Hudson
No, she kind of does. Because without them, Scottie’s kissing her brother, which is illegal in at least 48 states and nasty in all of them.
Dallas
On second thought, good use of air quotes, Mom.
Scottie has notifications silenced.
I could say something.
I could tell them I’m tired. That I don’t actually want to be the glue tonight. Or ever again.
I don’t.
I put my phone face down and tap three fingers between my brows, trying to stave off the deepest, angriest elevens any woman has ever had. I’m too young for elevens!
Jake is family, and family helps each other.
You’ve always been the glue.
Mom’s words feel less like praise and more like a permanent assignment I stupidly volunteered for, because it’s easier to be needed than to be seen.
Because it’s easier to never ask for something than to risk no one answering if you do.
The glue that holds him together, though, does nothing to keep me from falling apart. I’m Jake’s safety net—the one strung across the gap so he doesn’t fall, even if that gap is growing and threatening to swallow me whole.
I’ve been strung across it since before I even had braces.
I look at the beautiful color-coded calendar in front of me, at the itinerary that shows Kayla was exactly right to pick Scottie Quinn for this job, and my gaze sharpens.
I hit print on my computer and head out to the industrial printer in the dark hallway. The blue light of the softly purring machine reflects off my glasses. I put my hand on the glasses stem, about to remove them when I pause. Then I take them off and stuff them in my laptop bag. It’s not like anyone’ll see me at this hour, anyway.
But a phantom weight lingers on the bridge of my nose. Without the frames, the world is a little clearer but also less clinical. It makes me feel exposed—like I’ve left my professional mask on the printer tray next to the scrap paper.
My six-point plan and coordinating calendar prints three perfectly collated copies—one for me, one for Kayla, and one for Lucas. I could email it to everyone, but physical copies are more tangible. A physical packet will tell Lucas “I’m your handler, not the girl you joke about cake with.”
Once I drop Kayla’s copy in her box, I take the back stairs down to the service level, my platform sneakers clanging against the metal treads. When I’m in my heels, the sound is sharper and makes me feel powerful.
Tonight, it just makes me feel loud.
The service level is a maze of cinder block and exposed pipes. The cleaning crew is still at it, the air thick with disinfectant and floor wax, industrial buffers droning over black rubber mats.
I pass through the inner lobby where a guard is slumped behind the security desk, the glow of CCTV monitors reflecting off his glasses.
“Still at it, Miss Quinn?” he calls. “That boyfriend of yours don’t mind?”
“My only date this week is paperwork,” I say, holding up Lucas’s itinerary. “I need to drop this off for one of the players.”
“Well, watch out near Tunnel Three,” he says. “Lucas Fischer’s been in there since eight. Sounds like he’s trying to throw a hole through the vinyl.”
I give him a tight laugh and keep moving.
The hallway narrows as I approach the clubhouse wing, motion-sensor lights flicking on ahead of me and snapping off behind me like the darkness is keeping up.
The player mailboxes line the wall just outside the locker room doors.
Typically only locals and guys rehabbing will report before Spring Training, but the Fischers’ camps are good for the team and the community. They’re also the most popular players on the team, so they already have actual letters in their boxes. Logan has a couple dozen, at least.
