by Cindi Madsen
Obviously he wasn’t totally in the not-missing-baseball phase yet, and after seeing the passion he still had for the game, what he’d been through the past year hit me. How did you recover from losing the thing you were most passionate about?
“I remember when you first told me about your big baseball plans—the same night we climbed on top of the natural science building because you got it into your head that you needed to be closer to the stars, and I was sure we were going to get suspended.” While I’d been pursuing my English degree, and I liked what I studied, I’d thought that I’d never been as passionate about anything as he was about baseball.
“I remember that night. I also remember that I barely got a C on that project—you kinda sucked as a constellation-spotting wingman.”
I poked his chest. “Hey! You’re the one who brought all the beer! Once the stars blurred and swam together, telling one from the other became impossible. I was sure I was going to fall to my death on the way down.”
“I would’ve caught you.” Linc’s hand curled around my hip, like he was prepared to catch me now, and in that instant, I wanted to fall.
I peered into those familiar blue eyes and saw in my mind the younger version of us, sitting on that gravel roof and talking about our futures like we had a clue. “Even though I didn’t know much about baseball, I knew there was something magical about the way you played.”
Normally I’d scold myself for letting that slip, but I felt like he needed to hear it. Or maybe I was only reminding him of what he’d lost.
He never did tell me what had upset him that night he’d shown up on my doorstep after weeks of hardly seeing him thanks to baseball, but I’d jumped into motion, canceling the date I was supposed to have with my boyfriend at the time, ordering pizza, and putting on The Sandlot. Halfway through the movie, he lay his head on my lap and fell asleep.
Since I didn’t have access to pizza or his favorite childhood movie now, I figured I’d have to use my words. “I know how much playing ball professionally meant to you, and I’m sorry you got injured and had to give it up. I probably should’ve added that in with the inspirational quote when we talked about it last time.”
The dam cracked and the sorrow and longing he’d tried to hold back seeped into his expression. “Baseball has always been my escape, and losing that…it sucked, to put it lightly, and there are days when I still miss it so much that I’m not sure how to completely let that old dream go. But I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately, and I like your new beginnings idea. In fact, there are some aspects of coming back to Atlanta to start over that I really enjoy.”
The line I was walking was a slippery one—one I knew better than to continue down. Yet I couldn’t pull away, not with him looking at me so intensely. The air even changed, heavy and tension-filled, in the most alluring way.
I licked my lips, and I swore Linc’s eyes tracked the motion, which made the temperature of the room shoot up several degrees. “Thanks for bringing me along tonight.” The more serious turn in the conversation scared me, and in order to keep from getting too caught up and doing something stupid, I decided it was time to get back to the lighter, joking thing we did so well. “Not that you gave me a choice.”
Mischief danced across his features and settled in the wicked curve of his mouth. “If this is the result, I’m never giving you a choice again.”
…
The Bullpen—or Bullpen Rib House, if you wanted to get technical—was pretty much guy mecca. A large sign bragged about having barbeque, beer, and moonshine, eight days a week, and there were people—mostly male—packed wall-to-wall, several decked out in Braves memorabilia. There was so much high-fiving going on that I’d nearly been smacked in the face as we’d come through the door.
Linc nudged me with his elbow. “What did I tell you?”
“Wow,” was all I could say. Yes, there were guys galore, but most of them were covered in barbeque sauce and already drunk. No doubt women who came in would get plenty of attention, but was meeting guys under the influence of meat, alcohol, and baseball really a good idea? First impressions were important, and for the sake of long-lasting relationships everywhere, it was usually best to be gradually introduced to this side of a potential boyfriend.
Kind of like how no sane women would want to meet a guy at her and her girlfriends’ spa night, when they were drunk on wine, bashing men in general, and doing things like waxing the hair over their lip and slathering on avocado facial masks.
Then again, maybe it was best for women to see guys in their natural habitat so they knew what they were in for right from the start. (Spa night was still off-limits, just for the record.)
Linc and I ordered food and drinks and, after our order came up, took it to a table in the corner. After all the nachos and soda, I didn’t expect to be so hungry, but my stomach rumbled as I started in on the heaping plate of food. Probably because baseball games were so frickin’ long.
Linc lowered his half-slab of ribs and wiped his mouth and fingers with a napkin. “So, I know your project is for research, but how much of it is trying to find a guy for yourself?”
Even though I’d pried into his dating life, the last thing I wanted to do was talk about mine—especially with Linc. Then I realized it was the perfect way to firmly establish us as friends. As I always told my clients, you didn’t talk about exes or other guys on dates.
Good thing this wasn’t a date.
“It’s not my main reason for doing it,” I said, “but if I met a nice, relatively red-flag-free guy, I wouldn’t hesitate to give him my number.”
“Well, you can pretty much take your pick from the guys here.” Linc’s eyebrows ticked together. “I don’t think two seconds have passed without a guy checking you out since we stepped through the door.”
I did a quick sweep, and while there were a few guys looking—one even flashed me a barbecue-sauce-covered grin—Linc was exaggerating.
I turned back to him and debated a moment before deciding to drive that final nail into the possibility-of-us coffin. “I had this boyfriend for most of last year. I thought he was the one, honestly. He was driven, smart, trustworthy, generous, and I felt safe and happy when we were together. Basically he hit every one of my criteria.”
Again, I remembered that Mason’s sense of humor hadn’t quite been at the level I wanted, but as I told my clients, it was important to strike off a few items and ensure the list was realistic. That I possessed qualities I expected them to as well. While I thought I had a good sense of humor, I had plenty of flaws and sometimes fell short of those other items.
“Anyway, he moved to D.C. for a job,” I continued. “He told me he was considering a position with the Attorney General’s Office before he took it, but I thought he’d ask me to go with him. When he didn’t… Well, it felt like someone pulled the rug out from under me. I took a break from dating, and I’m only just now getting back to it.”
Linc folded his forearms on the table. I wasn’t sure what I expected him to say, and when he didn’t immediately say anything, I started rambling, not sure I wanted to hear his response anyway.
“Even when we disagreed, he never raised his voice or resorted to name calling. Conflicts arise in every relationship, so it’s important to fight fair and be with someone who sees—or at least attempts to see—both sides.” The steps we’d made toward a serious lasting relationship popped into my head and made their way down past my lips. “I met his family. We talked about the future. All the signs were there. But I must’ve missed something. I mean, I’ve thought about it and learned from it, and I’ve shoved the baggage away. I know how to handle a break up, and I know about dating.”
“I’m sure you do,” Linc said.
“It’s my job after all.”
He nodded. I wanted him to say more. Or nothing. Hell, I didn’t know what I wanted. But it didn’t feel like I’d pushed him away or established boundaries. It felt more like I’d ripped myself open and exposed the part
s I didn’t want anyone to see. Especially him of all people.
I reached across the table and took a drink from the glass of moonshine he’d ordered—which was just whiskey, and holy crap did it burn on the way down. “Sorry,” I said with a cough when I placed his almost-empty glass in front of him. “I’ll order you another.”
He waved his hand, as if he were batting away my apology. “It’s okay. I’ll just swap you for the beer you’ve barely touched.” He took my glass and sipped from it. I’d never been much for beer anyway. I’d been trying to go with the flow of the whole Bullpen environment, and the other option had been whiskey, which I hadn’t wanted, yet somehow ended up drinking anyway.
Might as well finish it now. I tipped the rest back and then forced the cough that wanted to come out to stay inside. My eyes watered, though, because apparently something had to come out.
I slammed the glass down harder than necessary, the buzz of the place softening the loud satisfactory noise it should’ve made. “You know, I spend most of my week telling people which moves to make and how to date, and I’m good at it. I know what I’m doing.”
Amusement flickered through Linc’s expression, and irritation bubbled up inside me, burning as it rose. I didn’t want to be amusing.
“I do,” I insisted.
Linc held up his hands in surrender. “I’m sure you do. I wouldn’t dare argue with you right now.” The amusement seeped back in. “Does that mean I handle conflict well? Do I get a point?”
I scowled. “No. And why would you want one? You’re my friend. It’s not like I’m going to date you.”
“Never say never.”
I hardened my resolve so it wouldn’t crack at something as simple as one of his signature grins. To him this was all a big game. Tease Savannah and see how fired up I can get her. “Don’t start. We already talked about this.”
“I must’ve forgotten.” He steepled his fingers and rested his chin on them. “Why don’t you tell me more about your complicated rules? I’m having trouble keeping them all straight.”
I reached over and took my beer back. After a generous, not-very-tasty swig, I said, “We’re getting off topic. What I was trying to say was, I sometimes feel like I’m making the wrong moves, even though I know better. Of course it takes time to see red flags and get to know people, and I understand that. When I’m coaching people, I see everything so clearly. But when I’m in the game…?”
I blew out a breath and ran a hand through my hair. “I think I still fare better than most, but I miss things I shouldn’t. Like with Mason. And now I’m paranoid that I’ll miss something with the next guy, and then everyone will start thinking I’m clueless about dating, and my career will fall apart, and then I’ll be doubly screwed.”
I didn’t mean for that last part to come out. I’d decided not to doubt myself, and I didn’t. Or at least I was trying not to. Maybe the excitement from the game combined with the whiskey were just making the significance of starting over again catch up to me.
“All coaches are like that I think,” Linc said, and I jerked my head back up. “That’s why you need them. They can see the entire picture. When I’m coaching during the camp, I can see it all so clearly, because I’ve got a prime view and I know the players. But when you’re playing, you get tunnel vision—it’s too much to take on everything at once. Inevitably, you miss something.”
“Yeah, I guess.” Actually, it made me feel better.
“Sometimes you have to go off instincts. You see an opening that the coach couldn’t foresee. The glory’s better when you’re the player, too.”
Glory. The fact that when you were the one in the relationship, you got to experience the kissing. To feel the tingly twitterpated vibes without them being filtered through another couple first. The intimacy of knowing what the other person needed without having to ask.
I cheered for my clients to find love, and celebrated when they did, but it would be nice to experience it again for myself.
A sudden thought hit me, sending a sinking sensation through my gut to compete with the longing winding itself around my heart. “Coaches get fired if they don’t have a winning season. Which doesn’t exactly bode well for me.”
“You’re not losing games, though. You’re helping clients and teaching workshops.” Linc leaned down and caught my eye. “You know what you’re doing, Gamble. Now, get out there and do it.” He slammed his palm on the table, making me jump, and then a grin spread across his face. “How was that pep talk?”
The momentary pity party I’d thrown myself dissolved, my spirits returning. “Pretty good. Have you ever considered a career in motivational speaking?”
He gave a short laugh. “Nah, I’ll leave that to you.”
I pushed my/his beer back toward him. “Sorry I went all deep on you. It’s been a long week.”
“Happens to the best of us.” His gaze moved to the TV in the corner, and I turned to see what had caught his interest.
“Really? Sports highlights?” I asked as blips from the Braves game played out onscreen. “We were at the game. We know what happened.”
“And now we get to see it from more angles. Come watch.” Linc grabbed my hand and tugged. I stood, rounded the table, and sat next to him. I spent over three hours at that game, and I couldn’t believe I was going to sit here and watch two dudes on the television rehash it.
Linc placed his arm on the booth behind me and curled his hand around my shoulder. I suspected everyone in the place had seen the game, but shouts still went up as they showed the hit that won the game.
Instead of fighting it, I went ahead and gave in, leaning back into Linc’s embrace and letting the sense of camaraderie take me away.
Chapter Sixteen
“I think I hate it,” Ivy said, frowning at the bright yellow wall she and I had finished painting. Since she finally picked a color for her living room, we decided to trade our Wednesday run for painting, figuring it’d at least be an arm workout.
Sure enough, my arms burned, as well as my thighs, thanks to all the squatting to get the bottom part of the wall. “It looks good.” I dropped the roller I’d been using on the plastic next to the paint tray. “Once we get it all done, you’ll see.”
The dismay filling her features increased, furrowed brows joining the frown. “It looks too happy.”
“Your house is supposed to look happy.”
“I feel like it’s rubbing its happiness in my face.”
I flopped down on her hardwood floor, grunting when the landing wasn’t as soft as I expected. “Then why’d you choose yellow?”
“The cute guy who was mixing the paint was busy,” she said, as if that were the only explanation I needed.
“I’m failing to see the correlation.”
“If no one else was around, I could’ve walked right up and done a little flirting, but when the line got longer instead of shorter, I realized I’d need an excuse to interrupt his work. So I grabbed a color swatch and got in line. He ended up being super boring, though—like, nothing going on upstairs at all—but he’d already mixed a can, and I thought it was good, because then I’d just have to stick with it.”
Yes, Ivy had commitment issues with men. I didn’t think the paint was so much a commitment issue, but more a result of being shuffled from house to house growing up. Small, rundown houses when her mama was single, and wherever her boyfriend or new-and-always-temporary husband lived during the duration of the relationship. This was Ivy’s first place that was all hers, and she wanted her haven to be perfect.
“By the way, how is your mama?” In the craziness of last week, from the ballgame to Session Three of my workshop, not to mention dinner on Sunday with my family, I’d forgotten about the call that’d taken her away from Azure over a week ago. I felt like a bad friend that it took me this long to ask about it, even though it was the first time we’d been able to hang out since.
“Not great.” Ivy dropped her roller next to mine. “She and Brett broke
up. She was a mess, but we found her an apartment in Jonesboro, and I was able to get her mostly moved in before I had to go back to work.”
Ivy wiped her yellow splattered hands on her equally splattered jeans and then lowered herself next to me. “She wanted to live with me until she”—Ivy made air quotes—“got back on her feet. Which we both know means until she finds another boyfriend who’ll ask her to move in with him.”
Ivy pulled her knees to her chest and tucked her chin on them. “Was it mean to force her to get a place of her own instead? I felt so strong when I told her she couldn’t move in with me, but now I worry that she’s just sitting in her apartment, crying and not going to work, and I should’ve been more understanding.”
I placed my hand on Ivy’s shoulder. “You found her a place and helped her move. Letting her live with you would only turn your haven into a bad environment, you know that.”
“I do, but it makes me feel guilty every time I have to put my foot down with her.”
Ivy let her mama move in with her two different times since college. With Ivy footing all the bills, Ms. Wells-Butler-Pritchet never bothered finding a job. She always managed to find a boyfriend, though, and she’d bring the guy home with her, no thought to warning Ivy ahead of time.
Then the two of them would fight about the guys and lack of pitching in, and Ivy would end up crashing at my place. Which I was perfectly okay with, but since she needed her space, she was always on edge and worried about what condition her place would be in when she went back. Unhealthy all around.
“You did the right thing, Ivy. She needs to learn boundaries and how to be independent, and you need a safe, calm place to come to at the end of the day.” I leaned back on my palms and eyed the wall. “Honestly, the yellow does look nice, but it is annoyingly chipper.”
“Seriously. What’s it trying to prove?”
I couldn’t help wanting to take a peek inside Ivy’s head and see what made her tick. Parent issues aside, there was more buried under the surface, so deep that not even I knew the full extent of it—I’m not sure she did herself. While she joked about finding a smart asshole, I thought what she really needed was an understanding guy with the patience of a saint, who also wouldn’t let her walk all over him.