Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Locker rooms always smell bad, but today’s reason is in the fetal position on the ground.
“You can’t expect me to not get queso at a Mexican restaurant,” Marcus wails. “That would be a crime against humanity.”
“It’s a crime against my nostrils,” Dawson mutters. The air freshener he keeps in his locker sort of helped. Now it smells like fresh linen and farts. “And you didn’t have to drink it.”
“Wasting food I paid for? No thanks. It’s not fair that I love dairy, but it hates me.”
Baja Breeze is the team’s after-practice spot, hiding in its secluded upstairs area away from the public eye. I’m usually tasked with monitoring Marcus’s cheese intake because he prefers to rawdog his poor stomach, but I skipped lunch to work in an extra lift and batting practice.
“You also had a smoothie from the recovery bar, which didn’t help.” I extend my hand to Marcus. “Get out of here. I have a meeting with my agent soon and the place smells like crap.”
Finally, on shaky legs, he sways like a branch in the wind. “Give me five. Be right back.”
“Hurry up!” Dawson yells at his back. “I want to see my family.”
With a one-finger salute, Marcus slinks into the restroom.
Then I realize what I’ve done.
Deflection is my specialty, and Dawson has learned that firsthand.
After finding out that Shay is my new agent, he has been relentless in his attempt to get answers.
Cornering me at the airport or trying to room next to me during travel games.
Every message about the topic goes unanswered, even the ones where he uses his son Luke as adorable bait. I’ve been so careful until now.
“Are we really not going to talk about it, Cade?”
I sigh. “I’d rather talk about the rumors that you’re retiring after this season. That seems way more pressing.”
“Nice try.” His weight settles on the bench beside me. “You were supposed to sign with Caldwell. Not the one that got away.”
The one I pushed away.
By the time I finish telling Dawson everything, leaving out the real reason I fired Jon, our final fight, the red flags from Trevor, and the weird way Trevor treated Shay in the meeting, he looks even more surprised than Mom was.
He rubs a hand over his buzzed head. “How angry was she?”
“Furious.” I search for the dice in my pocket. “She spends every second reminding me I’m her client and nothing more, but she’s damn good at her job, Daws.”
The way she reacted when Summer approached still plays on a loop. Jon loved throwing me into the fire when it came to the media. I was required to answer any question with a smile, even if it was overly personal and painful. But Shay was ready to protect me.
Even if it was as her client, it felt good.
Faint clicking of heels catches my attention, and my eyes dart to the restroom. Marcus doesn’t know about Shay yet, but I’m ninety-nine percent sure he won’t say anything too crazy.
Dammit. It still stinks in here.
“Is everybody dressed? Shay asks, knocking on the clubhouse door.
As if he wasn’t recently in a dairy-coma, Marcus stumbles back in. “Who’s that?”
“My agent, so be cool,” I whisper. “Yeah, come on in, Shay.”
It’s as if we don’t exist when she glides into the clubhouse. Her eyes are on the walls, but I’m purely focused on her. A pink ribbon holds her braids together, and an ivory sleeveless top is tucked into pinstriped black pants. The pressed creases add to the no-nonsense look on her face.
Marcus must also be drinking her in because he’s too quiet. But not for long.
“Holy shit. You’re a woman.”
Blazing eyes flick to Marcus before looking down to trace the curves of her own body. “Wow. I had no idea. Thanks for letting me know!”
I grin. There’s that fire.
“Real smooth, Marc.” Dawson hurls a sock at his head. “Nice to see you again, Shay.”
“Hi, Dawson. And it’s nice to meet you, Marcus. I’m Shay Turner.” She turns to me, not giving Mr. Popular Marcus Winters another look. It’s a relief to know she won’t fawn over him like most women do. “You ready?”
I’m about to nod when I remember today’s purpose. Player development meetings are necessary, but that doesn’t keep the impending dread away. I need to stall.
“Would you like a tour first?” I ask.
A flicker of excitement shimmers beneath her composed professionalism. “Um, yeah! I’d love that. I’ll go set up for our meeting in the guest lounge, Cade.”
Turning away from us, she leaves the clubhouse.
The moment she’s gone, Marcus steps in front of me. “You aren’t messing with me? That’s your agent? Her?”
“Yeah, her.” Rage replaces the usual love I have for my friend at his incredulous tone. “Is there a problem with signing a woman as my agent?”
He lifts his hand and waves an imaginary white flag. “No way. I’m not a total asshole. It’s fucking cool! Relax. You just caught me off guard because you were supposed to meet some dude named Caldwell.” Cartoon hearts dance in his green eyes. “Mind if I ask her out sometime? She’s pr—”
“Don’t you dare touch her,” I say. Actually, I hissed it through gritted teeth. Shay is many things. Gorgeous. Stunning. Smart. Driven. Perfect. Pretty, however, is an understatement. “You can have any woman in the world, but not her.”
“Uh-oh.” Sniffing my shoulder twice, Marcus smirks. “Is that possessiveness I smell? Cute, but suspicious if you ask me. And I can have any woman but her? Do you want a stepfather?”
Rolling my eyes, I shove him away. “I’ll end you if you try to date my mother.”
“Stop fighting, children.” Dawson loves to lecture us, but he’s enjoying the show. “Let’s go, Marc. You can empty your bowels in the safety of your own home.”
“Fine.” Marcus grabs his duffel bag. “Can’t believe you called dibs.”
Little does he know that I called dibs on Shay the first time I saw her eating dinner in the student-athlete center. While my teammates were excited about every girl on campus, all I cared about was her. I was desperate to know the woman who sat alone, scribbling on pink sticky notes.
As they leave the stadium, I spot Shay chewing on the end of her pen, the tell-tale sign she’s in the zone. But my smile wilts when I see the yellow legal pad on the table in front of her.
Jon’s voice always finds his way into my head, his words from our last player development meeting echoing loudly in my ears.
“Don’t you care? This isn’t good enough for the golden boy.”
“Hey.” Shay stands, pushing aside the legal pad. “Ready for the tour?”
I nod, not trusting myself to talk.
Steering us toward the trophy room, I listen as she tells me about her meeting with Rio, our general manager. I slow our pace as we enter the exhibit area. Every piece of Pilots memorabilia, each trophy, and countless photos of historical moments from the team’s past is in this room.
“This is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen,” Shay says, eyes frozen on the Commissioner’s Trophy from the World Series five seasons ago.
Sterling silver with shimmering gold flags gleam bright in its protective case.
It’s the symbol of resilience for the Pilots.
I’ll never forget the night they won this trophy.
“We watched the game together. Remember?” I ask.
“Rule number two. No talking about the past,” she reminds me curtly. Then she presses her fingertips to the glass. “But yes. It was a fun night.”
For nine innings, her eyes never left the tiny television.
That was the night I learned she attended the home games of as many sports as she could.
Bundling up for hockey season, sweating under the hot sun at track meets, and sitting courtside at basketball games.
But my favorite was when she came to baseball games.
Shay knows baseball. From history to stats to how to improve. BYOB nights taught me that. With every sticky note she wrote, she broke down each play with knowledge and grace.
“Want to go on the field?” I ask.
She chews on her full bottom lip. “Can I run around the bases too?”
Her excitement is contagious as I swing the door open to the dugout. “Anything you want, Agent Shay.”
“This smoothie is like ninety-nine percent milk. No wonder the locker room smelled like ass.”
I choke on my peanut butter smoothie, coughing over a laugh. “Poor Marcus. And the queso didn’t help.”
The tour has gone longer than either of us expected. Restricted areas like the recovery room, data and analytics office, clubhouses, and equipment storage aren’t shown to everyone, but she deserves more than the usual fan tour.
“You’ve never come to a tour? The Pilots host them often for agents.”
She tosses her empty cup into the trash. “I’m not usually invited to things like that.”
The words are tossed out like nothing, as if it’s okay and normal. But it’s not, and I need her to know that.
“Well, as my agent, you have a forever pass to this stadium. Restricted areas and all.” I nudge her shoulder. “And if anyone has a problem, point them my way. I’ll take care of them.”
Uncertainty swims in her dark eyes as we enter the guest lounge, but she gives me a small smile.
I’m about to return it when a flash of yellow paper reminds me why we’re here.
Shay isn’t running laps around the bases and reminiscing about the good times as my girlfriend. She’s my agent, here to do her job.
Which is ripping me to shreds.
Once seated, she opens the thick binder and jumps right into it. “This isn’t urgent, but I’m curious. Why don’t you have any endorsements?”
I decide to go with a partial truth. “I haven’t had time.”
“Are you interested in one?”
I shrug.
“What if it was for your favorite hair care line?”
My interest piques. “Loc & Key?” She slides her iPad across the table. I read the whole email three times before I can speak. “How did you do this?”