4. Morgan
4
MORGAN
“Come on, Morgan,” Joshua Chen, the first baseman for the Texas Lonestars, whines in my ear. “Have pity on a guy.”
“You’re ridiculous, Chen.” I readjust my phone, pressing my head more firmly against the earpiece, and cast a wary glance at my cubical mates. No one spares me a glance, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t listening.
“Do you want me to beg? Because I will. I’ll write a poem praising all of your stunning qualities, lamenting my unworthiness and unbridled hope that you will take mercy on a fellow single adult and save me from the hoard of cleat-chasers my mom is already trying to set me up with.”
I stifle my laugh and shake my head, locking my computer screen and walking away from my standing desk. There’s no way I’ll be able to get off the phone with Joshua anytime soon—not without revealing too much to my coworkers who aren’t aware of my friendship with the professional athlete.
I walk down the narrow path to the kitchenette on the floor, where those of us without a personal fridge in our offices store our lunches.
“You’re a professional baseball player, Chen,” I speak quietly, all too aware of the crowded desks concealed by the tall cubicle walls. “Are you seriously telling me you can’t find a date for your friend’s wedding?”
“No one who won’t try to manipulate it into a date, and aside from you, I’m not interested in dating anyone I know.”
I scoff. “Save it, Chen.”
“Why don’t you believe me?” I imagine the pout on his handsome face. “I’m telling you, Caldwell. We’d be good together.”
“You’re basically twelve.”
“Twenty-three last month.”
“Still six years too young for me,” I say with a smile.
Joshua Chen is a good guy, and while he might’ve actually been interested in me when we first met, I know he’s only joking about us dating. We’ve become good friends this past year. And while I would’ve once said he was a player, now that I know him, I know how badly he wants to find a girl to settle down with. He’s having a hard time finding one who cares more about him than his budding career.
“Come on, Morgan. Don’t leave me hanging. I’ll be miserable if I go alone.”
“How do you expect to find a girlfriend if you constantly bring me to all these social events?” I ask, even as his sad tone tugs on my heartstrings. “What if the girl of your dreams is at the wedding, but you two don’t hit it off because you’re too busy forcing me onto the dance floor all night?”
“Force you? Come on. You’re a dancing queen.”
I roll my eyes. “We both know that’s not true.”
“You’ve got moves, Caldwell. Don’t let anyone tell you any different. I’m the envy of every single man in the room whenever you’re in my arms.”
You know, the crazy thing is, he means it. Joshua Chen has a poet’s soul—something I tell him often. Hence his offer to write me a poem.
But while his words are kind, they bring up a foul memory—it tastes like mint toothpaste mixed with the subtle spice of whisky. Even after all these months, I can’t forget the way Dane Larson tasted as he ravished my lips.
It was the most sensual moment of my life, and I hate that it was shared with a jerk who never texted me after our brief interlude.
So much for him being desperate to meet me after seeing me at Carter’s barbeque. I now recognize the words were a lie. A well-executed one.
“Come on, Morgan.” Joshua is back to begging. “Come with me this weekend. I already told my buddy I’d have a plus one. You wouldn’t let me be the tacky person who reserves a seat for his date and then shows up alone, would you?”
I sigh. “ Fine .”
“Really?” His voice rises in pitch.
“Yes, really.” It’s not like I have anything better to do. “But I expect the royal treatment. Especially if I have to face your mom again.”
Thinking of the classy woman makes me shudder. I’d never seen someone convey dissatisfaction in a single glance, but that’s all it took for me to know Sofia Chen vehemently disapproved of me. It took everything I had not to cower under her fierce scrutiny and admit to the formidable woman that I wasn’t really dating her son—that it was all a ploy to keep single women away from him.
My loyalty as a friend was severely tested that day.
“I’d never give you anything less,” he vows. “You’re a precious jewel who deserves to be cherished.”
I bark out a laugh and immediately shoot an apologetic look at the intern making a fresh pot of coffee in the kitchenette. “Sorry,” I mouth.
The young woman smiles shyly before nodding and returning her attention to her task. I wrack my brain for her name but come up blank. I met her last week. I’m pretty sure she’s on the athletic training staff, but all interns have desks on this floor.
“Ms. Caldwell.” My boss’s voice sounds behind me. “Do you have a moment?”
I stiffen and whisper into the phone. “I’ve got to go. Text me the details for this weekend.”
“You got it?—”
I end the call and turn around to face Dr. Carlisle Gaines, the lead sports dietician for the Texas Rangers.
His fatherly expression is calm and patient. “I apologize. I didn’t realize you were on the phone.”
“It’s okay. A friend had a question for me. I can call him back later.”
“If you say so.” He motions to the hallway. “Let’s speak in my office.”
I nod and walk in front of him when he motions me forward. Anticipation ripples through me with each step I take.
My direct manager, Stevie, told me Dr. Gaines and the other dieticians had noticed my expertise and skills. She said they’ve been discussing elevating my position from assistant nutritional coach to lead coach for one of the team’s players.
I hoped for this opportunity since I took the job half a year ago. In that time, I’ve tried to make myself indispensable. I help my colleagues with their dietary plans for the athletes they work for, helping them develop analytics to measure the influence of certain macro proportions based on the individual’s age, ethnicity, blood panel, and more.
I keep my pace measured and my spine straight as I try, but fail, to temper the hope billowing in my chest.
We reach the fancy corner office, and I follow Dr. Gaines’ instruction to take a seat at one of the expensive leather chairs in front of his desk. He walks over to the bookshelf lining the wall behind his desk. He picks up a narrow book with a dark brown cover that’s worn at the edges.
Dr. Gaines holds the book in his hands and meets my gaze. “I’ve heard great things about your work these past few months, Ms. Caldwell.”
Pride swells. “Thank you, Dr. Gaines.”
He smiles. “You have an impressive knowledge of how to personalize dietary regimens using criteria that are nothing short of unique. Tell me, how did you develop your guidelines?”
I lick my lips and shove down the nerves trying to shake my confidence. “Well, I’m not sure if you know this, but I was a college athlete. So were my brothers, as well as my parents.”
“I did not. What sports?”
“I played volleyball. My brothers were in track and field. My mom was a dancer.” I pause, but I see no way not to admit it. “And my dad played hockey.”
“Caldwell.” Understanding sparks in his gaze. “Your father wouldn’t happen to be Warren Caldwell, would he?”
“The one and only.”
“Wow.” He shakes his head in awe—it’s the same way any true hockey fan looks when they hear I’m the daughter of the Warren Caldwell. “I had no idea.”
Most people don’t.
My dad was a breakout hockey star in his first year at university. He’d stayed in Toronto to finish his degree rather than enter the NHL draft, and he took his team to the University Cup title three times, winning two during his junior and senior years.
By all accounts, Dad had a brilliant professional career ahead of him. That is, until he suffered a nasty collision with an opposing team’s defenseman, tearing his ACL to such a degree that he needed surgery to repair it. He never played the same again, and he made the difficult decision to retire.
“How does your father feel to know you work for the Ranchers? Does he ever come to games?”
Never.
“Not this year.” I force a smile that I’m sure looks awkward.
Since Dad and Mom moved to Dallas early in their marriage, they’ve established a life here that’s free of his notoriety as a would-be hockey legend. Aside from following his favorite team—the Toronto Jays—he doesn’t talk about hockey at all. He certainly doesn’t come to Ranchers games.
“Well, if he does, be sure to let me know. I know at least five old geezers in the organization who would love to meet the Slapstick Kid.” He chuckles at whatever memory my father’s old nickname elicits.
“I will,” I nod. “Absolutely.”
Dr. Gaines continues to smile to himself for a few more seconds, then shakes his head. “Well, I suppose you’re wondering why I called you in here. Other than to sing your praises and chat about your dad.”
I’m not even upset that he forgot his question about how I selected my criteria for generating meal plans for specific athletes. “Yes. I mean, I am. Wondering, I mean.”
Ugh, Morgan. Act like a professional, for goodness sake!
Dr. Gaines isn’t put off by my awkward reaction. “My colleagues and I believe your talents aren’t being fully utilized in your current position, and we’d like you to take on the role of a nutritional coach for one of our star players.”
My heart leaps into my throat.
“How does that sound?”
“When do I start?” I blurt, too excited to be embarrassed for sounding so eager.
This is it! This is what I’ve busted my ass for ever since deciding I wanted to be a sports dietician.
As an undergrad, I developed a passion for nutrition while helping my volleyball teammates nourish their bodies and maintain peak performance. I strived to help all of us overcome the toxic diet culture that permeates society, especially for women.
Women athletes are praised for their physical feats but criticized for looking too muscular. Educating myself and other young women about the importance of taking care of our bodies to prevent injuries and maximize performance became a passion of mine.
Our generation is doing a lot of work to undo the exposure being raised by mothers who were victims of toxic body ideals and jazzercize celebrities, but we’ve still got a long way to go.
Unfortunately, my mom was a victim of the unhealthy campaigns that ran rampant during her formative years. As a ballet dancer, she was also subjected to unhealthy body image ideals by her dance companies.
Mom can’t resist criticizing her body, saying she looks too “manly” when she develops any muscle. It takes effort not to take those comments personally, considering I’m still pretty fit even though I haven’t played collegiate volleyball in years.
“I love your enthusiasm.” Dr. Gaines says, pulling my thoughts away from the depressing subject of toxic body ideals. “Honestly, the sooner you start, the better. With playoffs around the corner, it’s important we give every advantage we can to our team, including enhancing the performance of even our most talented stars.”
It isn’t until his last sentence that the possibility of who the star athlete I could be working with comes to mind, filling me with dread.
“Who is?—”
A knock interrupts my question.
“Speak of the devil,” Dr. Gaines says to me before calling out. “Come in.”
My heart races. My hands shake. I tuck them into my lap to hide the movement and try to steady my breathing.
There’s no way.
Fate wouldn’t be so cruel to make working with Dane a condition of my dream job. I’ve worked too hard to get to this point.
But the moment the door opens, my fears are realized as I turn and watch the man who haunts my thoughts every night before I go to bed step into the office.