Page 17 of Cross Check Daddies
“Dude, she’s working for the hire ups,” someone adds.
“Still hot though,” Rhett mutters, unapologetic.
I say nothing. Just breathe through my nose and flex my hands like I’m checking for soreness. Ace’s voice booms from the doorway before the conversation can get any more idiotic.
“Zip it. This isn’t a dating mixer. Act like professionals for five minutes."
Everyone quiets, some with smirks still lingering. Coach glances at the clipboard and starts reading names off in order. One by one, the guys head out, still hyped from practice, still sweaty and cocky.
I’m last on the list. I don’t even know if that was on purpose or bad luck, but either way, anticipation builds in my stomach like carbonation. I run a hand through my damp hair and wait.
Brooke Taylor. Dang. Back in high school, I used to watch her. She’d pull up in that old Civic, backpack over one shoulder, Cam’s arm around her waist. She was always laughing, always in on some joke I didn’t hear.
I used to wonder what it’d be like to be the one she kissed behind the bleachers or whispered to in the dark. My first kiss wasn’t anything special, and yeah, I compared it to my fantasy.
I thought it was just a tiny crush. A passing thing.
Now I’m not so sure.
“King,” Coach barks.
That’s me.
I head down the hall and into the small photo area. And there she is, leaning over a tablet, showing something to the photographer. When she looks at me, her eyes light up.
“Hey.”
That smile hits somewhere low in my gut.
“Hey,” I say back. “How’s the apartment? Settling in?”
She tucks her hair behind her ear and nods. “Moved in this weekend. Still getting used to the area, and driving all the way here is... terrifying.”
I laugh, stepping into the marked space as the photographer gestures. “Glad you made it out alive. Really happy to see you here, Brooke.”
She meets my eyes, something soft passing between us. The camera clicks. I do the whole jersey grip pose, turn sideways, and flex a little. She watches the screen, giving quiet feedback to the guy snapping the shots. When we wrap up, I run a hand through my hair again and walk toward her.
“Thanks,” I say. “Catch you around?”
She nods, lips curling. “Definitely.”
I head back down the hallway, the buzz in my chest still warm. Maybe I should’ve asked for her number. Just to keep in touch. For work reasons. Sure.
Back in the locker room, the place is mostly cleared out. My gloves are where I left them, but something else sits on the bench. A notebook. The same one she was showing us off earlier with character sketches and branding notes.
I pick it up.
Her name is scribbled on the inside cover in slanted cursive. Even her handwriting is fucking pretty.
I flip through it out of habit. Sketched concepts, notes, color palettes. Little things that make her real to me in a way I didn’t expect. Then, something on the last page catches my eye.
Brooke’s 30 Before 30 List.
I shouldn’t be reading it, but I do. Because curiosity has always been my biggest flaw.
Learn to surf
