“Guess I’ll work on that.” I swallow hard and keep reading.
Rule 3: Daily check-ins, morning by 7:45 AM, evening by 8:45 PM.
Rule 4: No loud music. No neighbor complaints.
“Loud’s relative.”
“I’ll be the judge of that, Steele. If I can hear it next door,” she hitches her thumb in the direction of her adjacent condo, “then it’s too damn loud.”
So thrilled to be living next to my warden.
“Killjoy,” I mutter, continuing to scan.
Rule 5: No unvetted visitors.
“Wow. Do you need a list of approved people or something?”
Tori nods. “That works. Have the names to me by the morning.”
Are you kidding me? This is going to seriously fuck with my hook-up game.
Rule 6: All social media posts must be approved by Tori 24 hours in advance. No posting between 10 PM – 8 AM.
“Seems random.”
“Does it? Really? When’s the last time you posted something appropriate and meaningful after 10 PM?” She narrows those dark eyes at me, a tiny furrow creasing her brow.
She has a solid point, but I’m not about to admit it. I clutch the paper tighter, continue reading.
Rule 7: Maximum two alcoholic drinks per social outing, zero within twelve hours of games.
“Now we’re overreaching, Princess. Not that I’m going out and getting wasted, but two drinks max? A guy can’t let lose when he feels like it?” I kick at the floor, annoyed.
“No. Not when thatguy—” she throws up air quotes — “is suspended from the team. Not when thatguy”—more air quotes — “caused this mess in the first place in a drunken brawl with a local, ruining any goodwill the team managed to build.”
I throw my palm up. “Whoa, there. I wasnotdrunk. That dickbag bar owner was trashed, not me.”
Tori levels an icy gaze at me and I puff out my chest, refusing to back down.
“So your defense is you made a poor decision sober?”
Well, she’s got me there.
I rake a hand through my wavy hair. “Fine. Maybe not one-hundred percent sober.”
“Exactly. This clause will prevent unfortunate incidents like that from occurring in the future.”
Why do I feel like I’m getting lectured by a very hot, very strict teacher right now?
Aggravation simmers low in my gut, but I push it down and keep reading.
Rule 8: Mandatory rest hours. In bed by ten, lights out by 10:30.
“Are you fucking kidding me? You’re giving me a bedtime?”
“Yes. You’re a professional athlete. You need your recovery time. Oh, and no screens after 9:30 PM. Blue light’s bad for the REM cycle.”
I roll my eyes and huff out an exasperated sigh, white knuckling the paper. This woman’s beyond maddening and it’s not even technically day one of lockdown yet.
