Chapter One
Dominic
The first alarm doesn’t wake me. Neither does the second. It’s the third one labeled “LAST CHANCE, IDIOT” that finally jolts me awake with its blaring siren. I stare at the ceiling of my new apartment for approximately five seconds before reality hits. First practice. New team. Los Angeles Comets. Today.
“Shoot!” I kick off my tangled sheets and practically leap to the bathroom.
Seven minutes.
That’s how long I have before I need to be out the door. Seven minutes to shower, dress, grab breakfast, and remember how to breathe.
Not that I’m anxious or anything.
The shower water hasn’t even warmed up when I step in, shooting ice-cold needles on my skin. I grit my teeth and power through it. There’s no time to wait for a luxury like hot water. I jump out, towel off, and throw on some red basketball shorts and a gray Comets shirt.
I pull out a protein shake from the fridge and a few hard-boiled eggs. The gym bag I packed meticulously last night waits for me by the front door, which means I have exactly one minute to spare to load up on protein. Small victory.
Maybe this morning won’t be a complete disaster, after all.
I grab my water bottle, toss it into my bag, and take one final look. Phone. Wallet. I pat my pockets. All good.
As I finally make it out the front door, I pause. Something feels off. I run through my mental checklist again.
Phone. Wallet. Water. Shoes…
Keys.
Where are my keys?
I frantically pat my pockets again, checking my shorts, jacket, even the small front pocket of my gym bag where I sometimes stash them. Nothing.
My eyes dart to the kitchen counter. Not there. Coffee table? Nope.
“Come on, come on,” I mutter, scanning the apartment.
The clock on the microwave reads 8:42. Practice starts at 9:30, and the facility is at least a thirty-minute drive without traffic, which, from what I’ve gathered in my three days in LA, doesn’t exist.
A flash of silver catches my eye from beneath a stack of mail on the dining room table. Bingo.
I set my gym bag and water bottle down outside my apartment door, just for a second, and dash back inside to grab my keys. As I snatch them up, I catch sight of the time again. 8:43. I’m going to be cutting it close, but if I hit all green lights and disregard any speed limit signs, I might still make it on time.
I freeze in my doorway, keys clutched in my hand, as I take in the scene before me: a small chocolate-colored dog, some kind of terrier mix, with its leg hiked up, happily relieving itself all over my gym bag.
“Hey!” I shout, lunging forward. “Get away from there!”
The dog startles, cutting its stream short but not before giving my bag one last generous spray. It backs up, tail between its legs, then darts down the hallway.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I groan, staring at my now-soaked gym bag.
I kneel to assess the damage. The yellow liquid has soaked through the side pocket, where I’d carefully placed my basketball shoes last night—the ones from my sponsor that I specifically set aside because all my other Nikes are packed away somewhere in the sea of boxes currently stacked in my bedroom closet.
A distant “Cocoa! Cocoa, come back here!” echoes from down the hallway, followed by the sound of running footsteps.
I stand, my jaw clenched so tight I can feel a headache forming at my temples. 8:46. Now I’m definitely going to be late.
Here’s to warming the bench.
A woman appears at the end of the hallway, slightly out of breath, her platinum blonde hair falling in messy waves around her shoulders. She’s wearing pink pajama shorts and an oversized t-shirt that reads “NAMASTAY IN BED.” The dog—Cocoa, presumably—trots happily to her side, looking entirely too pleased with itself.
