“I’m glad I get to start with training today,” I tell him.
Troy shakes his head as he sits on a couch. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“My physical therapists are coming over.”
“To gently move your limbs and ask you how you’re feeling. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
I frown, annoyed, although I knew we weren’t rushing back into a full routine. I’ve barely been home, though, and I’m already itching to do something.
Since soccer is off the table, I try my other favorite activity: teasing Troy.
“I hope you made sure to wipe the lipstick off your collar before you went into the office this morning.”
He snorts. “I stopped by home to shower and change, thanks. Couldn’t show up smelling like your dirty apartment.”
I consider what Stace suggested earlier. What if I did tell Troy I was developing feelings for him? Because my emotions have clearly deepened beyond our initial arrangement. He might balk or run away at first, but he might be into it, too. The care he’s showing me doesn’t feel strictly professional.
When he pulls his phone out to take a work call, though, I decide this is hardly the right time. I’m not even supposed to be watching screens yet, let alone navigating complex sexual and emotional territory with the man who holds my career in his hands.
And he’s already shut me down once. I remember the sting that first night.
While he paces around the front of the loft, barking into the phone, I ease back into the couch, listening to the familiar sound of his voice.
I’ve got a grueling month ahead. I better enjoy the peace while I can.
CHAPTERTWENTY-FIVE
TROY
It’s Friday afternoon, and I’m leaving a meeting with some baseball executives, suits who seemed to care more about whether I was going to sign Marshall than they did the contracts we’re supposed to be negotiating.
It’s time to make another move with him and Patel. I’m done waiting.
My mind is on an upcoming negotiation when I turn to see a young man standing down the sidewalk. “Excuse me. Do you have a minute to talk about the Philly Force?” he asks.
I think I might have heard him wrong. “What?”
“You represent three players from the team,” he says, walking forward. I notice that he’s in one of Patel’s jerseys, paired with a fresh-looking baseball hat. “I’m a sports blogger. I wondered if you have any comment on Onassis?”
My face stays blank, but my mind races.
He’s asking me because I’m Orlando’s agent. That’s all. With pressure mounting on the Force, press has been clamoring for updates on Orlando’s health.
“He’s recovering well and ready to join up with his team soon. And the agency is always happy to talk up our players,” I tell him and frown. “Call the office and make an appointment first.”
I turn to walk away, and the man calls out after me. “He's making plenty of headlines off the field, too! Any comment on his personal life?”
I ignore him and keep walking.
This is concerning. Although with the Force dominating their last games and expectations high ahead of the cup games, it makes sense that there would be extra scrutiny on him.
But I still don’t like it, and I send some quick texts back to the office to let everyone know someone is sniffing around.
Over the course of my short pro baseball career, I only tried to steal a base once. We were down one. It was the bottom of the eighth, Nashville’s catcher fumbled, and I misread a hand gesture from a coach. My legs were moving before I could think better, and I’ll never forget the roar that went through the crowd as I sprinted, adrenaline pumping through my veins.
The catcher returned the ball faster than I anticipated, but it was too late to turn around. Instead, I had no choice but to run faster, plow harder toward a fate that I knew was already sealed.
Being with Orlando is starting to feel a little like that. Like we’re setting ourselves up for a crash.
