The team erupts into laughter and cheers, while the player closest to the wing says something about how I have him pegged and even got his name right.
Moxie is less amused, his jaw clenched as he stalks over to Evanson. “You didn’t tell me he was top shelf,” he says in anundertone, but not so quiet that I can’t hear the conversation over the team’s chatter.
Evanson shrugs. “I would have if you were ever around. I told you I didn’t know if he would pan out, so I figured I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”
Grumbling something about being busy, Moxie comes back over to me and pastes on a smile. “We can’t compare to the Wallabies, but we’re glad to have you.” I doubt he believes his own words, with the way they seem to cause him pain.
He’ll change his tune once he sees me play.
With pleasantries out of the way, Moxie heads to the coaching staff and starts talking to a woman who frowns back at him as she puts her hand on his arm. It’s a comforting gesture, I’d reckon, which makes me think Evanson wasn’t speaking nonsense when he said this team is a family.
Considering I’m herebecauseof family, I’m not sure I love that concept. I generally don’t bother with putting down roots, but I get the sense things’ll be awkward if I stick to the outskirts the way I plan. At least I can still play the game regardless of my relationships. Or lack thereof.
“Let’s get to work, Thunder!” Evanson shouts, and everyone hops to their feet, giving me a wide berth and plenty of sideways glances.
Not excitement, then. Looks like we’re starting strong with awkwardness and unease.Brilliant.
Chapter 2
Savannah
It’snotthecrashI heard a second ago that worries me most.
It’s the silence.
People always say there’s nothing more terrifying than a quiet toddler, and until a month ago I thought it was just a funny thing to say. Not a real thing. I’m not sure the saying applies to cats like it does to children, but…
I’m practically elbow-deep in ground turkey as I stand frozen in my kitchen, straining my ears for any sounds coming from the bedroom. “Beef?” I say loudly when the silence continues long enough to make me truly nervous. My giant cat isneverquiet like this, and that can only mean disaster.
A glance at the clock kicks my heart rate up another few notches. I do not have time for this! I need to get a week’s worth of meals prepped for a delivery tomorrow morning, and it’s never a good thing if I work two overnighters in a row. Groaning, I shut my eyes tight and take a deep breath. It’s almost nine. I’m still at least three hours out from finishing this job, andif I have to pause to deal with a crisis, the night will just keep stretching longer.
I can’t miss tomorrow’s delivery. Not when this client is still in their trial period. If they don’t hire me more permanently to make oven-ready meals, I most likely won’t be able to afford rent next month. And then what? Then I’ll have no choice but to head back home to South Carolina and admit that my parents were right when they told me I was an idiot to start a business on the West Coast.
“Beef!” I shout again.
A tiny sound, like a little whimper, is the only reply.
Cursing, I peel off my gloves and hurry down the hall, praying I’m not about to rush into a horror scene. “Beef Wellington, so help me, if you’ve gone and gotten yourself killed, I’ll…”
I’ll cry, for one.Sob. Going to the shelter when I’m barely keeping my business afloat was a terrible idea from the start, but I’m sure not ready to face the heartbreak of losing my Wellie. I only just got him.
Stumbling into my dark bedroom, I scramble to find the light switch, illuminating the disaster. I curse again as I take in the bookshelf that five minutes ago was upright and full of books but is now propped against the bed, all of the books strewn across my bed and floor.
“Beef!”
A mewling comes from under the bed, and I have to dig through the pile of books before green eyes meet mine. My lungs deflate at the sight of him sprawled just beneath the frame, unmoving. Not even his fluffy tail is twitching.
Tears prick my eyes. “Beef Wellington, what did you do?” Reaching under the bed, I grab hold of his shoulders and drag him out as gently as I can. I have no idea how he managed to knock over a giant shelf full of cookbooks and textbooks, and I don’t want to think about him getting pelted by those monstrous things. Thank goodness the bookshelf landed on the bed and didn’t crush him.
Except, I’ve never seen my cat this still before. Not even in his sleep.
With a few more curses for good measure, I poke around his body, trying to see if anything is broken. He growls when I touch his hip, and I freeze. “There? Is that where you’re hurt?”
He looks at me like I’m an idiot—he is exceptionally expressive—and seems to be trying to tell me something else that I can’t understand. This cat and I speak different languages and haven’t yet learned to communicate, no matter how hard we try. But I’m pretty sure he’s hurt.
Though I have way too much work to do, I grab my phone, pulling up the number of my vet, who, at this point, should be added to my favorites because I text him so often.
That’s what he gets for giving me his cell phone number and saying I’m welcome to reach out with any questions.
