Page 102 of Off Limits: The Firsts

Cory says the word but it takes me a minute to process the dark brown pool of liquid sloshing across the conference table in all directions. The room erupts into momentary chaos as we shove our chairs back and try to save the pile of documents littering the table from being ruined by the spilled coffee.

Cory curses again as he furiously blots the liquid off the keyboard of his laptop with a wad of Kleenex while his assistant rushes from the room for paper towels. The gentleman who was seated to Cory’s right adds to the litany of curses as his hip hits a stack of file folders right on the edge of the desk and knocks them to the floor.

“Get the stuff on the table,” I direct as I drop to the floor to help out. “I’ll get these.” There’s so much bedlam, no one argues or notices that in a room full of men, I’m the one in the skirt and heels kneeling on the floor.

Papers are everywhere. Manila folders are lying open and their contents scattered on the carpet beneath the table. I note the labels on the folders as I collect them—Easton Wylder, Dalton Rehab, Long-Term PT Contract, Options—but am too preoccupied grabbing everything to process exactly what they mean. Or rather, what their contents might be.

And it’s only when I have all the documents haphazardly stacked in a pile and am about to crawl out from beneath the table that I notice what the topmost paper has on it. The words. The figures. The implications.

There’s no way.

Can’t be.

Trying to make sense of it all, I flip to the next page but with the papers being out of order, I find nothing.

I look at the next one. Nothing.

Cory’s loafers come into my view a few feet from where I’m kneeling and pull me back to reality—to what I’m doing snooping through his files and to the ramifications if I were to be caught.

It’s when I look back down one more time to bury the first page in the stack so no one knows I saw it, that I’m blindsided for a second time.

My mind scrambles to process what I’m reading and why Easton’s signature is scrawled across the bottom of it in acceptance.

My hands tremble.

I scan the words again.

My pulse thunders in my ears.

Holy. Shit.

“Do you need any help under there Ms. Dalton?”

“You’re just wasting your time suiting up, Wylder.” Santiago’s voice rings above the chatter of guys shooting the shit and silences them instantly.

Every bone in my body vibrates with the need to smash my fist into his face to shut him up, but I ignore it. I grit my teeth and just stare at my jersey hanging in my locker in front of me. He’s just not worth it anymore.

“Why’s that?” I ask, more than aware that the entire team is on edge waiting to see how this plays out.

“Because it seems the team has one too many Wylders on the roster these days.”

“Hmpf. Thanks for the heads up.” I don’t take the bait. I don’t let him know I haven’t got the call yet informing me I’ve been reinstated so technically, there’s no Wylder currently on the roster at all.

“Sure thing. Did you hear that joke that’s been going around? What’s ten-times worse than a shitty catcher?” he asks and then answers without skipping a beat. “A Wylder one.”

Every muscle in my body is tense when I turn around to face him.

“Cool it, Santiago,” J.P. warns, sick of hearing his mouth like we all are.

“What?” he shrugs and smiles. “I’m just having a little fun with my new teammate.”

I take my time crossing the distance, stopping when I’m about a foot from the bastard. I stare at him for a few seconds before I speak. “You know what, Santiago? I don’t know what your deal is and I sure as hell don’t know what I’ve done to make you hate me, but honestly, I’m beyond giving any fucks. I’m a part of this team, have been for years—we’re one big, happy family—so every time you fuck with me, remember you’re fucking with them too.” I jerk my thumb over my shoulder toward the guys and take another step closer to him. “And I guarantee you that life will get awfully hard for you as an Ace if you keep this shit up. Capisce?” I stare at him for a beat longer, wait for him to nod his head, and then turn on my heel and walk away.

What if I’m wrong?

What if the information on that paper didn’t mean what I thought it did?

But what if it did?