“No, you’re not.”
“Wyatt,” Moxie says firmly and fixes a hard stare on Bean. “You good, man?”
“Peachy.” He shoves past French and into the hall.
What’s his problem? It’s getting worse, whatever it is. “I really meant that,” I mutter.
“I know,” Moxie replies.
“Did you?” French asks, his skeptical expression more open than it was before. He might believe me today if I say yes.
I run a hand through my hair. “Yeah. He’s got talent. When he uses it.” Sighing, I open the first cooler and try to figure out where I need to put everything.
“Mox?” French waits until Moxie steps closer to him, and he drops his voice low. But not low enough that I can’t hear him, so I pretend not to listen as I start loading food into the fridge. “I don’t know what’s wrong with him. Something happened at the studio with one of the artists, but he won’t tell me about it.”
“Keep trying to get him to talk,” Moxie says. Worry colors his tone. “Logan’s right, and we need him. Whatever it is, he’s not handling it well, and I’m worried about him.”
“He won’t listen to me. Not when I’m…” French trails off, and when I glance at him, he’s pinching the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed. “You know how he gets.”
“Yeah.” Moxie sighs, suddenly looking exhausted. But it only lasts a second before he’s standing straight and smiling. “We’d better get to practice. Logan?” He claps a hand on my shoulder as French Roast heads out. “You’re welcome to hang out on the sidelines and watch, as long as you keep your ‘helpful tips’ to yourself.” He uses air quotes when talking about my tips and gives me a warning look, then follows French.
Anything I say to Bean won’t be taken well, genuinely helpful or not, but I appreciate Moxie’s willingness to let me stay. Coach may have a different opinion, but it’ll be nice to have a wider perspective and see how the team works as a whole. The Thunder are scraping out wins by the skin of their teeth, and there has to be a way to get them back to a championship team like they were last year.
Maybe I’ll see something I can pass on to Moxie or Coach.
I get Savannah’s supplies situated first, and then I head out to the pitch and find a seat in the bleachers, high enough to have a decent view of what’s happening below. Right as I sit down, my phone buzzes with a text, and I grin as I read the words on my screen.
Savannah:
Moxie just texted me to ask if you’re actually letting me use your kitchen. Why didn’t he believe you?
Logan:
He must think it’s beneath me to be altruistic.
Savannah:
Guess I’m not the only one who’s convinced you think too highly of yourself. *tongue out emoji*
Logan:
Is my opinion wrong?
Savannah:
I REALLY wish I could say yes.
I snort a laugh, feeling the unspoken praise settle warm in my chest. For years, the media have showered me with well-deserved accolades as I’ve helped my Aussie team stay ranked among the best in the world, but no journalist has ever warmed me to the core the way Savannah has. Praise from her is pure sunlight after a storm.
Savannah texts again, changing the subject before I can come up with a response to her last message.
Savannah:
Did you get everything to the Thunder facility okay? I’m on my way there now.
Logan:
I’ve got you covered, Spitfire, don’t you worry.
