He rolls his neck, then lets his head fall back as he lets out a heavy sigh.
“Fine, it’s two-four-oh-nine-nine.”
I punch in the numbers and press enter, relieved when the latch on his door releases and I’m able to push it open.
“There, we’re in,” I say, standing with my hands on my hips as he collects his credit card, driver’s license, and what looks like a stack of punch cards for restaurants.
Once he scrambles back to his feet, I open his door wide so he can clear the threshold without running into anything. He dumps his belongings into a wooden bowl on a small table just inside. Unlike Jayden’s apartment, Coach Bastion’s is filled with clutter, and there’s a mild stench of cigar in the air.
“Can I get you a glass of water?” I ask as he saunters toward a worn leather chair near the patio window. He pulls one shoe off about halfway there.
“Yes. Water.” His tone sounds more like an order, and I laugh to myself when my back is to him. Even when I’m being hospitable and kind, he’s a dick.
I open the cabinet above the sink and find a stack of plastic cups with various team logos. He must save them from every field the team visits. I snag the one from Little Rock since it’s where we’re traveling to next and fill it halfway. By the time I walk it over to him, he’s made himself comfortable in his chair, one foot propped on a mismatched ottoman, his TV remote braced against his thick thigh as his thumb works to power it on. He’s holding it backward, and growing frustrated, so I clear my throat.
“Can I help?” I ask.
He throws the remote at me and I flinch but catch it against my chest.
“It won’t fucking work,” he barks.
I suck in my lips, sorting through my options. It’s clear that he feels threatened by me being on the staff. He’s obviously a misogynist, and I very much understand why he’s unmarried and unattached. I can’t imagine being his anything. But he’s also been with this organization for years, and while he’s definitely an asshole, at least he’s not sexually harassing me.
I can’t believe that thought tilts the scale.
“Here,” I say, sighing heavily as I point the remote—the right way—at the television. It comes on at high volume, showing a SportsCenter rerun. I toss the remote back into his lap, and he grunts as if I punched him.
“Try to get some sleep. Bus leaves early,” I say over my shoulder on my way out his door.
“Touché, Sugar. I know you don’t live here,” he throws back.
I pause just inside his apartment, my pulse suddenly roaring to a million beats per second. I swallow down the bile that threatens to crawl out of my mouth and continue on my way,closing the door behind me and heading back to the stairs. I take them two at a time, and by the time my feet hit the walkway outside, I’m nearly jogging.
It’s after one in the morning. What was I thinking?
I march toward the hotel, the road empty of traffic. I leap at a heavy clunk across the street, and grip my chest as my eyes scan the front of Earl’s.
“Sorry,” Daisy shouts, holding up a hand before reaching down to hoist another trash bag into the large metal bin near the alleyway behind her bar.
“Scared the shit out of me,” I say through nervous laughter.
Great. Now two people know I’m out here, running away from where most of the players live, late at night. I glance around my surroundings, wondering if I’m going to encounter anyone else.
“You want a drink? I’m closed, but I could use one after the night I’ve had,” Daisy says.
“Uh,” I hem and haw.
“Come on. Who the fuck am I gonna tell? I’ll make yours weak so you can get up early,” she says, waving me over.
I home in on a few key words—who is she going to tell. I could use a friend, and other than my father and Jayden, Daisy is about as good as I’ve got in this place.
“Yeah, okay,” I say, jogging across the roadway. I help her toss four more trash-filled bags into the bin, then flip the lid down before following her back into Earl’s.
“Oh, get the sign if you don’t mind,” she says, pointing over her shoulder as she skips toward the bar. I scan the wall by the main door and flip the switch for the glowing OPEN sign. The neon pink disappears instantly.
“Long night?” I say, joining her at the bar. She pours what looks like vodka into a small tumbler along with some cranberry juice, something that looks like a sweet syrup, and a few icecubes. She stirs it and tosses in a cherry before pushing it across the bar to me.
“It’s mostly candy. But it should help you sleep before you hit the road in a few hours. The bus is miserable.”
