Yeah, not the pick of the litter. “And they don’t care that I’m not ranked in the top twenty.”
“They care that people are starting to know who you are. For all the wrong fucking reasons,” Sawyer reminded her once more. “Win something, and the offers will roll in. People forgive winners.”
Oh, if only I’d thought of that. Just go out and win a Grand Slam. Yes, I’ll put that on my to-do list, right after solving world hunger and ending terrorism. Priorities, after all…
“Sawyer, I—”
“Quality over quantity, Kelly,” he said quietly, cutting her off. “Quality. I’m looking out for your interests, believe me. Your priority is getting yourself in top shape so you’re ready to attack the Australian Open in January. It isn’t looking cute or learning new dance moves or being auctioned off to the highest fucking bidder. Which reminds me, what the hell have you done with Lambert?”
Kat glanced around her apartment. “I’ve got him tied up in a kitchen chair, ball gag in place, wearing women’s underwear and covered in whipped cream. Why do you ask?”
“I ask because my most trusted, most reliable mentor has suddenly had a complete lapse of judgment with regards to mentoring. Maybe he’s lost his touch.”
“No, he hasn’t,” she defended without thinking. “Don’t say that. He’s good at what he does. He’s tried hard. I just… things just keep… stuff happens, you know?”
“Uh-huh.” There was a long pause, then, “Maybe you should come back.”
“No.” It didn’t escape Kat’s notice that she was now arguing to stay somewhere she’d, only a week earlier, fought so hard against coming to.
“If you’re just going to waste the time while you’re there, serving beers and getting into trouble again, then—”
“I’ve got a new trainer.” She cut him off, seeking anything to make the suggestion of coming home stop. “He’s got a lot of great ideas for me and ways to work around my problem spots so I don’t exacerbate anything I’ve hurt in the past.”
“Which is everything.”
Basically. “And I’ve got a new coach.”
“Who is batshit crazy, from the way Peter talks about him.”
“Whose side are you on anyway?”
“Yours. Whose side are you on?” Sawyer ended the call with that little gem.
She hadn’t called, hadn’t texted, hadn’t even left a sticky note on his door. Nothing.
Michael received confirmation from Aileen she’d been dropped off, and the front desk swore she hadn’t left since coming in. But for some reason he just wasn’t quite ready to see her yet. And so, he’d stopped just short of knocking on her door.
His temper had long since burned off. The Benny Dance Off had ended up being a nonissue for the rest of the game, and though he tried his hardest to keep his eyes on the field or his teammates alone, he couldn’t help but let them drift over to the section where she sat with the rest of the families. Though he couldn’t actually pick her out—too far away—he wanted to feel like she saw him, tracked him, knew where he was.
Cheered for him. Acknowledged that he played a damn good game.
Pathetic.
After changing out of the suit he was required to wear each game day, he slipped on some gym shorts and a T-shirt and forced himself to go knock on her door. It was quiet in her place, but he doubted she was asleep.
What he wasn’t expecting was a bleary-eyed Kat, hair mussed, to answer the door looking like she’d clawed her way up from the depths of hell just to greet him.
“What?” she asked, her voice raspy.
“I— Did you just wake up?”
“I fell asleep on the couch.” She glared through already-narrowed eyes, as if the light from the hallway was painful. “I had a phone call that knocked me on my ass. Two, actually.” Kat turned and left the door wide open, walking into her kitchen. Michael shut the door behind him and locked it.
“Who called?”
Instead of answering, Kat began looking through cabinets, shutting each one before it was even fully open.
“What… what are you… Kat.”
She didn’t even pause in her total self-destructive path.
“You’re going to rip a cabinet door off. What are you looking for?”
“I’m hungry. I didn’t eat dinner. Didn’t want to spend twenty-four dollars at the stadium on a lukewarm hot dog and flat soda someone probably— Oh, yeah. Here we go.” She pulled something out of a top cabinet, giving him a good glimpse of the smooth skin of her stomach as she reached for it. And brought down a box of Honey Nut Cheerios.
Michael watched as she hopped up on the counter and opened the box, digging in with a hand and tossing it in her mouth. “Remind me to never eat breakfast over here.”
“Don’t judge. They’re good for you. Look.” She took a second to peruse the box, then thrust it at him. “Good source of fiber,” she said proudly.