Warning Track (Callahan Family #1) - Carrie Aarons Page 0,47
move, one I thought made me look more professional, but after running into old acquaintances in the lobby and having to stand and chat for half an hour, my baby toes are paying for the fashion moment.
The air in the room is stale, as it is in most hotel rooms, but someone took the time to stock my favorite kind of flavored water and unzip my bag on the bed, so that’s a plus. Plopping down on the end of the fluffy, white linen king, I wiggle my toes. The feeling is glorious, my little piggies are set free, and I’m just about to fall back on the bed and consider letting myself doze off when my throat gets so dry, I begin to cough.
God, I need a drink. Of the alcoholic sort, at that, and I wonder if there is something stronger than wine or beer in the mini-fridge. Going to investigate, I find a mini bottle of gin, and a small bottle of tonic. Bless whoever left these here.
But upon further exploration, I find that my ice bucket hasn’t been filled. I’m usually not a diva about someone getting my room ready, but it’s been a long week. I’ve had to deal with another one of Dad’s interviews, the upcoming budget review process with all the Pistons’ shareholders, and I’ve been traveling with the team on this road series.
I’ve also had to file a restraining order against the two men who’ve now been identified as my attackers. They were taken into custody, and one was bailed out while the other still sits in a jail cell. The trial has yet to be scheduled, but I know I’ll have to testify. The thought makes my insides shiver. I’ve been in too many courthouses the past year.
I used to travel with the team a lot more, when my various roles in the PR or marketing departments called for it. As general manager, it’s still a job responsibility, but oftentimes I’m flying home in the middle of an away series to fulfill administrative tasks back at home base, no pun intended.
Sighing, because I really want that cold, stiff drink. I pick up the ice bucket and traipse into the hall. It’s not until I’m walking back, a bucket piled high with ice from the machine, that I realize
I left my goddamn key card on the dresser. Inside my hotel room. Along with my masochistic shoes.
I will not cry, I will not cry.
Weighing my options, I lean my head back against the door, stemming the urge to sob. This is the cherry on top of a horrible week, and why does it feel like I’m constantly taking one step forward to only take sixteen back? Somewhere, I better be tallying up dozens of karma points.
I don’t even have my phone to make me look busy when someone passes. I stand by my door like a weirdo, nodding and smiling at a couple who passes me. They don’t pay me much mind, but if I continue to stand here, others will pass and look at me like I might be trying to break into this room.
Just as I’m about to head for the elevator, sans shoes, hoping that I don’t bump into anyone I know, I’m greeted by the last person I’d ever want to see me right now.
“Hey,” a voice greets me, and I swing my head down the hall.
Shit. Of all the people who could catch me in this precarious situation. At least I’m not naked in nothing but my hotel towel.
“Hey.” I grin, the expression feeling fake on my face.
“You’re staying on this floor, too?” Hayes looks way too refreshed for just having taken the same plane ride I did, and his three-piece suit required of players to wear for travel is miraculously unwrinkled.
We haven’t spoken since the night in the supply closet. It’s been about a week, and though I’ve seen him peripherally at the ballpark, we’ve avoided each other. The gossip and rumor mill about us has slowed down, and chasing their next story about some other team’s player who had been caught with cocaine and strippers, so too had my assault fallen to the back of the media cycle.
But neither of us has broached what happened in that closet. Or what he said to me. I replay that moment over and over again, when I’m alone in the dark, and whenever I can’t seem to get it out of my head into the middle of a work