It took everything I had not to stop by Easton’s on the way into the ballpark. To go there and hope he would be somewhat sober and tell him he’s an asshole for saying what he said to me, and admit I’m a jerk for assuming to know what he’d want in the decision I made. We could scream and fight and get it all out and then I could sit there with him while he waited to hear about his trade. I’d help him bide his time to try and get us back on an even keel, and then when the word came through, reassure him it was going to be all right.
But I didn’t stop.
Because hung over might be just as bad as drunk. And because he made it clear I’m the last person he wants to see.
I’ll let him have that.
I’ll give him some time.
But if he thinks I’m going to let him be done with me that easily, he’s crazy.
He fought for me. To gain my trust. To make me want more with him. To make me see not everyone leaves. To ensure I fell in love with him.
And now it’s my turn to earn that back from him.
I’m just not quite sure how to do that when we might be living in two different cities.
Easton’s worth it. I need to figure out how to make it work, but every single ounce of effort is what I’ll give.
God, yes, I was hurt last night and still am by some of the things he said. But after replaying our fight in my head over and over while I stared at the ceiling in a bed less familiar to me than Easton’s, I realized there was a missing piece to the puzzle. It was the look on his face that kept flashing in my mind. He’s not telling me something and I can’t figure out what that something is.
I’m petrified I won’t be able to fix this. Fix us. My stomach is in knots over where to start.
Then there’s my dad and his damn contract. He’s the reason I’m sitting in this waiting room obligated to meet the man responsible for this turmoil and one who I don’t trust in the least.
A daughter’s duty versus a woman’s wants.
“It’s going to be a few more minutes yet, Ms. Dalton,” the receptionist says motioning to the closed conference room door with the Aces logo on it.
“Thank you. I’m going to use the restroom then.”
The bathroom mirror only serves to reflect what a shitty night of sleep I had and how poorly I did covering it up with makeup. And the sad fact is I hate myself for being here. For picking the contract over trying to make things right.
Family first.
And while I’m choosing the contract now, opting to do something for my dad, I make a promise to myself to take care of me next.
With a deep breath and a resolve I barely feel, I head out of the bathroom and come face to face with Cal. We both freeze.
“I hope you were successful at whatever it was you were trying to accomplish, Ms. Dalton, considering you did it at the expense of my son’s future.” Disdain drips from his voice. “Your little lie had some serious consequences.”
“It cost me more than you can imagine,” I say softly, voice breaking, as I try to keep my composure.
“Really?” he sneers as he steps into me. “You don’t have a clue what this cost Easton. You tell me to protect him, praise him, and then you screw him over? It’s my son whose life has been turned around. He took less money for years to stay right here and have a life instead of the constant moving around most players do. To be loyal . . . But then again, it seems you know nothing about loyalty, do you? Your true colors burned bright, Dalton.”
“There’s more to the story than—”
“Ms. Dalton, Cory will see you now,” the receptionist interrupts from the doorway, and I wonder how much she heard.
“Thank you,” I murmur with a tight smile.
“Asshole,” Cal mutters under his breath. I snap my head his way, hoping for one more second to explain what I can to him, but he’s already walking the other way.
The only thing he’s left unspoken is whether he was referring to Cory or me.
“. . . and that is why I still believe Dalton’s Physical Therapy would benefit the Aces organization successfully with a team contract,” I say, completing my spiel with conviction all the while looking at the man across the table from me and wondering how I got myself into this position. Why I’m fighting for a contract with a team where I can’t trust—or stand, for that matter—the man who would be my boss.
“And yet you couldn’t get Easton Wylder rehabbed and back on the active roster in the time frame allotted,” he rebuts.
“Correct.” Every part of my body revolts at the lie. “As I expressed when I was brought on, I disagreed with giving him a time frame. Every body recovers differently from injuries.”
“But I believe your other words were, ‘I can have him ready by mid-August.’”
Asshole. “Yes, that is correct.”
“Hmm,” he murmurs as he sits back in his chair and levels me with an unrelenting stare as if he’s trying to intimidate me. I meet his stare and don’t back down. “And what should I do about the matter that you breached the parameters of your contract?”
“In concern to?”
“Having a relationship with the player you were charged to rehab.”
Is that what this is all about? Did Cory want to call me in here just to pull his chest-thumping bullshit and remind me he’s in control? Use this as his leverage and to justify why he traded Easton?
But even then, it doesn’t explain why Easton’s signature was on those damn agreements. Or why Finn let him.
“If I recall correctly, Ms. Dalton, I’m referring to your violation of section D, part five of your contract.”
Every part of me clings to my attempt at civility when all I want to do is tell him where he can shove said contract.
“Well, seeing as how my personal life is none of your business—”
“It is my business when you’re contracted with the team.”
“Noted,” I say with as much courtesy as possible as I attempt to regain some of my footing. “But seeing as how being in a ‘relationship’ with Mr. Wylder didn’t influence my opinions regarding his recovery, then our ‘relationship’ shouldn’t be taken into consideration. You’d think I’d give him preferential treatment. That I would be swayed to deem him one hundred percent, so he could return to the active roster. And somehow or other, because I didn’t show such favoritism, he’s been traded, which leads me to feel partially responsible for the situation.” It’s my turn to stare at him with eyebrows arched in an exclamation point to my comment.
“Mr. Wylder’s trade has nothing to do with you. There were agreements in place before you came on board.”
“Agreements? Like heal in a set time frame or be traded? I’ve worked in a lot of clubhouses, but I’ve never seen those stipulations made on a player’s rehabilitation.” I’m pushing the envelope, I know I am, and yet I can’t help it. All I can think of is the devastation on Easton’s face last night.
“It’s a standard practice I implement for the teams I work with.”
“Standard practice? Trimming costs is one thing, but making a body heal on a clock . . . I can’t imagine why an owner would allow that policy.”
He sighs as if he’s bored with this conversation already. “There were terms agreed upon by Mr. Wylder. Just like the terms you agreed to and broke in your contract.”
“I did.” I draw the words out intentionally, not oblivious to his sudden change of subject.
“My concern, Ms. Dalton, is how do I know that if I were to give you the team contract, this situation wouldn’t happen again?”
“Tell me something, Mr. Tillman,” I say shifting in my seat and leaning forward with hands clasped on the table in front of me. “Is this no relationship clause a standard part of your contract or was it only amended for me? If that’s the case, I’d hate to one, think of the organization as being sexist, and two, that they’d be narrow-minded enough to not think men can’t have relationships with other men too.”
He furrows his brow, and for a split second I fear I’ve gone too far. Maybe he’s one of those men who can’t handle being challenged by a female. In my line of work, I learned early on that assertive women often scare men.
He chews the inside of his cheek for a moment, and I swear I see a hint of amusement in his eyes despite the silence suffocating the room. “Dually noted . . . but that still doesn’t give me an answer.”
“To which question?”
“How do I know it won’t happen again?”
It’s a loaded question, and one I know I need to heed carefully. “Considering you’re in the midst of trading my boyfriend, then it’s a moot point. I’ll be here, and he’ll be wherever you send him so . . .”
“I can see why the guys on the team like you,” he muses, leaving me to wonder momentarily if that’s a compliment or a slight. He stands from the table and walks to the window of the conference room to look to the empty ballpark beyond. When he doesn’t finish his thought right away I opt to remain silent and wait him out.
“I came in here today with half a mind to let you go. There are rules. You broke them. There were terms of your contract, and I’m a stickler for following contracts to the letter. More importantly, you did not satisfy our agreement. But between your company’s reputation and your ability to handle whatever is thrown at you, you’ve given me pause in doing that.” He turns to look my way, and I meet him head-on.
“You’re over halfway through the season, Mr. Tillman. Your current physical therapist’s last day is next week and most other therapists qualified to handle a club and its rigorous expectations are already employed.”
He shakes his head and chuckles at my sales pitch. “Very true, so that’s why I’d like to give you till the end of the season to show me what you’ve got. A probationary period, if you will. You can use the staff we have already or bring in your own, but you’ve got the next fifty, hopefully seventy-ish days if we make the playoffs, to prove you can handle the needs of this team.”
I swallow over the nerves that suddenly hit me and allow relief to flood my system. I may not have let my dad down yet.
I hope he can hang on long enough to see it. Seventy-ish days when you’re grateful for the next minute, the next breath, can seem like forever.
“I’ll get the contract drawn up now.”