by Selena Kitt
Edy picked at her coleslaw for a minute and finally gave up on it. It looked a bit runny, so he couldn’t blame her.
“I could probably make better,” he said.
“Yeah?” She cocked an eyebrow. “Spend much time puttering around in the kitchen?”
“When I have to. I don’t have very many specialties, but I had to learn how to make coleslaw when I was a kid because our church did this big barbecue plate fundraiser every year. Somehow I always ended up in the kitchen.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Scratch that. Not somehow. I ended up in the kitchen because my grandma didn’t trust me to run plates with the other boys. I swear, my folks had me on lockdown.”
“Imagine that.”
He scoffed. “No imagination required. They knew better, I guess. I’ve got troublemaking in my genes, and they had to work extra hard to tamp down my willingness to commit shenanigannery.”
“That’s not a word.”
“It should be. Anything else in those containers?” He canted his head toward the open food boxes she had brought back.
“Chips. You still hungry?”
“Yeah. I feel like I should eat while I’m not nauseated. These fuckin’ pills…”
“I get ya.” She pulled out two bags—one of plain chips, one of barbecue.
“Which do you like?” he asked.
“I like barbecue, but not this kind. This kind is too sweet.”
“You like the salty, vinegary kind, huh?”
“Yep,” she said with a nod. “I tend to prefer sour over sugary.”
“Woman after my own heart.”
“Really?” She handed him the bag of plain chips, and he shook his head. She could have them.
He repositioned his busted leg to get it out of the tangle of covers and opened the bag of barbecue chips. “I’m picky about chips. I’ll eat whatever’s around when I’m craving salt, but I have certain brands I like, and I don’t mind spending a little extra money on them.”
“Which ones?”
“Taylors are really good.”
“Oh! They’re local to Baton Rouge, aren’t they?”
“Yep. I went to high school with the guy who owns the company. He uses his grandma’s recipes. Special blend of frying oils and seasonings.”
“I didn’t realize he was that young. I see him on the news sometimes.”
“Mm-hmm. He was a senior when I was a freshman. We played varsity soccer together. We hang out every now and then.”
“Don’t tell my father. He’ll probably try to get you to sweet-talk the guy into sponsoring the team.”
Al snorted. “He sure as shit would. Jett probably wouldn’t mind, though. He’ll sponsor stuff as long as no one expects him to do any work. He’s got enough work to do already.”
“Know that feeling.”
“And yet you’re volunteering to help me find grants for my house?”
She blew a raspberry. “Maybe I won’t, then.”
“Shit. Shoulda kept my mouth shut.”
“Common failure amongst you Roosters.” She looked up from the leather-covered device he’d finally figured out was an e-reader, and pushed her reading glasses up her nose. “If you’re too busy trying to keep a roof over your head next spring, maybe that’ll keep you off the baseball field and free of negative influences.”
He shook the rest of the chips into his mouth, chewed, swallowed, and then sighed. “Yeah, I don’t really need any help with that.”
“Why do you make it sound like baseball has fallen off your priority list?”
He shrugged and handed her the bag.
She stuffed it into the trash bag hanging from a hook near the bed.
“I’m just tired, Edy. And it’s probably the painkillers talking. Folks shouldn’t make decisions when they’re on drugs.”
“I don’t know. Sometimes, being under the influence helps folks get out of the way of themselves.”
“Yeah? When was the last time you were under the influence?”
“Right before I took my current job. Don’t think badly of me for it, but I was visiting some friends in Colorado, and when in Colorado, you do as Coloradans do.”
He couldn’t help letting out a bark of laughter. It was hard to imagine prim and proper Edy Wallace as anything but upright and steady. “You got high?”
She groaned and took off her glasses. “In more ways than one. The altitude had me feeling like crap from the moment I landed, and my friend’s fiancé promised getting buzzed would make me feel better.”
“Did it?”
“No. Or at least, I can’t remember if it did. Long story short—I’m one of those people who should never partake. I took one puff, and it took me a day to come down from the high. I was crying the entire time. Everything overwhelmed me.”
He cringed. “I don’t think it’s supposed to work like that.”
“That’s what everyone tells me.” She shrugged. “Anyway, somewhere in that crying jag, I decided I should go balls to the wall for a couple of years and save up some money so that when I was ready to do the next big thing, I wouldn’t have anything holding me back. That’s why I took the headhunting gig.”
“Suffer while you’re young, in other words.”
“Yeah. Hustle for a few years and then relax a little. That’s why it’s so important for me to have downtime on the weekends. If I can get away from home, and the temptations of doing work, I can tamp down my stress level and be more efficient when I got in each Monday.”
“I bet it gives you something to look forward to during the week, too. Having a hard-ass Wednesday? All you have to do is think about how you’re hitting the road on Friday night.”
“Something like that. Doesn’t happen every week, though I would like it to. I only do it when I have some extra cash for gas after socking my minimum into savings and paying bills. When I can’t get away, I just do the best I can. I cocoon myself into my house and ignore things for a couple of days. I don’t read emails or text messages unless I’m expecting to hear from a friend. I do my grocery shopping during the week so I don’t have to leave the house for that unless I want to. I try to avoid people and, well…stuff all together.”
“It’s kind of like a mental reboot. I wish I could do that.”
“Why can’t you?”
“I can’t really avoid people. I’ve always got commitments on weekends and a lot of weeknights, too, when I’m coaching. I don’t have a whole lot of downtime.”
She bobbed her eyebrows at him and reached down to give his cast a little thump. “Looks like you bought yourself some.”
He laughed. “You think me breaking my leg was some kind of psychological thing? Self-sabotaging so I could force myself to take a break?”
“I wouldn’t go that far, but I would say you should make the most of the scenario. Don’t be afraid to be by yourself for a while, you know?”
He flinched, but she didn’t see it because she was reaching and pulling up the lid on the nearby cooler. He wasn’t afraid to be alone. He just didn’t want to be, and that was probably why he was rarely home. As badly as he needed downtime, he needed companionship just as much, and beyond his grandma, not too many folks had been raising their hands to volunteer. Other than a few aggressive “fans” anyway. He didn’t need one more person blowing smoke up his ass. He wanted someone to fill in the gaps in his life.
“You don’t mind if I drink this, do you?” She held the beer up for him to see. “Seeing as how you can’t partake, I didn’t want to be rude.”
“Nah, go for it. You probably need one after forcing yourself to talk to me.”
She lifted the hem of her shirt and wrapped it around the bottle cap. “Aw, you’re not so bad.”
Hope not. “It’s amazing what you learn when you throw a guy a bone, huh?”
“You don’t need me throwing you bones. You do just fine without the attention.” She twisted the cap through her shirt and furrowed her brow. “Dammit,” she whispered.
“Yeah, and of course, I have no idea where my bottle opener is. I usually have a couple of tricks I can do to get them open, but I don’t have the right tools in here.”
“Give it.” He held out his hand. “I know that brand. They’re tricky sometimes, but you shouldn’t need an opener.”
She handed him the bottle, and pulling the hem of his T-shirt over the top, he sat up and squeezed it between his thighs.
His phone rang as he popped it open, and she nudged it toward him.
He waited for the foam to stop climbing, and handed her the bottle while grabbing his phone.
BRUCE WALLACE, the display read.
“What the hell does he want now?” Al muttered as he slid his thumb across the screen. “’S’up, Wallace?”
Edy rolled her eyes.
Know the feeling, babe.
“How’re you holding up?” Wallace asked.
“Fine. Why?” Al ground his palm against his eyes and hoped Wallace would just get on with it.
“Well, that’s good. You sound good. Not too groggy.”
“Nah, I’m all right. Had a good dinner, and I think I’m starting to build up a little resistance to the medication.”
“Good, good.”
“So…how are things at the ranch?” Al didn’t think Wallace would have called just to shoot the shit. If Wallace had a point to make, Al preferred that he go ahead and spit it out.
“Super. Trying to get the starting lineup to meld. So many new guys working together and they can’t read the cues. You know how it goes. Gotta put ’em through their paces.”
“Uh-huh.”
Edy furrowed her brow at Al and whispered, “What does he want?”
Al covered the speaker with his thumb. “No idea, which probably means something big.”
“In my experience.”
Al grunted, uncovered the phone, and said, “So…what can I do for you? For some reason, I don’t think this is a wellness check.”
“Not exactly. You see, I had an idea.”
“Oh, boy.” Al lay back down and cut his gaze to Edy, whose suspicious stare hadn’t changed any, but at least she was sipping her beer now and not just clutching it hard enough to make her knuckles go white. The hostility she felt for her father radiated off her in waves that made Al’s gut clench. He might have been Edy’s father, but Al suddenly wanted to reach through the phone and strangle the guy.
“I’m sure I don’t want to hear it,” he said through clenched teeth, “but all the same, tell me about your idea.”
“I was thinking that since you needed the money, we could take you off the disabled list and pull you onto the coaching staff for the season.”
“Coaching?”
“Yeah. I mean, you’ve done a little, right? No different for a pro team, just a little more testosterone to deal with.” He laughed.
Al didn’t see what was funny about the proposition. More time with the Roosters at the moment was the last thing he wanted. He needed time away from the doofuses so he could figure out if separating from the team was what the cosmos was calling for him to do.
“I mean, of course we’d wait a couple of weeks until it’s a little easier for you to get around and for your doctor to clear you for all the traveling,” Wallace said, “but I think it’s a good idea. You could stay looped in to what the team is doing and you could keep an eye on your position.”
At the moment, Al couldn’t give a damn about his position. All that position had earned him was a lot of time in a smelly team bus, sharing more motel rooms than he could count with guys who didn’t clean up after themselves, and of course, a broken leg.
“You there, Felton?”
Al ground his teeth and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m here. It’s an interesting idea. I’ll have to give it some thought.”
“Don’t let it fall off your radar. If all goes well, we can get you settled in before the first game of the season and you won’t miss a thing.”
“The first game is in three weeks.” That didn’t seem like a hell of a lot of time. Maybe his bone breaks would have been half-mended by then, but he was still going to be fucking sore, and getting around with that unwieldy leg was going to be grueling.
Why would anyone do that to himself?
Especially for drop-in-the-bucket pay.
“Yeah,” Wallace said. “That ought to be enough, right? Don’t forget.”
“I won’t forget.” Al hadn’t been lying when he said he’d think about it. He would. He didn’t really know what was going to happen in his life, so the least he could do was keep his options open.
“Great. Give me a call when you get home. Don’t try to do too much, you know? Just sit back and put your leg up. Watch some television or whatever.”
“Thanks for caring.”
“Hey, I do my best to keep the machine running. Can’t afford to lose any more parts to it.”
Of course, that was what it was about. It wasn’t just because Wallace cared about Al as a person. Al was a cog in the Roosters machine.
He fixed his gaze on Edy, whose neutral expression didn’t quite manage to conceal her skepticism. That was okay with him, because he felt it, too.
Shouldn’t I be trying to build my own machine?
Edy leaned in with a napkin and brushed some crumbs off his shirt. “You’re a mess,” she whispered.
My own machine… One that gave him freedom to make meaningful connection—to finally let someone fill in the gaps in his life.
Maybe it was time.
Chapter 9
Apparently, Al burned at a thousand watts when he slept, and Edy woke up damp from sweat, some of which she was certain was his.
“Blech,” she whispered, but made no attempts to move. She’d found a cozy niche with his arm under her neck and had thrown half her body over his in sleep. He must not have been too bothered by it, because he hadn’t tried to roll her off.
“That could be the drugs, though.”
“What could be the drugs?” he whispered into her hair.
Cringing, she pulled her leg in and tried to push up onto her arms, but Al was holding her too tightly.
“Where ya goin’? It’s still dark.”
Edy brought her watch in front of her face and squinted at the glow-in-the-dark arms. “It’s six.” They’d probably nodded off at around ten after chatting about nothing in particular in between her reading chapters of her book and him doing a slash-and-burn on the emails in his inbox. Then he’d woken up at two to take a pill and nodded right back off.
She could get them moving, and he could sleep in the car while she drove.
But what’s the hurry?
She relaxed against his side again and he rubbed her back, sighing.
“How’s your leg?” she asked.
“Achy, but not stabbing pain anymore, or at least if I’m having any, I’m not feeling it through the medication.”
“Well, that’s good.”
“Mm-hmm.” He rubbed her back some more, half tickling, half massaging, going lower with each run.
She laughed. “I’m on to your game.”
“A guy’s gotta at least try to be slick when he wants to cop a feel.”
“I didn’t think you were the discreet sort.”
“I’ve palmed a few asses in public in my day, but I’d say ninety-eight percent of those belonged to athletes, and we expect that kind of shit from each other.”
His fingers grazed down her spine and settled over the small of her back—tickling her, making her hips arc back.
“And…what about the other two percent?”
“Girlfriends who liked PDA.”
“I see. And how do you feel about public displays of affection?”
“Depends on the kind.” He dragged his lips across the top of her forehead and kissed her temple.
It was a sweet, tender gesture she wouldn’t have expected from him, but she was starting to accept that muc
h of what she thought about Al simply wasn’t true. He wasn’t some cardboard, one-dimensional stereotype of a baseball player. He had layers and quirks—and yes, flaws—but deep down, he was just an average guy. An extremely fit and unbelievably attractive average guy, but pretty normal all the same.
