Page 9 of Playing the Field
CHAPTER 4
Hunter
“I don’t haveto say it, right?” Kyler asks, eyeing me over a bedsheet folded into a crisp square. It almost looks like he irons them, but instead of asking about that, I puzzle over his question.
“Say what?”
My oldest friend looks at me like I’m a vermin that threatens to invade his pristine house. And by the way, when did he become such a neat freak?
I remember his room in high school—a mess of vinyl records next to a vintage turntable, stacks of skate wear catalogs, and piles of surf wax and tools for fixing his never-ending accumulation of sports equipment, none of which included a soccer ball.
When we lived together in college, he wasn’t much better, but the mess shifted to clothing strewn around our dorm room and girlfriends’ hair ties left on the bathroom counter. I was the neat one of the two, and that’s saying something. I came home most nights after training drenched in sweat and too tired tomicrowave a bag of popcorn. Fortunately, back then, the sports teams had a plush dining hall where a nutritionist looked out for our health better than we ever could.
But now, I’m getting hives. “It’s like an OCD fever dream around here,” I grunt as Kyler unfurls the sheet and tucks it over the fold-out couch mattress in his office.
“Thanks.”
“I swear, man, if you start making hospital corners, I’ll put you in a chokehold.”
He finishes the bed and tosses two plaid pillows to the top. “Back atcha if you creep on my sister.”
“Oh, is that what you meant before? We’re not exactly in high school here. Don’t you think we’re a little old for ‘hands off my sister’?”
“It’s not that. She’s…been through some stuff, and I feel a little protective, is all.”
“Well, now you’ve got my attention.”
He picks up a skateboard and stacks it in the corner on top of two others. I have to hand it to the guy. He’s made a living out of being the same adrenaline junkie he was as a kid, only now he makes millions fulfilling the dreams of a new generation of skate and surf kids.
“Not gonna give you specifics. But she’s had a bad breakup or two, got her heart crushed. Most recently, it cost her a job. She tends to get overly invested and doesn’t see the signs. At least, that’s how she used to be.”
“Yeah? The woman is in her thirties. Give her some credit.” I don’t know why I’m defending her. Maybe because she seemed into me a tiny bit at the airport, and I want to believe she has good judgment?
I plop down on the bed and push a hand through my hair, shaking my head in disbelief. “And chill the fuck out. Do you think I’m some sort of animal who can’t control himself? Jesus.”
“No, but your track record speaks for itself.”
I fight a smirk because he’s not wrong. I haven’t exactly limited myself to indulging in the lineup of fangirls who approach after every game. “I can’t help it if women come up to me at hotel bars after games.”
He nods warily. “No judgment. I’m saying my sister isn’t like that. She’s wife material, not fling material.”
I hold up my hands in protest. “Hey, message received. Relax. I’m focused on my shitty circumstances. I won’t have time to bother your sister.”
Well, that’s not exactly true. I’ll bother, but that’s only because I’ve always found her nice to look at. The highs of being a high school athlete were only blunted when Gracie came back from college periodically and ignored me. Wouldn’t give me the time of day, while I stared at her like she created the sun and moon.
After finally getting that image out of my head, seeing her brings all those old urges back.
And now, she holds my professional future in her unmanicured hands. My worst nightmare come to life. If she’s the team's chief data analyst, she now controls the levers that will determine whether I have a future with the Devils. It maddens me because I’ve worked my ass off to earn my starting center back spot on the team, and I don’t want it tanked because she doesn’t like sports. Or me.
I remember how she barely gave Ky and me a passing glance when she came home from college, clearly aware that her brains outmatched our weightlifting and hormonal high school antics.
I also don’t want to curry favor with her and influence her decision. Well, maybe I do.
I’d do pretty much anything.
Okay, that’s not true either.
I’ve turned down my coach’s suggestion that I do intense anger management work with a therapist. I’ve turned down the team doctor’s suggestion that I take meds to control my impulsive behavior on the field. And I’ve flat-out rejected the idea ofblunting my social media presence if it can influence people to eat cleaner and take better care of our planet.
