Page 22 of Cross Check Daddies
“You’re not listening,” she says flatly, dipping a fry in ketchup and pointing it at me like a weapon.
“I am,” I lie. “London. Article. Your husbands whining.”
She snorts. “That’s the summary, yeah. They’re being big babies about it. Kieran's already panicking about what to pack for me, like I don’t own a suitcase.”
“Two weeks is manageable,” I say. “You’ll be back before the next home game.”
“And I’ll bring you something weird and expensive from Heathrow to make up for abandoning you.”
“You’re not abandoning me,” I mutter. “You’re doing your job.”
She leans back, chewing thoughtfully. “What about you? How’s the game plan for Tampa shaping up?”
I shrug. “Same as always. Aggressive start, tighter defensive second."
She lifts a brow. “And the game developer girl? Brooke?”
I pause with my beer halfway to my lips. “What about her?”
“She’s cute.”
“She’s a distraction,” I mutter.
She laughs. “You’re such a grump.”
I don’t respond. She finishes her meal, wipes her hands clean with a napkin, and pushes her chair back. She kisses my cheek before heading off with a promise to text when her flight’s booked. I watch her walk away, then glance back toward the kid and the bulldog. They’re gone.
I finish the last of my beer and toss the tray. The sun’s low, casting a warm amber wash over the pavement as I walk the couple blocks back to my apartment. There’s a nice breeze tonight. People are out, laughing, walking dogs, jogging in neon sneakers. I nod at a few of them out of habit, unlock my door, and step into the quiet.
The place still smells faintly of leather from the couch I bought two months ago, and haven’t had time to break in. I flick the light on, kick off my shoes, grab a cold soda from the fridge, and head straight to the desk tucked in the corner of the living room. My laptop hums to life.
I check the schedule. Nothing.
My usual opponent, PixelVixen, is still offline.
I sit back, rubbing my jaw, and stare at the empty screen. Most nights, we’d play something competitive. Low stakes buthigh pride. And I liked the rhythm of it. But she’s barely been online lately. I don’t want to pick up a new game tonight. I’m not in the mood to lose to some random teenager in Romania with reflexes wired to Red Bull.
I open a different folder.Game tape.Tampa’s last three games, edited and timestamped by our video analyst.
I hit play and let it run while I open my digital whiteboard and start sketching out formations. This is the real work. The quiet, gritty stuff that happens long before the puck drops. Watching how Vance’s defense tightens near the crease. How their power play stretches too wide. Where we can slip in under their radar.
There’s something satisfying about it. Controlled. Logical. Not like trying to wrangle grown men with too much testosterone and even more ego.
I pause the video and glance at the window. Outside, Miami is still humming. I can hear the bass of someone’s speaker, muffled through layers of walls. My eyes drift to the printed pages on the side table. Brooke’s sketches. The ones she emailed the team.
She’s talented. I’ll give her that. Her style is bold but careful, full of small flourishes that tell me she’s used to working fast but doesn’t cut corners. And yeah, she’s pretty. Everyone notices. Even the guys on the team, though I shut that down quickly.
They need to stay focused. We all do. Because all this buzz about avatars and game partnerships? It won’t mean anything if we keep losing. We’ve got decent momentum now, but one bad streak and the media will eat us alive. A flashy campaign might get clicks. But winning gets respect. Winning gets fans in seats. Winning gets sponsors. Anything else is just noise.
I tap the keyboard again. More tape. More notes. My cursor flashes on the whiteboard, waiting for the next play.
The music outside shifts. Laughter echoes from the alley below. Somewhere out there, Brooke’s probably smiling. She seems like someone who lives loud. I’ve known her all of five minutes, and she’s already got the team wrapped around her finger. Even Cam’s got that dazed look in his eyes whenever she’s mentioned.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and sit back. This is fine. She’s part of the team now, technically. I’ll keep it professional. I always do. But I swear to God, if Rhett or Deke so much as blink in her direction again during practice, I’m putting them on extra drills.
I jot down another play. Defensive shuffle off the line change. Then another. Then another.
Hours later, I finally stand, stretch, and roll my neck, then head to the fridge. Nothing appealing. I settle for water. Cold, plain, clean.
