Page 26 of Player Misconduct
“You got condoms from the vending machine? What exactly is your plan here?”
He takes a sip of soda, completely unfazed. “Oh, I ran into some of the guys from the flight. We’re talking about having a water balloon fight on the second story.”
“With condoms?”
“Have you ever been hit with a condom water balloon?” he asks, dead serious. “They don’t break easy and they hurt like hell.”
I stare at him, both horrified and amused. “Do they leave dick-shaped welts all over your body?”
“Something like that. It should be fun.” His grin is pure mischief. “They also invited us down to the hot tub in a couple of minutes.”
“Oh God. Do they realize we’re quarantining?”
He shrugs. “I told you, no one’s contagious until first symptoms and we’d have to share bodily fluids. Besides, chlorine kills the virus… I looked it up. We’re practically sanitizing while getting a deep tissue water jet massage. And you need to get out of this room. You look like you’re about to get cabin fever. And even if this is our last night before the symptoms start, we might as well make it a good one.”
I hate how reasonable he’s being about this with all his ‘fun facts’ when all I can think to do is take the CDC’s rules dead serious. He’s the optimistic one, the guy who finds light in chaos—but the truth beneath his last words hit deep. If this is the last night, what’s the point of dying alone in a motel room? And I can’t argue that chlorine kills the virus. He makes a valid point there.
“Want to come down with me?” he asks, turning to dig through his duffel. He pulls out a pair of dark swim trunks.
I shake my head automatically… then remember the bikini I’ve never actually used. It’s been shoved in my suitcase through every away game, every “maybe next time.”
Maybe tonight deserves an outing.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll get dressed in the bathroom.”
I tug my bag inside with me, close the door, and catch my reflection in the mirror. For a long moment, I just stare.
I can’t believe this night is happening.
“Want me to wait for you?” he calls through the door.
“No, go ahead,” I answer. “I’ll be down in a bit.”
“Will you grab towels for both of us?”
“Yeah.” I spot the white ones stacked on the shelf and grab two.
A moment later, the door clicks behind him. Silence rushes in—my first minute alone all day.
It’s almost too much.
I pull out my phone, thumbs flying over the screen.
A group text to the girls:
Alive. Quarantined in the middle of nowhere. Possible Ebola exposure (long story). Rooming with Aleksi because of a paperwork ‘mistake.’ Will explain later.
Some of them might still be in the air, others already home. I don’t know who’ll see it, but at least someone will know where I am.
Then I hesitate, hovering over my contacts.
Is there anyone else I should tell?
Would my mother even remember she has a daughter if I texted her? Would she care—or just ask if she’s listed on my life insurance policy?
I decide to skip it.
And then I see them.
