Cleat Catcher (The Cleat Chaser Duet Book 2)

by Celia Aaron

  Nikki snickered next to me and then added a surly, “I wish I got to go to L.A.”

  I elbowed her and spoke up. “I think the third oldest sister? The one married to the rapper.”

  “When will she be out? Can you go see her in the rehab?” Her voice rose, shrillness rounding out the piercing notes.

  “It’s court-ordered, so she’ll likely be there at least a month. No visitors. I checked.”

  “No visitors? That’s ridiculous. The last time I was in a facili—” Tessa halted and reached up to adjust her hat before clearing her throat. “Moving on.”

  I tuned out the rest of the meeting, even Nikki’s antics. My thoughts never strayed far from Easton. He still hadn’t returned my texts. I called and left him a voicemail on the way to work, but the apology seemed to have fallen on deaf ears.

  Once the meeting was over, I wandered back to my office. Nikki perched and chatted, but she quickly got the hint that I wanted to be alone.

  “He’ll come around. Braden’s already promised to talk to him.”

  I put my head on my desk, my forehead resting on the squishy wrist pad that looked like a big, purple dildo. “Don’t push him.” I said the right thing, but I didn’t mean it. I wanted Easton pushed back to me, so I could be in his arms again.

  “It’ll be okay.” Nikki stroked through my hair and patted my back.

  My phone dinged, and I popped my head up and grabbed for it. I swiped across the screen. A text! Pressing on the text app, my heart sank. I recognized Sean’s number, though it had long since been deleted from my address book.

  “It’s Sean,” I muttered. Nikki’s face fell as I showed her the text.

  Want to get together tonight? Drinks and then I could show you my new place?

  I tapped the functionality that allowed me to block numbers and had him added to the list in seconds.

  “Good decision.” Nikki hopped down and walked to my door. “We’ll get Easton. If there’s anything I’m a pro at, it’s chasing down men in tight baseball pants. Don’t worry.”

  I offered a weak smile and she tapped her nose before turning the corner outside my door.

  I forced myself to work instead of straight moping. I flew through my emails, corresponding with freelance writers and stringers to make sure the smaller stories and product plugs were being assembled for the next Teen Sparkle. A couple of hours dragged by as I made a few phone calls to the art department about ad placement and continued piecing together my ideas for the reality TV article. I already knew it would turn out as nothing better than a vanity piece. And I hated it.

  A reminder dinged, telling me my L.A. travel plans for Monday. I leaned back in my chair and let the dread wash over me. My life wasn’t going in the right direction—not on the career front and not on the relationship front. Maybe I’d made a misstep at some point in the past, and now I’d ventured far enough in the wrong direction to notice the trail had evaporated under my feet.

  Another email darkened my screen, but I sat straight up when I saw it was from Graciela Froggart.

  Ms. Kent,

  I have interviewed two additional candidates for the executive editor spot. Both are well suited for the position. However, I await your creative submission for my consideration. Have it to me by midweek or I’m afraid I’ll have to pass you over.

  Graciela Froggart

  Midweek? I ran my fingers through my hair and crunched a lock between my front teeth—a weird habit that surfaced when I was nervous, and one I’d never been able to break. There was no way I could get her a quality piece by midweek, especially not when I was slated to fly to LA for the vapid reality TV star interview.

  First Easton had slipped through my fingers and now Style and Substance? I shook my head. No. I wasn’t going to take another step down this road. I was going to set things to rights with Easton and make a run at my dream, even if it tanked me at Teen Sparkle. It was worth the risk.

  I picked up my phone and dialed Nikki.

  “You like ‘em, we stick ‘em,” she tittered in my ear.

  I laughed, the sound almost manic. “One, that’s not a very professional way to answer your phone, and two, want to go to L.A. for me next week?”

  EASTON

  A WEEK HAD passed and I hadn’t returned any of Kyrie’s texts or calls. It was torture. Each time I’d started to give in I’d see Richards at practice or a game, and the humiliation and rage would win out against my need to speak to her. His black eyes and busted up nose were the only things that gave me a hint of comfort.

  I rolled out of bed and groaned. A crushing weight squeezed my chest and even the view of the city and the spring colors from my high rise window were drab and uninteresting. Birds chirped on the ledge and I glared in their direction. “Happy little fucks.” I beat my knuckles on the glass as they fluttered in every direction. Then I smiled.

  “You must feel like a real badass now. Picking on the poor birds.”

  Kasey leaned on my doorframe.

  “What do you want?” I sulked back to the bed, contemplating falling face first onto it and delaying the start of the day.

  “You return her messages?” Kasey took another step into the room and folded her arms.

  “Whose messages?” I smirked.

  “Oh, very clever, Easton.” She started slow clapping. “Hey, hey, Easton. Check it out. I got full range of my wrist back.” She made a jerk off motion with her injured hand, before she arced it at me, coupled with the most exaggerated splooge sound I’d ever heard.

  “Very original, Kase. Get some new material.” I sat down on the bed and sighed, staring out the window.

  “Don’t take your shit out on me, you miserable twat.”

  I looked back and her brow was furrowed.

  “Sorry.” I flopped back on the bed like an angsty teenager about to blast grunge music. “This is why I shouldn’t have let her in. I was perfectly happy when I was single. No work issues. Didn’t have to worry about some tease fucking with my mind.”

  I turned my head and Kasey was in my face, nostrils flared. Oh shit.

  “Don’t you talk about her that way. I will fuck you the fuck up. Understand?” She was shaking as she loomed over me.

  “Jesus Christ, what gives?” I sprang up from the bed and paced around the room, alternating my gaze between Kasey and the wall. “I didn’t do anything wrong. She did. Now you’re taking her side? I thought you were my best friend?”

  Kasey’s stare softened a bit as she strode toward me. “You know I love your big dumb ass. And I didn’t take her side.” She prodded my chest with her index finger. “But she’s not one of those other whores you used to put your ant-sized cock inside. She’s better than that and you know it.”

  I started to speak and she cut me off.

  “She’s a catch. She’s the tits, if you will. If you say anything different, you’re lying to yourself.” She turned to walk away then spun back around, apparently not finished ripping me a new asshole. “Know what your problem is, big brother? It’s easier to sit in here like a little bitch, and not do shit, than it is to go out there and have to work for something. She’s not perfect. But she was with that fuck bag for a long time. Why? I have no earthly idea. You can’t change the past though, and you can’t expect her to just forget years of something because Easton motherfucking Holliday showed up and gave her a big O.”

  “A? Just one?” I gave her a quick smile.

  “Respect.” She smiled but tried to shake it off. “But seriously—” Her words were now a plea. “That girl is perfect for you. Everyone sees it. I know you feel it in places other than your nut bags. I’ve never seen you love anything as much as baseball, until she came along. Stop being a twat rocket and do something about it.”

  I ran a hand through my hair and stared up at the ceiling. “It’s probably too late. She has to hate me by now.”

  Kasey stood there with her hands on her hips, looking at me as if I were the village idiot. “It’s been all of a week. It
took her two years to get over Richards.” She scoffed and walked from the room.

  I walked to my night stand and picked up my phone. No new messages from Kyrie. This was the first day since the bar that she hadn’t said anything to me. Sometimes it was just “hi” or “I miss you.” But now, my screen had no notifications. I checked again. Still nothing.

  Not thirty seconds passed before Kasey stormed back into the room carrying her laptop. She flipped it open on the bed. “Yeah, I bet she’s over it. Idiot.”

  I looked down at the screen, Style and Substance across the banner, and my heart raced. “She got the job?” A huge smile spread across my face, and then pangs of nausea riddled my stomach. I missed it. She landed her dream job. I hadn’t taken her to dinner or bought her flowers or said so much as “congratulations.” Instead, I’d tortured her with unanswered texts and ignored phone calls during what should’ve been one of the happiest moments in her life.

  Bile crept into my throat and a cold sweat broke out across my forehead.

  “You okay? You look mighty pale.” Kasey walked over and put a hand on my shoulder.

  I couldn’t turn away from the article. Rookie Love and Career Mistakes.

  The words were like a vise around my neck, slowly shutting off my air supply. I’m the love mistake.

  “I-I can’t read it. She’s going to talk about me.”

  “Don’t be a pussy. I think you’ll like what you find.” Kasey smiled and walked out of the room.

  I sat there for a few minutes, contemplating whether or not I wanted to scroll down to the article. My phone lit up and distracted me. It was Braden.

  Hey mopey moperson, we need to meet up. Obligatory female shit. Beers?

  I typed out a message with my thumb and index finger, because I’m a weirdo.

  I fucked up, didn’t I?

  The screen was in my peripheral vision, taunting me when the phone lit up again.

  Look bitch. When there’s an opportunity to drink beer, we do not waste it. Meet me at O’Connelly’s in half an hour.

  I chuckled.

  Fine. See you there.

  That’s a good whore.

  Finally having worked up the courage, I scrolled down to the article. Kyrie’s headshot was in the byline with her name and new title, executive editor. Her writing was effortless, conveying every little piece of information perfectly so that even a dummy like me could understand her thoughts. She talked about her struggles and working jobs she didn’t want to work, with her long term goal always in the back of her mind. How she used it to get out of bed every morning and write the pieces she wasn’t interested in.

  Then, she moved on to her social life, and how a working woman could make mistakes and not veer off the tracks. She talked about being engaged, and though she didn’t mention that sack of dicks by name, it was obvious who she was talking about. Reading about the shit he put her through made me want to break his nose. And then, finally, there I was in stark black and white:

  Finding love isn’t quite as easy as I’d been led to believe—as any of us have been led to believe, really. But there was a time, and I’m not talking about my fiancée who had a penchant for sleeping with women other than me, when I was really, truly in love. I didn’t know it then. I thought if I guarded my heart, kept him at arm’s length, that I was doing the right thing. I wasn’t. He taught me that opening up wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. He taught me that love, even after disappointment, was possible. And I gave him so much more of me than I ever intended.

  And then I made a mistake. A big one. I hurt the man I love. But the thing is, when you hurt someone you love, you feel the sting, too. I made a love mistake. One that I’m not sure I can remedy. But I have learned something from it, something that I hope to share with you, dear reader. When you’ve ended the chapter on a toxic past relationship, go ahead and close the book, put it on the top shelf, and never open it again.

  Pushing through one of the big heavy wooden doors, I saw Braden sitting up at the bar top with a black and tan in front of him. He held up a hand and motioned me over.

  This was our favorite dive bar. It was rarely busy and today was no exception. Half the tables along the walls still had chairs stacked up on them. Patrick stood behind the bar bullshitting with Braden. The old man had a bar towel draped over his shoulder as usual.

  He was legit, came over from Ireland long before we were born.

  I plopped down on the barstool next to Braden and looked up at Patrick, a man of few words. “The usual.”

  “Aye.”

  Patrick turned his back to us and started to pour a Smithwick’s off the tap as I dropped my head down toward the bar.

  Braden whipped out his phone with the article on it and slid it in front of me.

  “Already read it.” I shifted in my seat.

  “Well fuck, that was like—all I had really.” He stared down into his beer. “What are you gonna do?”

  I let out an exasperated breath. “I don’t know, man. I just—I love her. It’s just so complicated. How am I going to work with Richards?”

  “How is that complicating things?” His eyes widened.

  I furrowed my brow as if his question couldn’t be serious. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you already fucked him up? It’s going to be hell working with him anyway, regardless of what goes down with you and Kyrie. Shouldn’t you at least get the girl if you’re gonna have to put up with his shit?”

  I leaned back. “Wow. That is actually sound logic. Good for you.” I chuckled and patted him on the back. It was a joke, but his words resonated and had my mind racing again.

  “Thanks, dick.” His stare was still serious. “I know we joke a lot.” We both grinned. “But for real. Fuck. I hadn’t seen you that happy in, well, since we’ve known each other. Not trying to get all fucking gushy on you. Nikki definitely put me up to this and I thought I’d seal the deal easy with that article, and then we’d just pound some ice colds.”

  “Here y’are, Easton.” Patrick set the big frosted mug of beer in front of me.

  “Thanks, Pat.” I took a sip and licked the foam from my top lip as the strong hops wafted across my nose. “I mean, you know I want to be with her.” I nodded to the phone. “I ignored her. Hurt her more. During the biggest moment of her career. Beat up her ex who happens to be our new pitcher. She hesitated when I asked if she had feelings for him—”

  “Those were nerves and you know it. You’re kind of an intimidating motherfucker when you’ve just throttled some guy’s face, you know?” Braden sat up straight and shook his head. “No, man. That’s a bunch of bullshit. Since when are you the type to make excuses? You’d never do that on the ballfield. Why is it okay to do it now?”

  I saw a vein starting to bulge in his neck and his jaw clenched.

  “What if she rejects me?” Hearing those words as they came out of my mouth, all I thought was one thing. You’re lying to yourself.

  Braden shook his head again. “You read what she wrote. She put herself out there for you. You know what? I’m not thirsty anymore.” He shoved his beer across the bar and stood up. I watched the beer slosh back and forth in the glass, foaming up at the top. “These are on you, bitch.” He scowled, then turned and left, shoving the door open on his way out.

  I whipped out my wallet and threw down my card before yanking my cell phone from my pocket. My thumbs flew over the screen as I sent a text to Kyrie.

  If you still love me the way I love you, be at the game tomorrow night.

  Patrick ran my card and handed it back. I sprinted through the door and out to the parking lot. The sun was blinding from how dark it had been in the pub.

  I scanned the lot and saw Braden’s Mercedes backing out. Sprinting up to the car, I beat on his window and he jumped and threw a hand up in defense.

  The window lowered slowly. “Jesus fucking Christ, you animal!”

  “I sent her a text. Let’s do this shit!”

  He threw the door ope
n and I barely dodged it. His chest was heaving up and down with each breath, his teeth grinding, jaw tight. Braden stepped from the car and his lips were mashed into a thin line, then they slowly turned up to a grin.

  “Was it my dramatic exit? Nailed it!” He laughed.

  I picked him up in a huge bear hug and squeezed the oxygen from his lungs, then started dry humping him up against the car. “You like that shit?”

  “Oh yeah, give it to me, daddy!”

  Our laughter echoed through the parking lot when a lady walked by with a stroller, gawking at us. We both stood to attention.

  “Good afternoon, ma’am.” Braden’s cheeks were puffed out, a laugh waiting to explode from them.

  She kept walking, shaking her head and mumbling.

  “So what’d you do?” He bounced around on the balls of his feet like a fighter about to enter the ring.

  “Sent a text, saying I loved her and for her to come to the game tomorrow.” I grinned at his excitement.

  “Nice!”

  “Just hope she takes me back.”

  He smacked me playfully across the cheek and pointed a finger in my face. “Easton Holliday doesn’t take no for an answer. Don’t be a whore.”

  I was a hot fucking mess the entire day, ever since I woke up. It was torture not to text Kyrie, but everything I needed to say was better said face to face.

  Don’t fuck this up, Easton.

  Hopping in my truck, I sped off toward the field. When I arrived, Richards was getting out of the car in front of me. Fuck.

  He shot me a glare and I saw the dark shadows around his eyes. It made me smile for a moment, and then everything came rushing back—my anger at him, the look on her face when I asked her if she had feelings for him. It would take a while to get past, but I’d decided Kyrie was worth it.