I crack up. “Why on earth would he be using his phone in the shower?”
“Watching the news obviously,” she says. “He’s so worldly and concerned about the state of global affairs that he watches the news in the shower.”
“And then he slipped and broke his phone?”
“It was a very intense news story.” Her eyes widen as she embellishes the tale. “Or maybe the phone shielded his fall!”
“Or maybe you’re reading too many news stories yourself, Miss NewsHound. You love little facts about all the terrible things that happen.”
“No, I love to be prepared. And that’s why I always have bathmats on the tiles, since lots of accidental injuries occur in the bathroom. Things get slippery in the shower. All I’m saying is it’s possible there’s an explanation for him not texting.”
“Explanations like that only happen in the movies. Real life is men saying they’ll do one thing, then doing another,” I say crisply, gripping the wheel tighter, focusing on the road. Men need to stay in the rearview mirror. I have to learn my lesson from Sailor. “Look. It’s all for the best. It’s going to be a busy season. The more I focus on doing my best at the office, the greater the chance I can have at landing the next job.”
“Have you decided what to do yet? About the work thing?”
I’ve cooled off since last week. I’m determined to impress Stephen and win the next promotion. “It’s a small world, and I think I’ll just keep trying hardwith the Bandits,” I say, but then I flash her a devilish smile. “But obviously I’ll keep my ear to the ground for better opportunities.”
“Obviously. You’re always strategic. And I love that plan,” she says.
I reach her building on campus. “Love you. Get out of here.”
She leans across the console to give me a sloppy kiss on the cheek and then grabs her bag and heads out.
I watch her go, feeling warm and fuzzy as she heads into the building. Proud too. We spent many nights hunting down scholarships in her field. She nailed a handful and only has to pay a few thousand dollars a year. Loans are no fun. I’m still saddled with my law school loans, though I’ve been steadily chipping away at them. Another couple of years and I can pay them off.
Then, maybe I can help my parents out. Dad’s a high school football coach. Mom is a bank teller, and the last recession took a bite out of their retirement funds. I’d love to take care of them in little ways.
But first things first. Pay off the rest of my loans.
And I can do that as long as I keep this job, which means focusing on work—not the date who’s ghosted me.
I tap the gas and take off for the Bandits facility, ready to put Drew in the rearview mirror.
Sports have been a part of my life since I was a kid, thanks to my dad. We had some of our best father-daughter chats while throwing a ball in the backyard. He’d share his playbook for upcoming games, and I’d pepper him with questions. I analyzed everything about how football was played, fought, and won. I learned the formations, the types of coverage, and when to go for a forward pass, a screen pass, or a play-action pass.
Sometimes, he’d ask me what to do in an upcoming game, and I’d weigh in with suggestions based on the opponents and their style of play—their skills at running and passing, or whether they were defensive-minded, and so on. Dad would take all my feedback seriously, even though with a winning record of over thirty years, he hardly needed my help.
I’m still grateful for those chats now. Being a lawyer is all about strategy, and those sideline talks with Dad made me a very good lawyer.
My work lets me apply my questioning mind to something I love—sports.
When I arrive at the ballpark, I head to the executive suites, saying hello to my colleagues along the way.
There’s Nancy in publicity, who wants to know when I’m going to do an interview with Sailor.
Felipe in college scouting, who watches all of Sailor’s videos.
Abby in analytics, who has a crush on Sailor.
Before I reach my office, my phone buzzes with a message from Stephen.Brooke, can you come to my office when you arrive? I picked up lattes.
I study the note with suspicion. After all, this is the man who sent flowers when he passed me over for a promotion.
With dread coiling in my gut, I walk the plank to his office.
Even though I was frustrated with my job last week, I don’t want to lose it. I can’t afford to lose it.
I reach his door. It’s ajar, and he’s typing on his phone from behind his desk, expressionless.