Page 23 of Draft Pick
He shrugs while beside us, Tenley hollers for Addie and Apollo to come to the kitchen and eat. “Who knows, maybe this is all a part of a bigger plan? Most players retire before thirty-six, anyway. You’ve done well for yourself in the league, Briggs. I know you want to be home more with Addie and the restaurant. Retirement would make that possible.”
My thoughts exactly.
“That’s where my head is. It’s just easier said than done, leaving a game that’s been everything to me, you know?”
He exhales, and if anyone understands, it’s Graves. “Trust me, I get it. We love the game, but the sacrifice can kill us. Gotta do what’s best for you, man. The game will always be here. Big leagues or not.”
I’ve got options and time. If anything, I just hope to play my fucking best this season and give it my all. I’d rather go out swinging than strike out before I get the chance to finish.
Time will tell.
8
JUNIPER
It’s beenone of those days where all I want to do is go home, get out of these scrubs, shower, and sleep. Exhaustion is a weak term to describe my current level of tiredness.
Might as well be comatose on the waiting room floor.
The only thing saving me is the new friend I just made. Did I expect to have almost everything in common with Apollo Graves’ mom? Nope. But by the looks of it, we’re practically the same person.
“You just scored some serious cool points wearing Converse, Dr. Wilde,” Tenley tells me, heading toward the exit door with Apollo in tow. She’s my last appointment for the day, and most of the office staff, aside from Gabriella, have already gone home.
I look down at my lilac purple high-tops, marveling at how perfectly they match my yellow-and-lilac sunshine scrubs. “Pretty sure I’m breaking all kinds of protocols,” I laugh. “Gotta hold onto my style somehow. And please, call me Juniper.”
“Juniper,” Tenley repeats, a bright smile cresting her face. “I know this is totally unconventional, and I’m probably violating hundreds of doctor-patient, or in this case, doctor-parentrules, but would you wanna hang out sometime?”
I made a friend. Sooner than expected, too.
It’s nerve-racking to be in a new city and not know anyone, but Tenley wasted no time at all talking to me about her life and getting to know me. I learned quickly that she’s thirty-nine and doesn’t give a rip what anyone thinks about her. I knew right away that she was someone I could be friends with.
After I gave Apollo a quick well check-up, we spent a solid thirty minutes talking about life. My move to Atlanta from Tennessee. Tenley’s dog, Zion. I also learned she’s married to a professional baseball player, which immediately had my mind drifting to another baseball player I met recently. In this exact office, to be exact. I instantly questioned if they knew each other but decided not to ask.
Seeing as how I have no friends other than Val and promised myself I’d say yes more, I agree. “I’d love that. I don’t know many people here yet, and you seem really cool, Tenley. Apollo, too.” I smile, remembering I almost forgot something. “Hey, Apollo? Did you want to pick something out of my treasure box?”
He peers up at me from the waiting room rug, pausing the roaring of his toy car engine. “Treasure box?” he squeals. “Are there monster trucks inside? Or sticky hands? Mommy gets so mad when I fling them on the ceiling.”
He might be the cutest little boy I’ve ever seen. His hair is somewhat long and shaggy, bright blond, with the bluest eyes. Reminds me of an island surfer, resembling Tenley’s bohemian style in a way.
“No sticky hands, mister,” Tenley tells him sternly. “Little bitches turned my ceiling from white to blue.”
“You heard the boss,” I tell Apollo, opening up the wooden treasure box. “No sticky hands. Everything else is fair game.” I started the treasure box when I first began my Peds fellowship. It quickly became a game-changer for the kids. Parents appreciate it, too, making the not-so-fun appointments operate that much more smoothly, knowing a prize is coming.
While Apollo searches for his prize, Tenley walks beside me and says, “Here. Let me get your number, and I’ll text you this weekend. Maybe we can do something. Grab drinks or play Dirty Bingo.”
I repeat my number to her, all thoughts running rapidly, wondering what in the ever-loving hell Dirty Bingo is. “I’m sorry,” I choke. “Did you say Dirty Bingo?”
“Hell yeah, I did. Ever played?”
“Nooo, but I’m very intrigued. Is this something you play often?”
Tenley snorts. “Only every month. All of our friends get together at this run-down bar called Joe’s Bar. Catchy, right?” She laughs. “It’s a hidden gem in Atlanta known for hosting monthly Dirty Bingo nights. It’s exactly as wild and untamed as it seems.”
Dorothy, you’re definitely not in Tennessee anymore.
Butttt also, that sounds kinda fun and something dangerously different from how I usually spend my weekends. Well, nowadays, my weekends consist of binge-watchingNew Girl, hanging at home with my cat, Shakespeare, and ordering takeout.
A game of Dirty Bingo might just take me under, but I’m up for the challenge.
