of a door closing before calling her.
I don’t let her speak before I blurt out, “I swear this was a coincidence. I just said the women should be on the same floor.”
“Uh-huh,” she says dryly. “Convenient that our rooms connect too, isn’t it? Nicely played, Sunshine.”
Whipping around, I see the locked door I could use to access her room, and I audibly groan. God dammit. Now I know I won’t sleep tonight.
“I didn’t even know the rooms here have connecting doors,” I croak, acutely aware of my dick becoming rock hard in record time. Images of Layla asleep, naked, cross my mind, and I force myself to breathe as all the blood rushes to my groin.
“You’re telling me you’ve been in the League for over a decade, and you’ve never noticed this?” she asks, her tone accusatory. “Teams stay in the same hotels, Max. I find it hard to believe Bridge Point never played in Houston.”
Oh, we played here. Lost a pennant here once. But I’ve never been here, in the same hotel as her, so it’s all moot. “I know you’ll find this hard to believe, but I really don’t keep track of the staff during road trips. I’m pretty self-involved when I’m focused on a game.”
“Now that I can believe,” she says with a snort. “I’m a little surprised a hotel of this caliber still has rooms like this. Isn’t it a safety concern? Why not renovate and remove these?”
“Some hotels like to stay more on the classic and traditional side, I think,” I tell her as I toe off my shoes.
Falling onto the bed, I continue. “There’s a hotel in Miami that’s the exact opposite of this.
All modern with glass and sharp edges. Shower wall is glass, which is right next to the bed, and through the shower you can see the toilet. Zero privacy.”
“That sounds like an absolute nightmare, but honestly, that sums up Miami and South Beach perfectly.”
“You been there a lot?” I ask as I recline against the pillows. I immediately sit up, rearranging the ridiculously fluffy and air-filled pillows, into a pile of four. The part I really hate about road trips is the fact that every hotel has completely awful pillows with no structure or support.
“Once my mom moved to Florida, I’d visit her as often as I could. It was easy when I lived in Atlanta. We’d go over to Miami once or twice a year. It’s not my favorite city in the country, but I love how full of culture it is. And the food is amazing.”
I chuckle. “Leave it to Layla to connect a massive metropolitan area to food.”
“What can I say?” she giggles. “I love food. Finding fresh ingredients and learning the history of where a recipe came from is so special to me. The general main ingredient might be the same, but how one spice or herb changes it up never ceases to amaze me. Do you know what differentiates a Cuban bread from a French bread?”
“No,” I say quietly, loving how animated her voice is as she talks about what she loves.
“The main ingredients are the same, but Cuban bread also includes Lard.”
“Lard? Like fat?” I ask.
“Yup. Well, French bread can include different kinds of flour as well, but the Lard in Cuban bread gives a very different flavor.”
“How come you’re okay with Lard in bread, but you make a face when I suggest pizza rolls as a dinner option?” I tease.
“Because it’s a small amount of Lard, Max. And there aren’t any preservatives in it, which is not what I can say for your much-loved pizza rolls,” she replies. “I bet I could try to recreate your pizza rolls in a healthy way. Would you be willing to try them if I did?”
“I’ll try anything you cook,” I blurt out.
Feeling embarrassed, I almost take it back, but decide not to.
Frankly, I think I will try anything Layla cooks.
Looking back, it makes me wonder where we’d be today if I’d given her a chance back at the beginning of December when she was introduced to the team.
“Anything?”
After a quiet moment, I answer. “Yeah. I trust you, Lay.”
I hear her intake of breath, and I realize it’s the same as the last time I called her Lay. I think she likes it, but nowhere near as much as she likes it when I call her Peaches.
“You like that, don’t you?” I finally say.
“What?”
“When I shorten your name to Lay.”
She’s quiet for a heartbeat. “Yeah, I do. More than I should admit, I think.”
“If it helps any, I sort of like when you call me Sunshine.”
Her giggle is music to my ears. “I already knew that.”
“How?”
“Your ears get a little pink around the edges.”
“You’re lying,” I state, hearing her loud laughter through the wall.
“I’m not! Maybe it’s your tell. I’ll always know something’s up when your ears get pink.”
“For the sake of my masculinity, I sincerely hope not,” I answer. “You can always ask me questions. I’d prefer that over you checking out my ears.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she says softly. “Night, Max.”
“Night.”
Late the following afternoon, I’m on the field for batting practice.
The temperature is hot, probably in the mid-eighties, but the humidity is stifling.
Layla was smart to offer everyone incredibly light meals for dinner, focusing on grilled chicken and vegetables, because the thought of trying to run around in this heat with a full stomach makes me want to hurl.
With a game time of seven, we’re allotted an hour of batting practice right before the stadium staff preps the field. I do my part, then hustle back inside the building to find some much-needed air conditioning. It’s only by chance that I come across Layla being cornered by Javier Morales.
“I warned you to keep your fucking trap shut, you stupid cunt,” he hisses, his hand around her neck.
I’m two seconds away from throttling him when Layla surprises me by planting her hands on his chest, shoving him as hard as she can.
Javier stumbles, clearly surprised at her show of aggression. “What the fuck, Layla?”
“I do not consent to your hands on me,” she murmurs, her voice shaking. She has both hands wrapped around his forearm, and all I see is red. This motherfucker.
Javier takes a step toward her menacingly, before Layla’s eyes find mine. Javier turns, and his expression changes instantly as he drops his hand. “Callahan.”
I don’t acknowledge him, focusing on my breathing as my attention locks in on Layla. “You good?”
Her expression is part frustration, but mostly a healthy dose of fear. “I’ll be fine. I need to speak with you and Holloway about your meal plan for the remainder of the series. Do you have a moment?”
“Of course,” I answer, motioning for her to walk toward the visiting locker room. As she steps away from Javier, I crowd into his space. Leaning down, I growl, “Touch her again, and I will end you.”
“Oh, so that’s how it is?” he says, laughing. “Can’t get with a good player, so she goes for the senior citizen?”
I give him an evil grin. “I’m not with her.
But I’ll protect anyone with my team, and certainly will protect a woman from a man who puts hands on her when she clearly doesn’t want it.
Keep that in mind, Morales. Also worth mentioning that being a senior citizen means I have friends in every fucking house.
Would be a shame if they all found out about what I just saw. ”
I see the flash of fear in his eyes before he tightens his expression. “Whatever, asshole. They’ll believe me. They always do.”
Jesus Christ. This piece of shit basically just admitted Layla isn’t the first woman he’s assaulted.
There’s a weight in my stomach that tells me things between them didn’t end as lightly as Layla suggested.
I wonder what else happened … and how much I’ll want to kill the dipshit shortstop when she finally tells me everything.