Page 7 of The Fantasy League
To save some of the looming discomfort, I told her that I needed to take breakfast to go because the team had early practice that week, which was a fat lie. Not only did we never have practice on Tuesdays, we also never got called in early because half the guys struggled to show up on time as it was.
However, it was on day thirteen that I realized that my biggest fuckup of all was throwing whatever breakfast Scarlett made that I was too nervous to eat in the trash. Because the first person to use the trash can in the kitchen each morning… would be my chef.
My blood boiled thinking about how much of an idiot I was.
Between that and me barely saying a word to the girl, I wouldn’t be surprised if she thought I hated her guts. Granted, the last seven months hadn’t been as awkward as those first few weeks were, but then again, she only communicated to me through blueish-green sticky notes these days, most of which I didn’t bother responding to.
Maybe if I finally grew the balls to ask her on a date, I could clear the air between us? Give us a fresh start?
Stumped at the thought, I brought the car to a stop in the driveway and softly banged my forehead on the steering wheel as I let out an exhausted groan.
I looked up to find Scarlett standing in front of the hood sporting a shy grin and an uncomfortable wave.
Fuck.
Opening the driver’s door, I let out a giant sigh. “Sorry, rough morning.”
“Oh, sorry.” Her eyes dart to her sneakers. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Not right now.” I blinked. Her big brown eyes peeked up at me through her lashes. “Thanks though,” I offered, trying to ease the tension.
Her eyes jumped down to her sneakers again. “Okay, well, your second breakfast is on the counter. And I put a new batch of overnight oats in the fridge if you get hungry again later,” she replied, twirling the ring on her middle finger the same way she always did whenever she was nervous. “If you don’t need anything else, then I guess I’ll see you tomorrow morning?”
I shifted on my feet uncomfortably. “Alright.” She nodded back to me. I watched as she made her way down the long driveway and across the street until she disappeared behind the large white gate.
That conversation was probably the longest we’d had since her first day working for me. It couldn’t have been more than what, fifty words?
Scarlett and I had this unspoken rule for the past eight months. She came over to cook in the mornings, I grunted thanks if I was around, and she left immediately after. There was no chitchat… just silence. And that conversation solidified the fact that there could never be anything more than silence between us.
Walking into the house, I grabbed a clean set of utensils from the dishwasher and the second breakfast that Scarlett left for me. Plopping down on the couch, I sank into the cushions and slowly worked my fork into the delicious protein waffles that were waiting for me.
How was it possible that I could talk to reporters or do countless postgame interviews and not get flustered? Yet, when it came to having a conversation withmy employee,my brain and my mouth seemed to sever their connection.
Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes and let out a sigh.
Scarlett was pretty much my fucking dream girl and now Coach was all but forcing me to ask her out because we both knew I wasn’t going to ask anyone else.
Sly motherfucker, that man.
At least if she flat out rejected me, then I could always use the partial truth—that the team was making me get a fake girlfriend—as backup.
What was the worst that could happen anyway? She’d quit?
THREE
SCARLETT
“I’m quitting!”
I flung myself onto Mae’s couch dramatically and sank into the cushions while fully embracing the frustrated groan that expelled from my mouth. How was it that every encounter with Abel got even worse than the last? I didn’t even know that was possible.
More importantly, I didn’t have to put up with his shit anymore. Now that I had this book deal under my belt, I didn’t necessarilyneedto continue working for him.
I was planning to stay purely out of convenience. With him living across the street and paying me a full-time salary for part-time hours, I didn’t think it would hurt too much if I stuck around a while longer.
Plus, unbeknownst to him, I’d been testing out new recipes on him for months without him knowing. There was no sense in posting a recipe for the world to try if a guy who shoveled in six thousand calories a day like it was nothing didn’t like it.
At best, he was free and easy quality control.
