I’ve worked out the fact he’d like to bang me. No matter what he keeps denying, his suggestive language gives him away. But wanting casual sex and getting jealous over guys flirting are two separate things. A flick of desire courses through my veins and confuses the shit out of me. Braxton Smith is not someone I want to have lewd thoughts about.
“Have you been to the new dance club, Beats, yet?”
My hands still as the sinking realization behind the truth of Tryce calling me over surfaces. Even though I had my suspicions, his question still catches me off guard. I half-expected him to ask later. “No, I haven’t.”
My gaze flicks back to Braxton, and inwardly, I wince. His laser-beam scowl is directed straight at Tryce.
“If you want to go sometime, I’d—”
“Cara, did you grab the kanamycin?” Braxton's voice booms across the counter.
“Yeah, I sure did. It’s to your left.” I turn back to Tryce, mentally reciting lines to let him down gently. So far, I’ve come up with my cat recently died or I’m swamped with classes this semester and really need to concentrate. Since they don’t allow students to have animals in the dorm rooms, the homework excuse sounds more believable. Before Tryce opens his mouth, Braxton clears his throat. I glare back at him. “What?”
“I left my phone and need to set the timer. Can I have your cell?”
I purse my lips. What is his game? “Okay.” I unlock my screen and hand him the phone. “Just leave it on the desk when you’re done.” I turn once more to Tryce, but Braxton interrupts. Again.
“We haven’t decided on the time to meet tomorrow.” He glances down at my phone and smirks.
“How about three?”
“That works.”
“What I wanted to say—” Tryce begins.
“Wait, I’m not sure,” Braxton’s voice booms over Tryce’s. “We better make it two thirty in case there’s a problem. Practice is at four, and I wouldn’t want to leave you hanging.”
“Two thirty works.” I hold his gaze for a beat in case he adds more. When he doesn’t say anything, I shift my attention back to Tryce. He gives me a wry smile.
“Can you come here? I need help measuring these antibiotics. Our media will be done soon.” Braxton looks at me expectantly.
“Sorry, Tryce. My partner is incompetent,” I say through gritted teeth.
“That’s fine.” He smiles as if unaffected, but the irritation drips with each syllable. “I’ll talk to you later.”
I slide into my seat next to Braxton and give him a stern look.
“You’re welcome,” he says with assuredness.
“What am I thanking you for?”
“He was going to ask you out. I stepped in and saved you.”
“Saved me,” I repeat a little flabbergasted. One would think his arrogance wouldn’t surprise me, but the jolts keep coming.
“Yeah, so you’re welcome.”
“Did it occur to you that I may want to go out with him?” I keep my voice low so Tryce doesn’t overhear our conversation. He may get the wrong impression.
“No, you don’t.”
“Maybe, I do.”
“Your argument is wavering.” He looks at me pointedly. “That means it’s not definite.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You keep saying ‘maybe’ instead of using definitive words.” He flashes me his brilliant smile. “You don’t want to go out with him. You’d rather go out with me.”
“We’re back to this old conversation? How many times do I have to say I don’t want to go out with you?”
“Deny all you want, but a picture is worth a thousand words.”
“Huh?” I ask because he makes zero sense.
“Never mind. But I know you don’t want to go out with pencil dick.”
“Seriously? You’ve resorted to name-calling? And what qualifies him as a pencil dick? He’s nice.”
“Uh-huh. I know his type.”
“Yeah, I know yours too.” I clamp my mouth shut. I didn’t mean for that to slip out.
His eyes narrow, and I shift in my seat as he studies me. “Hmm, interesting.”
Of course, of everything I said, that would be what he latches on to. The timer goes off on my cell phone and draws our attention.
“I’ll go check the autoclave.” Braxton stands, and I let out a breath. I may or may not watch that perfect ass walk away. Damn, his firm ass cheeks fill those athletic pants perfectly. I have a sinking feeling working with this guy is going to be torturous on more than one level.
Chapter Twelve
BRAXTON
The sun sinks behind the canopy of oak trees lining the landscape behind the outfield. Vibrant shades of oranges and blues streak the sky and illuminate the low-hanging clouds. I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees and take in the canvas. There’s so much more than the last remains of the day hanging above my head. Usually sitting in the scout seats behind home plate clears my mind. The burdens lessen, if only temporarily, while I’m in my sanctuary. My personal place of worship. But that’s not happening tonight.
“Looks like something’s troubling you, boy.”
Or someone. I fight the urge to clench my hands and try to remain unexpressive. My gaze flicks to the well-seasoned man, Bartolo Castillo. Bart, as I call him, has been head of the maintenance crew at Renald Field for years. He earned my respect during my first visit to the school back when I was a junior in high school. I had broken away from my parents and coach to scope out the infield—alone. I wanted to get the feel for the baselines.
Once the toe of my shoe stepped on the infield’s dirt, all of Mom’s concerns and Dad’s relentless questions pushed to the background of my mind. I could feel this place in my soul. The intensity. The excitement. The adrenaline rushed through me like the first time Dad took me to a Giants game.
I worked my way over to second base and took in the surrounding sights: the dugouts and the bleacher seats. Being in this ballpark felt right. I closed my eyes and envisioned my moves. The underhand flip to the shortstop so he can execute the double play. The snappy throw from home plate so I can apply the quick tag. It all played out in my mind. I knew Cessna University was where I wanted to be, but if there were any lingering doubts about coming here, Bart’s words pulled me in farther.
Bart happened to be reworking the sod behind third base. I asked him what the best part of working at the university was. He startled, acting seemingly surprised I had spoken to him. He placed his shovel on the ground and stared long and hard at me. I figured he’d give some winded spiel about the college’s historical greats that have come and gone, but his answer surprised me. “To see each player come into their own.” He chose the word each, implying we all improve no matter our level of talent. Those words have always stuck with me…
“Nah, I’m good. Just contemplating how the year will play out,” I finally say. I shift in my seat at Bart’s side-eye glance.
“It’s going to be a good season. The team’s stacked with a lot of talent.” Bart speaks in a soft, impassive tone, but he doesn’t fool me. He may not pass judgment, but he can detect bullshit a mile away. He’s smart though. As a man who’s been around athletes his entire adulthood, he knows which battles to fight.
“Sure is.” I look past the nostalgic green scoreboard and study the golden flecks filtering through the oak leaves.
“Well, I’ll let you to it,” Bart says after a beat. “Don’t stay too long.”
“I’m about to leave.” I make no attempt to move and continue staring straight ahead. When the shuffling sounds fade, I lean farther back into my seat and let out a long, steady stream of air. No way am I admitting to Bart my foul mood is caused by a certain female besieging my every thought. He’d ask too many questions. Ones I don’t have the answers to. Hell, I can’t even understand this attraction to her, let alone explain it. But no matter what I do lately, I can’t seem to get those expressive, oval-shaped eyes out of my head. I don’t even
know why because the girl drives me crazy. She treats Tryce better than me for Christ’s sake. Tryce Wellington who’s nothing but a dweeb.
My jaw clenches from the memory of his smug expression. When she turned to look at me and he flashed me that smirky grin, it took everything I had not to jump across the table and pummel the bastard. He acted as if he got one over on me as if she’s an acquisition to be conquered. When and where were the entry sign-ups to that contest? I think I missed it. If he wants her that badly, who am I to stand in the way? It’s not like I can date her long-term. Hell, I shouldn’t even like her. But if that’s the case, then why am I pissed?
Because she intrigues the hell out me, that’s why.
Despite her actions, she can’t hate me. If she did, she wouldn’t have the picture of me saved to her photo album.
I forgot you’re a baseball player. Those words loop through my mind like the detailed clip during film study—watch, learn, repeat. No one ever forgets the fact that I play baseball. Not my friends. Not my sister. Not even my parents. I can’t go a day without being reminded I’m Braxton Smith, Cessna’s star player, captain of the baseball team, and she forgets?
The fact she thinks of me as more than a player pleases me more than it should. But it also means she knew who I was all along. It means she lied.
And I can’t stand being lied to.
Not after Jasmine spent months lying to me.
But it’s different with Cara. When I’m with her, baseball is the last thing I think about. Getting her riled up is way more fun. I don’t know how to process these feelings. I swear under my breath and make my way toward the exit. This isn’t me. I don’t let girls get under my skin—not anymore.
After securing the locks behind me, I turn and make my way toward my truck, the unsettling in my stomach not going away. Regardless of my indifference to dating, it bothers me that Cara has a wrong impression of me. I may not be a saint, but I consider myself selective when it comes to the women I’ve been with.
Maybe I should tell her how her precious Tryce wanted me to hook him up with some chick at a frat party last semester? The girl—an obvious jersey chaser—went from the hockey players to the football players before landing on me. I wasn’t into her, but that didn’t stop her relentless pursuit. When Tryce cornered me, he practically begged me to set him up. Pathetic. Like, dude, get your own date. Apparently, he’s learned since he snaked on my girl.
My girl?
Where did that possessive thought come from? No, she’s not my girl, but Tryce doesn’t know that. It’s just not cool to encroach on another guy’s prospect. There’s this thing called respect.
Seriously.
I arrive home and push the front door open forcefully. The momentum carries the door back, and a loud bang reverberates off the walls. Well, that and a bark.
A bark?
What the—
“Close the door!” Noah’s deep voice belts across the living room space, followed by another bark. “Whoa, boy.”
“What’s going on?” Toenails scrape across the hardwood floor as I slam the door shut. I crouch on the floor and brace for the fifty-pound furry impact. I stand corrected. When my arms wrap around the dog’s rib cage, he feels more like forty pounds. The pooch needs to eat. He lets out a playful bark and turns to lick my face. I scurry backward. “Whoa…seriously, dog, you’ve got some stank breath. What have you been munching on?”
“I think shit or something dead.” Garret comes in the room chewing on a strip of beef jerky.
“He reeks. Where’d he come from?” I weave my fingers through his sandy-blond fur and scratch behind his ears. He has the markings of a golden retriever, but his ears are more russet in color.
“He was sniffing around the garbage out back. I tried looking to see if he belongs to someone, but he doesn’t have a collar. I have no idea if he’s chipped, but the poor boy is starving.” Noah bends down to pet him. “Not sure if he was dumped or ran away.”
His coat of fur is matted like he’s been out in the weather for months. I run my hands along his sides and frown. Each rib is defined—a clear sign of malnutrition. “Hey, buddy, you need something to eat?”
“I filled a water bowl, and he drank for about fifteen minutes. We had some scraps, which I gave him, but we need some real dog food,” Garret says.
My gaze snaps to both teammates. “We can’t keep him, can we?”
They shrug, but it’s Noah—the ever-sensible one of us—who speaks. “I don’t think we have much of a choice. I’m not calling animal control, and I can’t just let him go. He’ll starve to death.”
The front door swings open, and I turn a little too fast from the surprise. The dog’s bark sounds more like a whine as he cowers beside me. I lay my palm against his shaking body and pat him. “Hey, boy. It’s okay.”
“Uh, we have a dog?”
All eyes fixate on the stranger standing by our doorway. He shifts the strap of his duffle bag higher on his shoulder, his white T-shirt bunching beneath the black leather jacket. Someone needs to inform him this is Los Angeles. Ditch the coat. If the backward baseball cap and worn, ripped jeans don’t tip a person off, the standoffish way he stands sure will. He’s either extremely lax or sports one hell of a chip on his shoulder. I’ll reserve my judgment until later.
“Hey, Dalton, welcome. Glad you made it. Your room is at the top of the stairs, first door to the left.” Noah turns back to me, concern coating his features. “If we keep him, we’ll have to find some way for him to keep from barking.”
The mutt flashes his big brown eyes to me. When he lays his head on top of his front paws and stares up at me, I chuckle. Talk about giving me puppy eyes. “First, let’s get him more to eat.”
“We really have a dog?” Dalton drops to his knee beside me and starts petting him. “Phew, dude. You have some asinine breath.”
Noah chuckles and explains where he found him, while I go rummage up some more grub. When I return with a pile of ham on a plate, the dog wolfs it down in two gulps.
“Hey, was that my lunchmeat?” Garret asks.
“Yeah, sorry. I’ll run to the store.”
“Isn’t it against policy to have animals?” Dalton asks.
“Yeah, we could get into trouble by keeping him.” I point out the obvious. As if the dog knows we’re debating his fate, he lets out a small whine. “Are we in agreement for keeping the thing?”
“I say we keep it. No one will rat us out. He’ll be like our team mascot,” Garret says.
The golden fur ball stares up at me. His deep brown eyes, the same color as Cara’s, pull me in. I’m in trouble in more ways than one. “You don’t look like a wildcat.”
I’m answered by a bark.
“Well, if we’re doing this, we have to decide on a name.” Garret drops beside him and scratches behind his ear. “And someone needs to give him a bath.”
“How about Scrounger?” Noah asks.
“No, that’s lame.” Garret nestles into his fur. “You don’t want to be named Scrounger, do you?”
“That’s what he was doing when I found him. It’s not that bad of a name.” Noah’s mumbled words try and defend his choice, but no one is having it.
“Let’s be simple and go with Lucky. He’s lucky to have found us instead of the kennel. Isn’t that so?” Garret apparently can baby talk. I hope he doesn’t talk that way to women. Maybe he does and that’s the real reason behind never hooking up.
“How’s that better than my name?” Noah scoffs.
“Scrounger makes him sound dirty. Lucky fits.”
“Lucky’s lame,” Dalton says. “He needs more of a stud name.”
“How about Goldie? He looks like a golden retriever.” I join in the debate.
“Goldie?” Noah raises his eyebrows at me. “That’s so far from the stud factor I can’t even comment.”
“What’s everyone’s favorite beer?” Dalton asks.
“Miller Lite,” Garret says.
Dalt
on’s face scrunches. “Really?”
“Hey, I like cheap beer. It’s a step up from Natty Light.”
“Okay, how about Miller then?”
“Miller,” we say in unison.
“It fits. Maybe we can teach it to fetch our drinks,” Noah jokes.
“It’s settled. Your name will be Miller.” Garret gets right in Miller’s face. Miller, seemingly happy with his namesake, gives him an appreciative lick. “Ugh. Seriously, dude, you need a bath and a good teeth cleaning.”
“Until then, let’s concentrate on getting him healthy.”
Miller starts belting out a low whine. He lowers his head and covers his face with his paws.
“What’s wrong, buddy?” No sooner than the words leave Garret’s mouth, sirens wail in the background.
All eyes turn toward the window. The sirens grow louder.
“That’s a fire truck,” Noah says.
Our cell phones ping an alert at the same time. When I glance down to read the message, my heart drops to the floor.
Emergency Alert: Fire at Margaret Locke Hall. Please stay away from the premises until given an all-clear.
My head raises, and I look at Noah who stares at me with the same horrified expression.
Shannon.
Chapter Thirteen
CARA
I tap my pen against my notebook in rhythm with Lexie’s typing. Click, click. Tap, tap. I would say my efforts are unintentional, but that would be a lie. This synchronized melody is the most productive thing I’ve done since biochemistry lab. Staring at the computer is futile. I’ve read the same passage three times, and the concepts are every bit as foreign as the first read-through. And with the mood I’m in, retaining information isn’t going to happen. I’m too keyed up. Or frustrated.
Working at the spare desk in my dorm room, Lexie types away, clueless to my mindset. It’s Thursday’s portion of our newly established T-and-T study date. We’re going to meet every Tuesday and Thursday evening since I have an unofficial private room. Thank you, random roommate, who transferred after room assignments. Even though I wish I had a roommate, this extra space works great for Lexie since one of her younger brothers hosts his rock band practices. Though the concept of living with a future rock star sounds amazing, she assures me the group is far away from having agents banging at their door. As she clicks away, I keep tapping my pen.
SWINGING STRIKE: Cessna U Wildcats Book One Page 9