Page 97 of One Night with Number Nineteen

“Right,” I say. “No problem.”

We hang up and I turn in time to see Donnie, our video coach, walking down the hall, his arms laden with boxes, the topmost two teetering dangerously.

“I’ve got ’em.” I swoop forward, stop them from falling.

“Thanks, man,” he says. “You can just plunk them back on top.”

“I’ll carry them for you.”

“You don’t have⁠—”

“Where are we heading, Donnie?”

He shakes his head at me, but just jerks his chin down the hall. “My office.”

“On it.” I start that way, turning the corner and pausing outside the door as I wait for him to drop the boxes inside and then take mine.

“Thanks, Sawyer.”

“Anytime—”

“I think you mean, Cupcake, Donnie!” Smitty calls.

I roll my eyes, pat Donnie on the shoulder, then head back down the hall. “How’s Sophie doing?” I ask Smitty as we walk toward the locker room.

“Better. She slept all the way through the night finally.” His mouth twitches. “Kailey said it was life-changing.” Guilt ripples across his face, stealing his smile. “I should have hired the night nurse.”

“I thought you said she refused.”

He scowls. “She did. But with me being on the road, I should have insisted. When I got home from the road trip, she was so exhausted she slept the entire day, except for nursing.”

God, that had to kill him.

Kailey is his world—or most of it now that Sophie’s in it.

I clap him on the shoulder. “Maybe you guys could find a compromise—on the long road trips, you get a night nurse. When it’s just a night or two, you play it by ear.”

His scowl fades for a moment…then comes back. “How’d you make so much sense in ten seconds when Kailey and I have been struggling with this for months?”

“Because you’re both sleep-deprived?”

“Asshole,” he mutters, shoving at my shoulder. “Since you have all the answers, want to help me out with my match?”

“Who is it?”

“Grant Mercer.”

“Grant Mercer?” I exclaim.

“Shush, asshole,” he says, looking around. “It’s supposed to be confidential, remember?”

“So says the loud ass man bellowing names in the hallway.”

“Asshole.” He punches my shoulder. “And anyway, how the fuck am I supposed to ask this guy what he’s looking for in a partner without sounding like I’m trying to fuck him?”

I snort. “Maybe start by telling him you’re working for Vi?”

“Con-fi-den-tial, remember?” A sigh. “Look, she said he’s being a pain in the ass and she needs to know the real Grant, the real man he is”—jazz hands—“beneath the veneer. She said quote ‘He’s the successful captain of the Rattlers, but that tells me fuck-all about who will truly make him happy.’”