Chapter 17
I am so fucked.
Literally and figuratively.
Troy was calling because Coach told him the GM believes something is going on between me and Layla.
Troy ripped me a new one, but was much more angry about what might happen to Layla than how it would look for me.
He knows I really don’t give a shit about public perception and what crap paparazzi post about my private life, but the team fraternization policy is pretty clear.
Furthermore, Troy basically yelled at me for staying single this long, then finally deciding to show interest in a woman when my contract is coming up.
He didn’t even apologize for calling me right before the game, which he knows not to do. It completely threw me off, and I made Jake switch seats with me on the bus so I could steer clear of Layla.
Not surprisingly, I have an awful game. I go oh-for-four at the plate, drop a pop fly, overshoot a throw to first, and completely miss an easy foul ball. Not one teammate talks to me as I stalk to the locker room, and everyone avoids me on the way to the airport.
It’s a long flight back to Denver.
Arriving home just after sunset, I hide out in the private terminal.
A handful of reporters are parked at the entrance, undoubtedly looking for some kind of stupid info they can run with.
I decide to loiter around the terminal, in hopes that everyone will leave before me.
If Layla walks out with me, would it be obvious I have a thing for her?
Seems like everyone is calling me out on it, so clearly I’m an even worse liar than I presumed myself to be.
I don’t want to lie again, telling them I’m not into her. Would it hurt her to hear me say that?
I don’t want to hurt her. At all.
“Are you okay?” The girl I’m thinking about seems to materialize out of nowhere, looking up at me with kind eyes.
“No,” I admit.
She tilts her head to the side, studying me. “Why? What happened on that call with your agent?”
I sigh, letting my head fall back as I stare at the ceiling. “Stupid shit that I really don’t want to deal with.”
“Do you still want to go back to my apartment?” she whispers, her eyes darting around to see if anyone is listening.
I let out a whoosh of air as I chuckle. “More than I could ever explain.”
Layla’s eyes widen. “Oh. I just assumed —”
I interrupt her. “Assumed what?”
“That you didn’t want to go anymore. You didn’t respond to my last text, and then you wouldn’t look at me at the game. Which, by the way, we need to talk about that performance and figure out how to change your diet or something, because that was awful.”
I laugh. “Tell me how you really feel, Lay.”
“What was that? It was like you’d never had a bat in your hands.”
“My mind was elsewhere. This is why I don’t like to talk to my agent before a game. He knows this, but …” I trail off, pausing. How can I explain this? “He had to tell me something important. It had to be dealt with right then.”
And threw me off my game, so now I’m second-guessing every fucking decision I make. Thanks, Troy. So glad I pay my agent to berate me right before I’m on a nationally televised baseball game, looking like a complete tool.
“Do you want me to drive? You seem really out of it,” Layla says softly.
I can’t do that. Who knows what would happen if the paparazzi got a picture of us together?
I can only lie so much. “No. I’m sorry, Layla.
As much as I’d love to — and I really want you to hear me when I say that I’m so fucking pissed I can’t — I need to go home.
There’s a lot going on, and I can’t talk about it yet. ”
I see the flash of pain in her eyes. The purse of her lips, as she nods. “Oh. Well, goodnight, Max. Sorry about tonight.”
Layla quickly walks away, head down, and I have to force myself not to run after her. God. I want to grab her. Wrap her up in my arms, breathe her in, and try to forget that today ever happened.
My phone rings, and I look down to see it’s Troy calling. Answering, I simply say, “Asshole.”
“Alright. I deserved that.”
“You sure as fuck did.”
“In my defense, I’m on the East Coast today, and I mistakenly thought your game was a West Coast one.”
“It wasn’t, and my stats show how well I managed,” I sigh. Reaching up, I rub my eyes before dragging my hand through my hair.
“You’re a shitty liar, man. I appreciate that you try, because you’re obviously trying to protect her, but this is an absolute mess.” Troy pauses. “If Coach sees it, then management will too.”
“I know.”
“Max.”
“What?” I snap. “You’ve made your point. What did you say? Don’t shit where you eat. Very classy, by the way. I get it.”
“I’m just saying, now isn’t a good time to ruffle feathers. Your contract is up at the end of the season. If you decide you want to stay there, we need to plan accordingly.”
“I never said I wanted to stay here.”
“Things change. I’m going to take a deep dive into your contract again, as well as the no fraternization policy, and make sure there aren’t any loopholes. If you do like the girl, then maybe we can find a way to make it work.”
“I don’t want to talk about this right now.
I’m exhausted. Goodnight, Troy.” I end the call, then turn my phone back off.
From the moment I got on the bus this afternoon until I turned my phone on as we taxied here in Denver, I had five voicemails from my parents.
Multiple texts from the guys in Bridge Point, an unknown number of tags on every single social media app, and emails from older coaches who don’t like to text. I’m ignoring everything.
After waiting a few minutes, I finally trudge into the parking lot.
We park in a gated lot near the terminal, and the press weren’t allowed here, so I don’t have to pass them until I leave the lot.
There are more than I thought would be out here, including a handful of fans.
Usually, I’d stop if one gestured to me.
Maybe pull over, get out to sign some autographs, or talk to someone from my car.
Not today. I peel out of the lot, tires screeching, and take off toward my apartment building.
Yet somehow, I end up in Commerce City, staring in disbelief at a taped-off crime scene in front of Layla’s apartment.
Scrambling to turn my phone back on, I immediately call her. I can’t get out of the car. People will see me. I can’t be on the news right now.
“Hi,” she says meekly, her voice timid and frightened.
“Are you okay?” I blurt out.
“Yes?” she answers, confusion evident in her tone. “Why do you ask?”
“Layla, I’m outside your apartment.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “There was a man inside my apartment when I got home.”
“Jesus Christ,” I snap. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you? Are your guinea pigs okay?”
“The pigs are fine.”
“And you?” I ask.
“I’ll be fine.”
“You’re being incredibly evasive here. Did he hurt you?”
Layla sighs. “He hit me and told me I’d get what was coming to me. Then my neighbor busted in, so the guy ran out.”
“Fuck, baby,” I breathe. “He hit you? I’m so sorry. What do you need?”
“I don’t know,” she whispers, tears in her voice. “He broke the door down. It won’t close now. I can’t sleep here, but I can’t leave my girls alone either. I really don’t want to pay for a hotel until the landlord can fix the door, so I don’t know wha —”
“You’re coming home with me,” I say firmly. “Pack up whatever you need. You can stay as long as you want. I have multiple guest bedrooms, and more than enough space for a guinea pig cage.”
Layla is quiet for a moment before she lets out a pained breath. “You know that isn’t a good idea. We won’t be able to explain this away. I’ll lose my job, and then I won’t be able to afford any apartment, not even one like this.”
“We’ll figure it all out,” I promise. “How long do you need to pack? Is there a back alley I can park at for the time being? I’ll come in to help.”
“No, that’s not necessary. I only need a few minutes. If you pull around to the other side of the building, I can bring the cage out. That’s my main concern.”
“Alright. Stay on the phone with me.” We’re both quiet as I carefully drive to the backside of the building.
Figuring she won’t feel comfortable with the cage in the trunk of my SUV, I open the door to the middle row, then walk to grab it from her as she opens a secondary entrance door to the building.
“Two unlocked entrances to your apartment building?”
“Please don’t say ‘I told you so’ right now, Max,” Layla murmurs. “I don’t think I can handle it.”
As she places the cage in my arms, two little rodents pop out from a wooden hut, both squealing. They’re mostly white, with brown and black patches in different spots. “Huh.”
“What?” she asks.
“They’re actually pretty cute.”
A small smile peeks through the pain etched on her beautiful face. “I’ll be back down with a few bags.”
“Take your time,” I tell her, gingerly placing the cage on my backseat. Peering into the cage, I smile as four brown eyes look back at me. “Ladies. I guess we’re going to be roommates for a little while. I’ll admit, I’ve never had a rodent before, so forgive me if I make any mistakes.”
One squeaks at me, and I take that as a hello. This is going to be interesting.
Fifteen minutes later, Layla walks out with three suitcases. I jump out to help her. “Do you need to go back for more?”
She nods. “One box of things. They’re sentimental to me, so I don’t want to leave them here. I have no idea when the door will be fixed, and the officer said they may not be able to have someone watch the apartment in the meantime.”
Christ. “You’d think your landlord would be a little more proactive about protecting his renters.”
She shrugs. “He doesn’t care. As long as he gets his money.”
Well, that settles that. Layla is never coming back here.
“I’ll go grab the box. Where is it?” I ask, opening the passenger door for her. She slides into the passenger seat, refusing to meet my eyes, but I follow her in. Stooping beside the seat, I grab her seat belt.
“I can do that,” she protests, a little bit of fire heating her words.
“So?”
“I’m not a baby,” she mutters, turning her head as I lean in to buckle the belt.
Staying a little longer than I should in her space, I drag my nose along her cheek until I get to her ear, where I whisper, “What is your apartment number? Just let me take care of — everything.”
I was close to saying I’d take care of her.
“It’s apartment 211,” Layla whispers, leaning her head back against the seat and exhaling a loud breath. Closing the door, I’m taking the stairs three at a time before I find a police officer stationed in front of a badly splintered door.
“Jesus,” I breathe, looking at the damage.
“Yeah. I’m glad she wasn’t home when it happened. No guessing what might have happened to her if she was.”
“Actually, she walked in on the dude. He hit her once.” I look around his broad shoulders and into Layla’s apartment.
It looks like a tornado whipped through it.
Stunned, I step closer. Couch cushions have been ripped open, curtains torn from the walls, and clothes are strewn everywhere.
“Uh, Layla sent me to grab a box of mementos? She said she left it by the door.”
The officer nods, but then his gaze sharpens. “Hey, are you —”
I interrupt him with a loud and awkward laugh. “I know what you’re about to say. I get that all the time. Not that dude from the Wolves.”
He shakes his head. “No, not the Wolves. The Raptors. You know, the baseball team?”
I make a face. “Oh. I’m not really a sports guy, so I don’t pay attention to the teams here.”
I grab the box, thank the officer, then run down the stairs. After carefully placing the box in the trunk, I climb into the car. I intended to ask Layla to direct me to the interstate, but her eyes are closed, so I quietly open my navigation app.
I don’t say a word, letting Layla process what she just experienced.
I don’t even know what to say. How do you comfort someone in a situation like this?
I like black and white. Cut and dry. If I find the guy who did this — because I fucking know it was a guy — then I can take my aggressions out on him with my fists.
Black and white. You did the crime, now you pay.
But that attitude won’t work with Layla.
I’m about to make a sarcastic joke about why I was even by her apartment in the first place, when Layla slides her tiny hand into mine, and I forget everything.
I squeeze her hand, then bring it to my mouth and kiss it softly.
This makes me hope that everything will be okay.