Broken Play

by Tracey Ward

  I nod to Camille’s desk as I shimmy into my jeans. “What are you studying?”

  “Chemistry.”

  “Gross.”

  “I know.”

  “Why are you taking chemistry? Are you gonna be a doctor after all?”

  “No. I have to do it if I want to be a school teacher someday.”

  “A chemistry teacher?”

  “Grade school, so no,” she mumbles, furrowing her carefully plucked eyebrows at a black and white picture of cells.

  “Why does an elementary school teacher need to know about chemistry?”

  “That’s a good question. Ask my advisor, would you?”

  “We have advisors?”

  Camille scowls at me over her shoulder.

  “I’m kidding!” I laugh. “Geez. Easy on the stink eye, Mama.”

  My phone vibrates somewhere on my bed. Probably down near my actual vibrator.

  “You’re a real pain in the ass, Mila.”

  “Now you really do sound like Mama,” I laugh as I search through my blanket for my phone. When I find it, I don’t recognize the number, and my heart leaps into my throat excitedly. For the smallest of seconds, I convince myself it could be Tyus. “Hello?”

  “Hi. Mila Greene?”

  I frown at nothing. “Yeah. Who’s this?”

  “Sloane Ashford. We met at 171 the other night. On Halloween.”

  “Right, yeah. You’re Athena.”

  She laughs, throaty and full. I imagine men love that sound. “That was me. How’s it going?”

  “Great. How ‘bout you?”

  “Can’t complain. Look, I hope you don’t mind me finding your number.”

  “No, but out of curiosity, how’d you do that? I’m unlisted.”

  “So am I, but could you find mine if you wanted it?”

  I smirk, dropping down onto the corner of my bed. “In ten minutes flat.”

  “Amateur. I did it in five.”

  “I’ve got something to learn from you, I guess.”

  “That’s what I was hoping you’d say. I have a proposition for you.”

  “That phrase has never ended well for me.”

  “Usually ends up in the tabloids, right?” she asks meaningfully.

  “Something like that.”

  “Well, I’m hoping this is nothing like that. I want to offer you a job. I heard you were looking for one in the business.”

  “Who’d you hear that from?”

  “Tyus Anthony. He says you’re trying to make a point to your dad and prove that you can be an adult without all the handouts. Is that true?”

  I wish he hadn’t told her that. It makes me feel like a baby being told to hurry up and learn to walk already. “Basically, yeah.”

  “I get it. I’ve been there,” she tells me with empathy. “My dad didn’t take me seriously when I first started out either. He always said I couldn’t do the job as well as a man or that men wouldn’t want to work with me because they’d be worried I’d get my period and cry all over their contracts or some bullshit like that.”

  “My dad thinks I’m going to get raped. Repeatedly.”

  Camille glances at me nervously.

  Sloane pauses, letting that sink in. She clears her throat once before agreeing, “And that’s messed up.”

  “Messed up that he thinks that or messed up that it actually happens?”

  “All of it. And while I can’t speak to your safety or success later in life, I can tell you that you’ll be safe at the DAK.”

  “Is that your agency?”

  “It is.”

  I chew on my lip, unsure what to make of her offer. I need a job and getting one in the sports industry without people losing their shit over my last name is going to be hard. Sloane Ashford is a rich bitch herself, both of us sucking silver spoons as soon as we could breathe, but she broke out on her own. She made a life for herself away from her dad, and while that’s not exactly what I want, it’s close. Close enough that I feel like working with her could be exactly the start I need to get my team.

  “What would I do at your agency?” I ask her cautiously, acting like I’m not interested because that’s what I always do. I don’t care. About anything.

  “We need a receptionist. Do you know how to answer phones?”

  “Casually, sure. I do it all day. Professionally, I’m not so hot. I say ‘fuck’ a lot.”

  She laughs. “We’ll work on that. I’ll get you a swear jar.”

  “I’ll make you a rich woman with that thing.”

  “I’m counting on it.”

  “Why me?” I blurt out, unable to stop myself. I shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, but I can’t help it. I have to know why. I always want to know why. “Is it because Tyus asked you to hire me?”

  “No. Tyus is a friend but he’s not my HR. He gave me the suggestion, I talked to the other partners, and we all agreed you’re a perfect fit.”

  “Why?”

  “Honestly? Because you’re rich,” she answers matter-of-fact.

  I snort derisively. “Didn’t Tyus tell you? I’ve been cut off.”

  “No, honey, I have been cut off. My dad took back my apartment and cancelled my black card. You’re on probation. You could go back to the lap of luxury if you wanted to. I’m not even allowed in the house at Christmas.”

  “That’s cold.”

  “I knew what I was getting myself into.”

  “And you did it anyway?”

  “A woman has to have her own life. Right?”

  “Right,” I agree mildly. “Why does being rich matter to you, though?”

  “Because you’re not going to be impressed by the athletes walking through the door. You’ve been around celebrities your whole life. You’ve met the fucking President.”

  “Two of them.”

  “Exactly!” she exclaims as I make her point for her. “You’re over it already. You wouldn’t sit there trying to seduce every guy that walked through the door, and that’s what I’m afraid of seeing if I hire someone else. We’ve tried a couple of other girls and it’s never worked out for more than a week.”

  “Hire a dude.”

  “I did. He stole Kurtis Matthews’ address from Hollis’ Roladex. It was a whole thing.” Sloane sighs tiredly. “Listen, if you don’t want to do it, I understand. It’s a low level job in a small agency. It’s not going to be glamorous, but it is in the business, it does come with benefits, and believe me, that first paycheck feels pretty freakin’ amazing ‘cause you know you earned it for yourself.”

  “I have school. I can only work part-time.”

  “Okay, so no benefits,” she chuckles. “But we’d still love to have you. Half a receptionist is better than what we’ve got now.”

  “More like a quarter because I have no idea what I’m doing.”

  “Do you know the difference between football and soccer?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “You’re hired. That is, if you’re done trying to talk me out of it because I have to go soon. If you’ll remember, I don’t have a receptionist. Lost of calls to answer…”

  I smile at my toes, wiggling them into the white shag rug Camille’s mom hates. “Yes. I’ll do it.”

  “Yes! Come in tomorrow and we’ll talk. I’ll put you through your paces, teach you the phones, introduce you to the guys. What’s your schedule like?”

  “I have class until two.”

  “I’ll see you at two-thirty?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Good news. See you then, Mila.”

  “Hey, Sloane?” I ask hurriedly.

  “What’s up?”

  My stomach flips. Dances. “Thank you for the offer.”

  “You bet. Just don’t make me regret it, okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  She hangs up without waiting for me to say goodbye.

  It’s kind of rude.

  I think I kind of love her.

>   “I thought you didn’t know a ‘Tyus’,” Camille says sarcastically.

  I smile. “I don’t.”

  “You’re an asshole.”

  “I know.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  TYUS

  November 9th

  UCLA Medical Center

  Los Angeles, CA

  My hands were shaking last night. I stood in the middle of my living room watching tremors run through my fingers until finally around midnight they stopped. They’ve been steady ever since.

  It’s nerves. That’s all it is. I’m creeping closer to my first full game back and the pressure is getting to me. I feel like a rookie again. Like a kid fresh out of college looking to get drafted by the biggest name in the business. In the beginning, L.A. wasn’t my ideal. I wanted the Packers or the Steelers. The Kodiaks weren’t shit when I got pulled by them. I was young and dumb, and I felt massively disappointed to be drafted by them. I thought I’d have to burn my first four years on nothing. But then the team started coming together last year, we shed some dead weight, and suddenly with Trey at the wheel we were flying. We almost took the Championship last February.

  It was one of the worst days of my life when we lost.

  The door to the room opens. Mike steps in hastily. He’s young, in his early thirties, and shadiest excuse for a doctor I’ve ever seen in my life. I found him through a guy on the Chargers who was having the same problem I am – he had an injury he had to hide. For the right price, Mike won’t ask too many questions and he’ll prescribe you just about whatever you want. I try not to come to him too often because I hate him, but I need him. Especially now that I’m getting back into action.

  “Tyus, hello,” he drones without looking at me. His eyes are on my chart. He’s in a hurry. I came in without an appointment, derailing his morning. “What’s the emergency?”

  “I need something for anxiety.”

  Mike snaps my folder shut, frowning at me. “Anxiety?”

  “Yeah. My hands are gettin’ shaky and I’m feeling uptight a lot. I fly off the handle for no reason. I’m not sleeping right. I need to get it under control.”

  Mike nods to my knuckles that are swollen and bruised. “Did you get in a fight?”

  “I told you. I fly off the handle.”

  “Right. Well, I can give you something but it sounds like it’s more than just anxiety. Are you still getting headaches?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Are they getting worse or staying the same?”

  “It’s hard to say.”

  “Come on, man,” he complains. “You’re already here. Talk to me.”

  I sigh. “They’re getting worse.”

  “Your memory?”

  “Same. Not great.”

  “Do you still have dizzy spells?”

  “Not often.”

  “Okay, well, from what you’re telling me, you know what it sounds like.”

  “Yeah. I know.”

  “We should do an MRI.”

  “I’m never doing that.”

  “Fine.” He pulls a pen and pad from his lab coat pocket. “I’m going to bill your insurance for one. I’ll pull another patient’s clean results and file them as yours.”

  “Do whatever you gotta do.”

  “Take this.” He tears off the top sheet on his RX pad. “It’s mild level, but it should help. Only take one a day. They’ll probably make you tired so try not to drive after you take them. They could make you dizzy. Or dizzier. Whatever.”

  “Can I play while I’m on them?”

  “I don’t see why not.” He stows his pen and pad, raising his eyebrows expectantly. “Anything else?”

  “No.” I shake his hand, sliding a hundred dollar bill into his palm. “Thanks, doc.”

  “Yep.”

  I follow Mike out of the sterile little room. The halls are crowded with people. It’s the middle of the day and visiting hours are hopping. I need to get out of here before I get recognized. One selfie with a fan in a hospital and rumors will start to fly. I can’t afford that right now.

  I take the script to the Target nearby. The wait to get it filled is long and after about twenty minutes, I regret coming here. I should have driven farther away from the hospital. I should have gone home to Tarzana where it’s all women getting their Xanax refilled while they shop for cheap wine.

  I’m hiding in one of the health aisles, staring at protein bars, when I hear my name.

  “Tyus?”

  I exhale sharply. “Mila.”

  She looks incredible. Even more beautiful than the last time I saw her in a skin-tight mermaid costume. She’s dressed in dark leggings and an oversized yellow and black plaid shirt that hangs just past her ass, cinched tight around her slender waist by a thin belt. Her hair is down; long and curling. Her eyes are wide and dark as she smiles at me.

  “Hey,” she laughs.

  I’m stunned when she steps in close to hug me hello. I don’t hesitate to hug her back, but I regret it when I do it. She feels even better than she looks. She steps back when she releases me, but she doesn’t go far. She’s too close and not close enough. Everything about her is pulling and pushing at me and I’m not sure how to be inside my skin for a second. It feels like I’m about to blow right out of it just because she’s smiling at me. But it’s a beautiful smile; wide and genuine.

  “What are you doing here?” she asks.

  I hitch my thumb toward the pharmacy counter behind me. “Prescription.”

  “Is everything okay?” Her eyes darken with worry. “Is your back bothering you?”

  “Yeah, no. I just checked in with the doc. I’m all good. Just maintaining.”

  “Awesome.”

  I nod to her red basket. “What are you doing here?”

  She makes a face. “Shopping.”

  “You don’t like shopping?”

  “Not if it’s not for me.”

  “Who are you shopping for?”

  “Mama. She asked me to pick up some goodies for the kids’ gift bags.”

  “What kids?”

  “The one’s from the Boys and Girls Club. You guys are signing autographs and doing a scrimmage with them before the game and we’re going to have sugar filled gift bags for them.” Mila frowns. “Did they not tell you guys about this?”

  I shake my head. “No, I remember. They’re—yeah. The Boys and Girls Club charity day. It snuck up on me, that’s all.”

  “It’s okay if you forgot. It was put together pretty last minute.”

  “I just said I remembered,” I snap without meaning to.

  “Okay. Whatever.” She looks me over carefully. “Are you sure you’re okay? You seem tense.”

  “Yeah, I’m good. I’m—” I stop, not really sure why. She’s watching me, waiting patiently, and maybe it’s the look in her eyes or the fact that I know she can keep a secret, but I decide not to lie to her. “I’ve been better.”

  Her nose wrinkles sympathetically. “I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t want you to be sorry.”

  “What do you want me to be then?”

  “You.” I take a step closer to her so I can feel her. Smell her – coconut and vanilla. She smells like sunshine and sand. Like vacation. Like letting go. “Just be you for me, okay?”

  She smiles warmly. “But I don’t know who I am, remember?”

  “We’ll figure it out.”

  “You’re gonna help me with that?”

  “You want me to?”

  Her smiles slides, her eyes going soft. “Maybe.”

  I shake my head. “You’re not a ‘maybe’ girl.”

  “No. I’m not.”

  “So, what do you want, Mila? Really?”

  She inhales slow and deep, and I feel a tightening inside me. It’s different than the tension I feel about playing again. Different than the anxiety I get over Ramsey and Coach. This thing I feel with Mila, it’s not angry. It’s insistent. Eager. It’s my gut clenching and my dick twitching. It’s
my heart hammering and my fists clenching, wishing they could knot around the cold silk of her hair the way they did in the club. I want her lips. I want her tongue. I want her tiny, tight ass in my hands as she moans against my mouth; wet, whimpering, begging.

  I want her.

  “I want what I can’t have,” she confesses quietly, echoing the emotions screaming inside my body.

  “You can have anything.”

  “I really wish that was true.”

  This is a mistake. We’re attracted to each other. We know that. We’re tempting fate even talking because it’s not enough; it could never be enough. But anything more than this is risking everything I have and everything she dreams of. I know that. She knows that. Still, I can’t fucking quit with this chick. She can be rough but so damn soft. So confident and confused at the same time, and I get that feeling. That conflict where you’re fighting yourself to be something you’re not sure you can be.

  I get standing at a crossroads and having no idea which way to turn.

  I grin to ease the tension building between us before one of us does something stupid in the middle of this supermarket. I pump the breaks because if we keep up the conversation the way it’s going, we’re heading for a crash. Sure as shit. “Tell me something, Miss Greene.”

  Her shoulders slump. “Oh, Christ. Really? You’re going to the last name?”

  “You ashamed of your name?”

  “Are you ashamed of the fact that you’re a total pussy and you’re hiding on the other side of it?” she fires back.

  I smile, eating her fire. I swallow it whole and I let it burn me just enough to hurt. Just enough to keep my careful. “Did you really streak across CenturyLink field?”

  She laughs, her face going pink. I didn’t think this girl could blush but she’s doing it and it’s beautiful. “How did you hear about that?”