The Screw Ball (Indianapolis Lightning Book 3), Samantha Lind [the unexpected everything txt] 📗

having tickets directly from Mike, we might be seated in the front VIP section. He wasn’t sure when I was texting him the other day,” John tells me.

“Okay, then! What time does the show start?” I ask.

“Nine, doors open at eight. Want to grab dinner before?” Carly suggests.

“Absolutely, my treat,” I tell them.

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” John tries to argue.

“No, I insist. You are letting me crash your date night, you got me a free ticket, so it is the least I can do, really,” I tell him.

“I’m not going to argue with you, but at least let us pick up the tip or something,” he offers.

“We’ll see,” I say to pacify him.

“We were thinking of hitting up The Garage Food Hall. Some of the guys were talking about it at work the other day and said the food there was really good. I looked up the menu and from the sound of it, I’d have to agree with them,” Carly says.

“Sounds good. Should we plan to meet there at, like, six thirty? That gives us a little cushion of time in case we have to wait for a table,” I suggest.

“That works for us,” Carly confirms.

We finish up our lunches before parting ways until it is time to meet again this evening for dinner and the show.

Seven

Lucas

I walk out of the locker room and into the hallway that will lead me to a multitude of places within the facility or out to the players’ parking lot.

After this morning’s weight session, followed by practice, I’m ready for a hot meal and a decent night’s sleep. We take off in the morning for a week-long road trip that includes four games, so I also need to get packed tonight, as we’re wheels up at eight in the morning.

“Mr. Black,” I hear my name being called from down the hall. I turn, seeing one of Carmen’s assistants headed my way, so I stop and wait for her to catch up to me.

“What can I do for you, Carly, is it?” I ask, not missing the eye roll she gives me.

“Yes, it is Carly,” she says, kind of snotty. Who pissed in this girl’s Cheerios this morning? “We had a request come in from a children’s hospital in Tampa with a request from a patient who is a fan of yours. They were wondering if you’d be willing to come by when the team is in town and see the child. He’s in the middle of a pretty rough chemotherapy regimen and they think it might boost his spirits.”

“Yeah, can you get it all set up? I should be able to go over on Wednesday morning for a little while as long as you get it cleared with Coach,” I tell her. I’m almost always willing to give my time, especially in a situation like this.

“Thank you,” she says, and I think I shocked her at how easily I agreed to the request. Little does she know; I’d never turn a request like this away. The kids don’t deserve to be sick and in the hospital, so if an hour of my time will help them, then why not? “I’ll get everything approved and set up, including a car to take you to and from the hospital, either from the stadium or the hotel, wherever you’ll be at that time,” she says, which is a good thing since the team is always transported by motor coach once we make it to a city. I could always take an Uber, but having a prearranged car is probably for the best.

“Can you text me the details once you have them finalized?” I ask, knowing that the office has all of the players’ numbers.

“Of course. Would you like to take anything with you?” she asks. “The team can donate some items for you to give.”

“Yeah.” I take my baseball cap off, running my fingers through my hair, making me realize I need to fit in a cut today, as well, before I place it on my head backward. “Whatever you can put together will be good. I’ve got some errands to run, but can swing back by before I head home.”

“I can do that, or I can send it with the equipment manager,” she offers.

“That works for me,” I tell her, liking that option better.

“Will do, I’ll still text you once we have everything confirmed with the hospital.”

“Thanks,” I tell her before we part ways. It’s almost a shame that it wasn’t Carmen who relayed that information to me. I love getting every chance I can to razz her up, but alas, today isn’t one of those days.

I pull out of the parking lot, my windows all rolled down to let the fresh air in. The early September breeze is finally cooling it down just a little bit outside. We’ve only got a couple weeks left before the post season starts, which I’m looking forward to.

I’m cruising down the interstate when something catches my eye in the rearview mirror. Fuck, flashing lights on the cop car behind me.

I flip on my blinker, slowing to a stop on the shoulder of the road. Once stopped, I place my SUV into park, and reach for my registration and insurance card as the officer approaches my car.

“License and registration,” she requests from the open window.

I hand over the requested documents. “Can you tell me why you pulled me over, officer?” I ask.

“Clocked you going eighty-five in a sixty-five zone,” she states, matter-of-factly. “Where are you headed in such a hurry, Mr. Black?” she asks, using my last name after she’s had the chance to look over my information. I can’t see her eyes, as she’s got on polarized sunglasses, so I can’t tell if she knows who I am outside of reading my driver’s license.

“Just out doing some errands before I head home,” I tell her. “I didn’t realize I was even going that fast, was just kind of moving along with traffic,” I