MAGGIE: You are dating someone. This is new, and I know NOTHING!
ME: It isn’t what you think it is. Call you later.
MAGGIE: My ass. I have eyes. I saw the pictures. AND YOUR SMILE.
MAGGIE: I’ve never seen you smile like that before.
MAGGIE: Thanksgiving or else.
______
I close my notebook on the empty page and shove my chair back.
“Don’t even need notes anymore?” Jenkins smirks.
My mind is everywhere except the one place I need it to be, and it’s irritating as hell. This isn’t how I operate.
“I. . . ” I run a hand through my hair.
“You all right, man?” he asks, clipping the pen to the front of his binder.
“I’m good,” I lie.
Nothing is good right now. I spent the last hour and a half listening but not hearing a damn thing.
“I’ll send these to you.” He shoves his notes under his arm.
“Thanks. I really appreciate it.” His notes will save my distracted ass.
He nods and turns to leave, but I stop him.
“How’s Rachel? I’m looking forward to seeing her at the fundraiser.”
Jenkins and his wife organize a fundraiser every year at the stadium to raise money for cerebral palsy research. Most of the team and their families donate their time to interact with fans and help increase donations. I’ve attended the past two years, and Ryder will escort me this time unless the person who enjoys vandalizing my car is found.
Everything about that thought stirs the agitation left over from last night.
Jenkins stiffens, pulling his shoulders back. “She’s in the hospital. She has an infection.” It comes out a little forceful, and I know it has to be difficult for him to watch his daughter’s constant health issues.
My tight muscles ease a little with the realization that I’ve been way too wrapped up in my own mess.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Is there anything I can do?”
He shakes his head. “No. She needs to get stronger. We’re on another waiting list for a new trial.”
I squeeze his shoulder. “She’s a fighter. I really hope the trial comes through, man. I’m looking forward to seeing her at the event.”
“Yeah. Just more waiting in line while others. . . ” He doesn’t finish his statement, his head hanging as we make our way to the locker room.
I don’t know much about trials or experimental drugs, but I see his anguish and his hope that one will help her.
“Hang in there,” I offer, having no idea what else to say but certain it doesn’t help.
He nods again, heading to his locker.
Ten minutes later, I step onto the field and into the sun. I toss a ball to a trainer, warming up and working to push thoughts of last night aside.
I don’t care about my car, but telling myself that hasn’t diminished the desire to beat the shit out of something, preferably the person doing this. If Ryder is right, it’s someone close to me.
