Amara McDonough （2）

"You're not serious. Right? Please tell me you're joking."

"What do you mean? The timing is perfect."

"Right," Amara said, scrolling through the browser on her phone while she chatted with her cousin on speaker. "I'm literally staring at something called Elite Prospects right now, which says he signed a 1.8 million, two-year contract. Tell me again why the hell he even needs a roommate."

"Because it's a two-way, entry-level contract, and he was just assigned to us two days ago, last-minute. He didn't make the final cut. On a two-way contract, they only make the big money if and when they're called up. If they're assigned to the minors, their salaries drop dramatically."

She sighed. "Nick: he's a kid. He's…" she scrolled to his birthdate, paused for a quick bit of mental math, and then snickered. "He's 23? He's 23, Nick!"

"And?"

"This is insane. Isn't there a teammate he can room with?"

"It was a last-minute decision. Everyone else is already living somewhere. I helped him find a place, completely turnkey, but he wants to split it with someone. You literally just show up, sign the contract, and drop your bags. No stress."

She hung her head, running her fingers through her hair. "This is such a bad idea."

"Mar, you're impossible," he replied, frustrated.

"That's the word on the street."

"Look: you wanted out? This is your out. You come here, you start over. Yes, parts of Bridgeport are a dump, but this is Downtown. It's up-and-coming. There are plenty of bars in the area. You'll have no issue finding a bartending job, if that's what you wanna do, and you can still write on the side. Listen, you asked me to help you find a place to live. Well, I found you one."

"No, you found me a fuckin' frat boy to shack up with. You do understand that I'm 41 years old, right? Like, you remember that part?"

"Don't make this difficult. This is your do-over. I know some athletes have a reputation for being scumbags…"

"Some?" she sneered, mentally running through the list of all the athletes she'd dated.

Yep. All scumbags.

"Yes. Some. And trust me: some of them are. OK, a lot of them are. But I promise you, you won't meet a more down-to-earth guy than Baylor, honest to God. He's easy to talk to and kinda goofy. You'll really like him. And I know your history. You gotta trust that I wouldn't put you in a dicey situation. Amara, he's nice."

"Yup," she said, scrolling through the Google image search she'd just run on him. "That's uh, certainly one way to describe him." Gorgeous, blonde, blue-eyed, tatted, and built like a brick shithouse would be another, she thought. "And you're sure he knows he's getting a baggage-hauling divorced woman who's literally old enough to be his mother?

"Yes."

"And he's cool with all of this?"

"One hundred percent. I told him I'd let him know soon so he could start looking elsewhere if he had to. He's a good dude. There are some guys I wouldn't even want you in the same room with. But Baylor? You have nothing to worry about with him."

"Mmhmm," she mumbled. "I need to think about it."

"You're still coming out here Thursday, right? I'm picking you up?"

"Yup, don't have much of a choice. I sold my car. Closing on the house Thursday, and I'm officially 41, divorced, carless, homeless, jobless, and on my way to Connecticut."

"Well, I can't do anything about most of that, but you don't have to be homeless if you don't wanna be. Let me know as soon as you can, OK? I gotta go."

"Nick?" she asked before he could hang up. "He's legit? No drama, no bullshit?"

"Positive."

"Fine. Tell him..." she sighed. "Tell him I'm in."

And that was how she found herself living in Downtown Bridgeport, Connecticut with 23-year-old New York Islanders prospect Ryan Baylor.