Chapter 11: As Easy As One

The silence in the kitchen stretched out thin and awkward.

Twelve eyes stayed pinned to my face while the wax-lined box of short ribs began slipping down my front, the damp cardboard digging into my forearms.

A tall guy leaning against the double refrigerator was the first to move. He had an easy grin, untamed reddish-brown hair, and the broad shoulders of an outfielder.

"Is this legal?" he asked, chuckling as he pushed off the counter. "You look seventeen."

"I'm twenty-two," I said, catching the slipping box before it took my knees out. "And I carry my own weight."

Before the bottom seam gave way, two of them stepped in. The red-haired player scooped the meat carton off my forearms in one effortless lift, while another guy with a close skin fade snagged the heavy dairy bags from my fingers.

The sudden release of fifty pounds nearly sent me stumbling backward.

They dropped the load onto the counter with a dull thud.

"Forearms were shaking, tiny," the red-haired one noted, leaning an elbow on the island.

"I didn't ask for help," I muttered, flexing my stiff fingers to get the feeling back into my palms.

I had one goal: shove the perishables into the cooler, clear out, and get behind the locked door of the casita before Vaughn Mercer found another excuse to question my employment. I grabbed the cheese blocks and cream cartons, shoving them onto the lower shelves.

"So," a voice called from by the terrace door as someone popped the cap off a beer bottle. "Are you Vaughn's new pet? What happened to the blonde model Daphne sent up last month?"

I turned around, wiping my hands on my jeans.

"I am the hired housekeeper," I said, making sure every syllable came out clear. "I am not his pet, and I am not his anything."

A quiet murmur rippled across the counters.

"So you're not out here trying to make our moody ace fall in love with you?" the red-haired one asked, his brows arching in amusement.

"Fall in love?" A dry laugh slipped out before I could stop it. "I would rather sleep in an open drainage ditch than look twice at that arrogant, moody man-child."

The words flew out into the room before my survival instincts could filter them.

The pause that followed was dead quiet. My pulse kicked against my ribs as I remembered who these men were: his starting lineup, the guys who shared a dugout with him five days a week. If they repeated that to Vaughn, my six-thousand-dollar monthly check was gone before midnight.

Then the kitchen detonated.

The entire room erupted into laughter that drowned out the hum of the fridge. One of them slapped the counter with an open hand, while the red-haired guy threw an arm over my shoulders in an easy, brotherly half-hug, giving the crown of my head a rough knuckle-rub that wrecked my ponytail.

"I love her," he declared to the ceiling. "I genuinely love this girl."

"Get off me," I grumbled, ducking out from under his arm.

He held his beer up in an informal salute. "I'm Rhys. That’s Diego by the fridge, and over there are Brody, Kael, and Gage. Welcome to the circus."

"Freya," I said, smoothing down my stray hair.

"I say she lasts thirty days," Diego chimed in, already pulling a money clip from his shorts.

"Forty-five," Brody called from the pantry doorway.

"You're both wrong," Rhys said, pointing the neck of his bottle at them. "She stays through the postseason. A hundred bucks says she outlasts all of us."

"Book it," Diego said, slapping a folded bill onto the counter.

I shook my head, grabbed the short ribs, and slid the meat into the walk-in freezer. Wealthy athletes were the same everywhere, whether they wore suits or gym shorts.

"Enjoying the party?"

The deep baritone cut through the noise like an axe.

The laughter vanished in a split second. The five players stood upright, their easy banter disappearing into thin air.

I turned around from the freezer door.

Vaughn Mercer stood framed in the archway. He had just come from the pool, wearing dark board shorts that hung damp against his hips, water dripping from his dark hair onto his shoulders.

His gaze swept the kitchen, then stopped on me.

"Eyes up here, chipmunk," Vaughn said quietly.

I held my ground by the counter. "The groceries are put away. The non-perishables from your list are locked inside the garage bay."

"I didn't ask about the garage," he replied, taking a deliberate step forward.

"Then step back," I told him. "You're crowding the walkway."

He didn't back off. He closed the distance until he was standing directly in front of me, tall enough that his frame cut off the overhead light.

He didn't raise his voice, and he didn't argue. He just turned his head slightly and pointed a thumb toward the service corridor.

"Wash the training gear," Vaughn said. "Tonight."

I looked past his shoulder.

Parked beside the laundry room door was a commercial canvas rolling cart piled five feet high with athletic wear. Wool jerseys, clay-stained pants, muddy socks, and sweat-soaked compression gear formed a massive heap.

"You expect four industrial cycles washed, dried, and folded before morning?" I asked.

"Field drills start at seven sharp tomorrow," Vaughn said, his tone flat and unyielding. "We need clean uniforms. Is that beyond your capabilities?"

"You have backup uniforms in the equipment locker."

"I want these," he said. He leaned in an inch, making sure every player in the room heard the words. "Four hours, Thorne. Every single piece washed, dried, and folded before sunrise, or you're off this property."

He turned on his bare heel and walked toward the terrace doors without waiting for an answer.

I looked at the canvas cart overflowing with red clay and sweat, then up at the digital clock mounted above the stove.

Four hours.