Wicked Game | Grayson Dolan

2

Grayson

This morning my coach called to let me know that my new assistant will be coming by with my schedule, and some other information I'll be needing in the coming days. Since I just got traded, there's press releases and interviews to be done, and a new practice and game schedule to get accommodated to.

I've been mentally preparing all day. I want to be prepared in case it really is Samantha. I haven't spoken a word to her in years, and neither has she spoken to me. It feels like we've been worlds apart for all this time, and now we're being sent to the same, very crammed world. I also don't want to get my hopes up. There's probably ten thousand people named Samantha in the New England area alone. What are the chances it's her?

My alarm woke me up at six this morning, so I hit the gym at the training center before coming home to shower, order breakfast, and I haven't known what to do with myself since. My furniture is all settled in now. There's not really anything I can think of that the apartment needs for now. I have all of the basic essentials.

When a knock finally sounds against my door, I take a deep breath as I pad through the kitchen. This is it–the moment that could make or break my season. If it's Samantha, my Samantha, how different will our dynamic be? If it's not her, how much will I wish that it was? I keep thinking about us, and the whole "two worlds" thing. I can't get it out of my head. So much has happened since we've been in each other's lives.

I open the door, and sure enough, it's the girl I spent all of my childhood summers with.

My brain stops. I don't remember my name. I can't talk. She's speechless, standing in the hallway of my apartment complex.

"Sam," I muster out.

I can't tell if she's scared, anxious, or guarded, but it's not as easy to read her as it used to be. I used to be able to tell what she was thinking with a glance, but I guess things between us really have changed. All because I fucked everything up when we were in college.

"Are you going to let me in, or should I just hand you your schedule and leave?" she asks.

I step aside, opening the door more, to let her in. "I'm um–yeah, you can come in. Sorry."

Samantha walks past me and into the kitchen, so I turn around to face her. As much as I tried to prepare myself, I still don't think I could ever be prepared for this moment. My heart is beating out of my chest. Sam is really right here in front of me, but I doubt she'll ever trust me enough for our dynamic to be the same as it once was. We used to be an extension of each other, and now we've been strangers for years.

-

Samantha

"Your practice schedule and media schedule are both in this folder," I say, setting a blue folder on Grayson's kitchen counter. "I put my contact information in there in case you need anything. I'll be working with the team's nutritionist to make sure you're getting meals suited to your needs. It's up to you if you'll want me to travel with the team for away games, but I can also stay in Boston to keep things running here. I'm available for cooking, cleaning, laundry. Pretty much anything you can think of, they pay me for."

Grayson smiles. "Are you sure you wanna deal with laundry? It piles up quickly, and gets really gross."

"The last person I assisted had a wife and baby. Nothing is more gross than clothes full of baby puke and poop."

"Fair," Grayson says.

There's still boxes in the living room, and no decorations on the wall. This place is so bare, that there's not even a rug in the living room. Just a couch, coffee table, and tv.