“I don’t like the risk you’re taking, Brody.”
“It’s not a risk. I’ll be fine as long as I make sure to eat a balanced diet every day. I wasn’t diligent during the off-season and I’m paying for it now, that’s all.”
His trainer let out a harrumph of displeasure.
Brody’s whole body tensed, his cover-boy jaw firm as he spoke. “I assume this is something we can keep between us. Or do I have to specifically invoke client-trainer confidentiality?”
The trainer bristled at Brody’s tone. Normally laid-back and carefree, Brody was all business now, forcing his trainer to take a step back.
“Whoa.” He held his hands up. “I’m on your side, Brody. Of course this stays between us. But you pay me to train and advise you. I’m just giving you my opinion, that’s all.”
Brody’s face was cool and calculated for a brief moment before relaxing into the boyish charm he was famous for. “Duly noted, Erik.” He slapped the trainer on the back, leading him toward the exit. “Tell you what. You can advise me on what to order for dinner tonight to keep my blood sugar from taking a nose dive.”
“Are you buying?”
Brody’s laugh was hollow, almost as if he was resigned to picking up the tab. “Aren’t I always?”
The room went dark and Shay waited a few minutes before letting out a pained breath as she eased her numb legs out from under her. She sat still for another moment, allowing her eyes to adjust to the darkness and her mind to adjust to everything she’d heard. Her heart skipped a beat when her cell phone buzzed in her pocket, its noise loud in the now ghostly locker room.
“Holy shitake!” she whispered, nearly jumping out of her skin. “Good thing that didn’t go off five minutes ago.” She hadn’t thought to silence her cell phone, innocently assuming the locker room would be empty. Her hand shook as she checked the bright screen to scan her text message. It was from Ken Daly, the manager of Celtic Charm, one of Baltimore’s newest nightclubs.
I need a bartender tomorrow night. R U interested?
Shay exhaled a slow, cleansing breath. She’d entered the locker room earlier to do something nefarious, only to have her conscience remind her that the ends don’t justify the means. Now the answer to her financial woes had just landed in her lap—or on her cell phone, to be precise. Her mama would call it providence. Shay just called it dumb luck. Whatever it was, she needed to get out of there before someone else wandered in and spotted her where she shouldn’t be.
She stood up slowly, her legs still tingling. Using the flashlight app on her cell phone, she carefully traversed the dark room toward the exit, happy that she didn’t have to betray any of the team’s players. The Blaze organization was known around the league for its professionalism and values. Aside from Nate, everyone Shay came in contact with at the training facility was friendly, and she actually enjoyed the work—even if it wasn’t what she’d expected.
Of course, the author of the blog The Girlfriend’s Guide to the NFL would probably pay big money for Brody Janik’s secret. But a Friday night tending bar at the hugely popular Celtic Charm could bring in several hundred dollars in tips—more if she dressed in a tight blouse and the kilt the waitresses wore. That kind of money would buy a new muffler and a month’s worth of cell phone service, if she was careful. She didn’t need to sell anyone’s secrets.
Shay made it to the door and listened carefully to make sure no one was lingering in the hallway. The building was supposed to be empty, but Brody and his trainer friend could still be wandering around. Leaning against the doorjamb, she thought about the Blaze tight end.
Brody Janik was the epitome of a superstar jock: talented, rich, and gorgeous. Men wanted to be him and women wanted to be with him. Even more appealing, arrogance hadn’t tainted his persona. Brody used his slow, wicked smile to charm everyone he met. He doled that smile out to everyone like it was candy. Everyone except her. Instead, he treated Shay with his innate politeness. Almost as if he didn’t put her in the same category as other women. And that stung. A lot.
Just like every other female between the age of two and one hundred and two, Shay had a big-time crush on Brody. Of course, she knew it would never amount to anything. After all, she was the tall, awkward brainiac with frizzy hair and a wide mouth who was used to being the last one chosen to dance. At twenty-four, she’d had a lifetime of experience being ignored by men like Brody as they scoured the room for the attractive, self-assured catch.
A more callous woman, bent on revenge, might sell Brody’s story. But Shay Everett wasn’t that woman. Brody was just like every other man who’d looked through her at one point in her life. She really couldn’t single him out for it. It wouldn’t be fair to all the rest of the men who’d ignored her.
Slipping out the door into the deserted hallway, Shay resolved to forget everything she’d heard while hiding in the locker room. Brody Janik wasn’t her problem. It’s not like they’d exchange more than a please and thank-you in the cafeteria as she slopped his meal on a plate each day. And she wouldn’t worry about his blood sugar, either. At least that’s what she kept telling herself as she crept out of the Blaze training facility.
Grabbing her bike, she donned her reflective vest and headed out for the ten-minute trek to her apartment, her conscience clear. She’d do some research for an hour or so before grabbing some sleep. She had swim practice to coach in the morning before arriving at the training facility at eight thirty. If she happened across information on hypoglycemia while she was scanning articles for her dissertation, so be it. As she pedaled along, she told herself it was professional interest making her curious. Not anything special about Brody Janik.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Tracy Solheim, a military brat who now makes her home in Atlanta, began her writing career as a teenager when she penned a column in her town’s local newspaper. Then it was on to journalism school and a brief stint with NBC Sports. After spending nearly two decades writing reports and testimonies for Congress, she delved into fiction. Her novels have been finalists for the Maggie Award for Excellence. A member of Romance Writers of America and Georgia Romance Writers, Tracy also writes freelance articles for both local and national magazines. Vist her website at tracysolheim.com.
A Numbers Game Page 8