Page 10 of Playing the Field
“You have everything you need?” Kyler stands in the doorway holding a pile of towels. I set them down and sink into the mattress with my head in my hands. The pity party is real.
“I don’t want to sound like a whiny asshole,” I say.
Kyler chuckles. “It’s me. I already know you’re a whiny asshole. Just vent.” He crosses his arms and leans against a dark-stained bookshelf with framed photos of him surfing in Hawaii and Santa Cruz. I have a moment of envy for that time on the water, where his only job is to wait for a good wave.
Then I snap back to reality.
“I know it’s my own damn fault that I’ll probably get traded, and maybe my house burning is some kind of a sign. It’s time for a fresh start.”
“Maybe so. You know I believe in that shit.” He picks up a pillowcase and stuffs it with a fat pillow. “Then again, maybe it’s a couple of setbacks and you’re gearing up for some other kind of karmic bump.”
“I’m not sure getting thrown out on my ass is the big score you think it is.”
He laughs, seeming unconvinced of my dire situation. “Well, you’re welcome here as long as you need. And Gracie likes to stress bake, so that’s something.”
Something, indeed.
CHAPTER 5
Gracie
I huffmy annoyance into the steam coming off my coffee with a splash of good old half-and-half as I rush down the hallway for my first official meeting at the Los Angeles Devils corporate offices. I came in the wrong way, and now I’m navigating a warren of halls to the executive lobby.
The team logo—a fierce-looking angel with devil horns on a dark red jersey—is emblazoned on the elevator walls and the floor of each landing. I’ve already seen three people wearing long-sleeved shirts or hoodies with the Devils logo. I own exactly zero fan gear, and I’d be swimming in any of Kyler’s swag.
My brother would make more sense in the corporate offices of the LA Devils soccer club. The guy eats, breathes, and sleeps sports, at least when he’s not at his own job running a skate and surf lifestyle brand. I’m not exactly sure what that is.
For practical purposes, it means he gets to travel all the time and visit “epic” surf towns the world over. He’s an expert atpeopling, whereas I should be quietly ensconced in a techie cubicle farm wearing sweatpants and headphones. Not clip-clopping along in heels, navy slacks, and a cream-colored blouse. I hope I look like an appropriately dressed data analyst.
I’m right on time, which, to me, means I’m late. I like to arrive at least fifteen minutes early. It gives me time to prepare—mentally.
And this meeting requires more than fifteen minutes of prep. I need to calm my nerves and push away the lonely feeling I get when I don’t yet feel comfortable in my new surroundings. I’m like an animal, needing ample time to circle in one spot and sniff my way through to finding a landing place.
Ugh, I hate being on time.
Sweat dribbles between my boobs as I totter down the hallway in these heels. I only need one interim job to get my legs back under me before I can go back to my safe haven of Northern California. I still have my house there on the edge of an open space preserve, where undisturbed forest is all I can see.
That was the image in my head as I navigated freeway exits and urban sprawl on my way to the Devils offices downtown. I passed by the garment district and a patchwork of cheap-clothing stalls at an outdoor market that went on for miles. Ten shirts for ten dollars, fifteen pairs of socks for twenty bucks, baseball hats and track pants for a steal.
I tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear, annoyed at myself for agreeing to a new layered cut when my hairdresser proposed an “LA do.” At the coffee place I visited earlier, none of the gorgeous women glowing from hot yoga had an “LA do.” Their hair was perfectly messy, piled on top of their heads like a matching set of crowns. I tuck a wavy tendril behind my ear, and it immediately springs free.
Sigh.
“Hi, I’m here to see?—”
“Gracie!” The mountain of a man appears in the well-appointed lobby. I barely have time to take in the cream-colored leather sofas and spotless glass tables before my hand is enveloped in the strong handshake of Gerald Moder, the CEO of the Devils franchise.
He looks like a TV sitcom dad, with a chiseled face aglow beneath a wide smile, an expertly trimmed mountain-man beard, and close-cropped dark hair. He has the large frame of a former athlete who still keeps himself in peak condition into his fifties, and I know from research that he spends his vacation time white-water rafting whenever possible. He’s the sliver of light that makes me think I can fit in at this male-dominated organization—a guy who likes his time on the river and isn’t going to kick me out for talking about something other than soccer.
“So nice to meet you in person, Mr. Moder,” I say, wishing the feeling of belonging would last. As soon as he lets go of my hand, however, the loneliness creeps back in.
“No, no, none of that. It’s Gerald. Come, come, let’s get you situated.” He beckons me down a long hallway that surprises me with the bright light flooding each office we pass. Floor-to-ceiling windows comprise two walls of his corner office, and he lowers the blinds to shield me from the direct glare coming from the east.
Taking a seat opposite him, I run my hands over the metal armrests and lean against the oatmeal-colored pillow on the low-slung, brown leather chair. It manages to give off both modern and western cowboy vibes, and I wonder if Gerald had anything to do with choosing it.
He smooths his hands over the leather pad on his giant glass desk and taps his fingers a few times like a warm-up. “Let’s get right to it, shall we?”
I must look like a deer in front of a set of high beams because he chuckles and opens a folder containing a stack of pages. He studies me instead of looking down at the papers. “I believe thekind of thing you do is the future of this sport. And I intend for this team to be on the cutting edge of it.”
