Page 1 of The Plan

Chapter One

Sire

Our first game is soon.”

I let out a sigh at the reminder and turn to August. “Yeah, I know.” I run a hand down my face, trying to calm my nerves. I should be fine. I have a month until our first game. I should be cleared by then… Hopefully.

I feel August’s eyes on me, waiting for me to say more, but I don’t. “How many more physical therapy sessions do you have?” He sounds like he’s treading lightly on a hard topic, and in a way, he is.

I was fine the entire last year, and then two months before the season starts, my dumb ass fucks up my already-fucked-up arm. I made a full recovery last time, so I’m hoping for the same this time. The team needs me.

“Just a month left. My last session is the week before our first game.” August nods, but he looks like he wants to say something, and I feel my brows furrow. “What is it?”

He looks over at me, his eyes revealing a nervousness in them. He scratches the back of his head, then toys with one of his box braids, and I feel myself growing impatient.

“What is it, August?” I say a bit more firmly.

“Nothing,” he spits out a bit too quickly but recovers just as fast. “How do you like it?”

What?God, he’s so weird.

“How do I like physical therapy?” I shake my head at him. “I don’t.” I don’t like doctors or being told what the fuck to do. “I don’t even need this last month of therapy, and I don’t want to go anymore.” I just need the damn doctor to clear me, but for some reason, a part of me is nervous he won’t.

I need to be one hundred percent to play this season to avoid permanent damage to my arm. Everyone thinks it’s better to take a year off rather than fucking up my arm for good, and I agree. That’s the only reason I agreed to PT, but I’m fine now. Sort of…

“Wait, you don’t want to go?” There’s a hint of shock in his voice. I’ve complained about this to him before, but I guess he never assumed I wanted to quit PT. It’s my career on the line here. That’s why I didn't quit and just pushed through, but with the season nearing, I’m getting antsy.

“Why would I?” At this point, I’m just wasting my time there… Besides the slight pain, I feel fine. I can handle the pain; it’s just a bit sore. I want to play. Icanplay.

“Hmm,” August hums, clearly lost in his thoughts.

“Hmm, what?” He steals a glance at me but shakes his head. “Spit it out, August.” He brushes me off and picks up his phone, pretending to be busy, but considering I’ve known him more than half his life, I know him better than that.

“August?” I deadpan.

“Jesus, it’s nothing. You’re gonna be late for your appointment, and you’ll find out later.” I glance at the time, and he’s right. I’m gonna be late if I don’t leave right now, but then I compute the last bit of his sentence that he mumbled.

“I’m going to find out what later?”

As if on command, his phone rings, and he gets up, waving me off to answer. “August.” He disappears into the hallway leading to his room, and I roll my eyes at his dismissal.

I'm five minutes late whenI walk into the team's private doctor's office. Something feels off, but I ignore it and head straight for the front desk. I notice there's a new receptionist, and she looks up from her computer to greet me with a smile.

“Good morning. What can I help you with today?”

Someone’s perky.“I have an appointment with Dr. Miller.”

She looks back at her computer and starts typing. “Can I get your name?” I give her my name, and her eyes shoot back up to me.Great.

“Wait—you’retheSire Griffin? Like, the star player on the LA Dodgers, Sire Griffin?” I nod, confirming, and she just stares, starstruck. I usually don’t mind when I bump into fans, but I already don’t want to be in this stupid doctor's office, and she’s kind of slowing down my process to get the fuck out of here.

I muster a fake smile, trying not to be rude. “So, Dr. Miller? Can you notify him that I’m here?” I keep my tone light, and she shoots up from her seat as soon as she registers my words.

“Right, of course. I’ll get right to that, Mr. Griffin.” She’s halfway to the back door when she stops and turns back around. It’ll be highly inappropriate if she asks me for a fucking autograph right now. “Sorry, I just remembered… Dr. Miller isn’t here.”

How is he not here? I’m only five minutes late. I’m starting to get annoyed, and I’m convinced it’s this building—something about it is just off today.

“When will he be back?” I try not to be harsh, but she looks at me nervously, likely picking up on my attitude anyway.

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