Page 101 of Big Stick Energy
The captain frowns. “Thanks, I think. But are yousurethis isn’t a problem you can solve yourself?”
“Eric.” I hold up a hand to stop him from helping me. “It’s fine.You’re Calder, right? Jersey twenty-seven?” I shake my computer mouse and wake up the machine.
“That’s right, Dar…” He glances at Eric and then corrects himself. “…Miss Kendrick. I heard you’re the CEO of all this type shit.”
“Listen…” I find his entry in the binder. “Zero sleep is definitely not the vibe when you’re trying to make the team. Real talk, though? Room changes are kind of a nightmare logistically. But you seem genuinely pressed about this, so here’s the tea—I’ve got exactly one open spot, but it’s with Petrov, and he’s intense about his sleep schedule. Like, lights out at nine thirty or he gets feral. Can you vibe with that?”
Eric’s eyes widen. Then he smiles.
And the kid is ecstatic. “Yo, Miss Kendrick, you’re the GOAT for real. I owe you.”
He thanks me profusely again and stammers a few more compliments at Eric. Then he finally bounces off, leaving me alone with the man I’ve tried so hard to stop thinking about.
“Hello, Miss Kendrick,” he says, his voice a low scrape. “That was some excellent work there. Didn’t know you were multilingual.”
“It’s all part of the job, sir. Do you need something?”
He tilts his head, more curious than annoyed with my briskness. “Maybe. But let’s back up a sec. How are you?”
“Fine,” I say automatically. But it’s a damn lie. I’ve spent the last three weeks trying not to wonder where he is or what he’s up to. I’ve deliberately avoided social media, so I won’t have to see any pictures of him on Colorado mountaintops or burning marshmallows with other women. “What are you doing here?” I blurt, because the regular part of training camp doesn’t start until next month, and I thought I had more time.
But here he is, all chiseled and sunshiny and looking down at me with an intensity that’s completely unnerving. “I always check in with the devo camp. Helps me remember what I’m up against.”
“Children,” I say firmly. “Every one of them is a stack of hormones in a trench coat.”
He smiles again, and a little more of my brain leaks out of my ears. “Exams?” He points at my textbook.
I look down at the chapter on inventory systems, and it might as well be written in Swahili. “Just a test. Exams are at the end of the month. Is there, um, something I can help you with?”Or are you just here to unsettle me?
“There is something,” he says, crossing his arms over that chest. It’s hard not to stare at it, now that I know how it feels against my naked body. “I need help finding my desk.”
“Your desk?” I’ve been asked to help find all kinds of things today, including a hotel room for somebody’s translator, a pharmacy, and a bus map. But this is a new one. “Did you try looking for it in your apartment?”
The corners of his mouth twitch, and even that destroys me by another degree. “I meant here. When I first became captain, I was assigned a desk. In that row, maybe.” He points to the bullpen opposite my desk. “But I don’t remember which one it was, and I can’t impose on someone else’s workspace. Do you have a seating chart? If it’s not too much trouble.”
“Um, sure.” I hop up out of my seat and find the right binder on the bookshelf. I don’t usually open this thing, but now that I have, I find that Eric is correct. One of the desks in the first row is markedCaptain.
I raise my eyes to the spot and realize his desk is catty-corner tomine. If he actually sits there, only a few yards of industrial carpeting will separate us.
“Did you find it?” he asks.
“Yes.” Although it’s tempting to lie. “I think somebody stored some boxes on that one. We’ll have to move them. Come with me.”
“I’ll take care of it,” he says, following me over to the desk, which also contains a decommissioned fax machine. “You seem busy.”
“True, but I’m the one here who knows where to put all this stuff.”
That’s how I find myself spending half an hour sorting through boxes of old team programs with Eric. Just me, and Eric, and the scent of his cologne, and the quiet glances he gives me every few seconds.
“How was Colorado?” I ask, just to break the tension.
“The usual.” He shrugs. “Preseason training is a lot of muscle soreness and exhaustion. But working out at altitude gives me an edge over the youngsters.”
Most of them can’t hold a candle to him. But possibly I’m biased. “How is your mother doing?”
“Better, actually,” he says. “She finally went back to therapy.”
I look up at him and find his gray-eyed gaze waiting for me. “That’s great, Eric,” I whisper.
