Page 5 of Playing the Field
“Porn marathon on pay-per-view,” I joke. Jimmy is one of the few people I trust enough to reveal what I really do at night. He waits, tapping a finger against his bottom lip and stretching to his full height. It never ceases to amaze me how a guy that wiry can look menacing. “Fine. I’m in the middle ofEmma. Jane Austen.”
Jimmy squints. “Don’t think I read that one, but I did read some Austen at some point in school.”
It’s one thing we have in common—a love for books. I dig reading in general, but a good classic is always in my rotation.
There are bound to be guys on the team who’d give me shit for being a bookworm. I like having some aspects of my life that aren’t available for public consumption. Another takeaway from my dad—let people think I’m a grunting athlete and nothing more because it’s a lower bar to maintain.
“Thanks for sticking around for my late sesh,” I say, feeling a little guilty about keeping Jimmy away from his wife and kids. But not guilty enough to skip a workout.
“Not a problem. I’m on dish duty anyway, so I’m not missing much. Except the girls’ bedtime routine, and I’ll roll in at the right hour to screw everything up, not to worry.”
Jimmy and I leave the sports facility and walk to the parking lot, which is empty except for our cars and tall streetlamps The sky is that periwinkle color that happens when day gives up and night pushes in. I have to make a special effort to keep my head down when we have night games so that color doesn’t distract me.
So far, it never has.
Soccer is my entire life, so I’m not about to jeopardize it. I’ve already done a bit too much of that, putting my job on the line right as the transfer window swung wide open. I’ll probably be moving out of LA soon enough to some town with worse weather.
“How does one screw up the bedtime routine of five-year-oldgirls?” I’m legitimately curious, especially since I won’t be daddying it up anytime soon. If ever.
He can’t suppress a guilty smile. It comes with another finger tap on his bottom lip. With the trucker hat Jimmy popped on when we walked outside, he looks even taller, like a eucalyptus tree stuck in the breeze. “Hannah does the dinner and bath and gets them settled in bed. Then I rile ’em up, tickling them and stomping around like Bigfoot. Hannah looks at me like she’ll murder me, but I can’t bring myself to stop. Pretty much a daily occurrence.”
I chuckle at his shamelessness, and for a second, I feel something strange. It’s a tiny pang behind my ribs, and I wonder if there’s something wrong with my heart. Maybe I went too hard on the cardio before I dug into leg day. Because it certainly can’t be a feeling of wanting what Jimmy has. The last thing I need in my life is a woman waiting to yell at me and kids waiting for me to do something else.
So I give Jimmy a bro hug and a slap on the back before throwing my bag onto the passenger seat of my Range Rover. When the engine turns over, its hum vibrates through my bones. The power and strength of the car override whatever errant stuff just happened in my heart and direct me down the narrow road between the soccer complex and the freeway.
That’s when my phone connects to my car and tells me through the speakers that I have new messages. The first is from Gerald Moder, the club CEO who holds my fate in his hands. He’d never tell me I’m getting transferred in a voicemail, but hearing his voice sends a chill down my spine nonetheless. “Reyes, it’s Gerald Moder. Let’s get you in my office this week. Much to discuss.”
There’s no point in replaying it, looking for signs of what he wants to discuss. Better to drink some whiskey on my own at home to make sure I fall asleep and don’t spend the whole night spinning out. My fate will be revealed soon enough.
The second message is from my closest friend, Kyler, with the “good news” that his sister is coming to work for the team. I roll my eyes even though no one can see me. I remember his older sister, Gracie, and it won’t be hard to find her at Devils headquarters if memory serves. She’ll be the one with bangs hanging halfway over her thick glasses. She’ll be roaming around in pajama pants and a baggy shirt.
She’ll be the one who’s too brainy and too cool to talk to the likes of me. At least that’s how I remember her. Nothing I did impressed her, and by the time I was drafted to the English Premier League at nineteen, she wasn’t around to be impressed by that either, off earning her graduate degree.
I can’t imagine why she’d be working for a professional soccer team, but my phone buzzes, and the breathless voice on the other end wipes any thoughts of Gracie away. “Hunt, it’s Emily from next door. The firefighters are here.”
“What? Where? What are they doing?”
“They’re at your house. Something caught fire. I’m so sorry.”
“Sorry” is not a good thing to hear when it comes to fire. “Sorry” can only mean one thing: my house is going up in flames, along with my soccer career.
CHAPTER 3
Gracie
“Wait,whathappened?”I need to be sure I heard my brother correctly. Maybe he’s talking about a different Hunter Reyes. Any Hunter Reyes, except the one I convinced myself I’ll never run into because my job is in the corporate offices and his is on the soccer pitch.
Apparently, a person will convince herself of anything to make it through another day. And this day started with me wrenching myself out of bed an hour earlier than necessary so I could stress bake a batch of chocolate-chunk cookies and eat four of them with my coffee. It’s my first day at work with the Devils. My stomach is roiling, but at least the house smells good.
“His house caught fire last night.” Kyler flips a pancake higher than necessary, and its uncooked side lands perfectly in the center of the griddle. I want to know how he learned to do that, but first things first.
“How?” Sitting on a barstool pulled up to the granite counterthat separates the kitchen from the dining area, I rub at my temples, where a perpetual headache is brewing. “I mean, wow. That’s terrible.” I shake myself out of the blur that momentarily stole my humanity. “Was he inside when it happened? Is everything okay?”
Kyler shrugs with his back to me as he loads frozen berries into a blender. I watch him add protein powder and coconut milk, then secure the lid and turn it on. When he’s whipped the mixture into frothy purple submission, he reaches for the cabinet above my head and takes out two glasses.
He has the energy of a jackrabbit and has always been a morning person. Growing up, the scene looked similar, with Kyler already having worked out and showered by seven, and me dragging myself to the kitchen for orange juice to fuel me through the process of getting ready for school.
Only now, Kyler is an adult with a job, and I’m still too bleary to finish buttering my toast.
