The Perfect Catch

by Meghan Quinn

  I nod, causing her to laugh.

  “I met with him yesterday.”

  “You met him? What’s he like in person?”

  “Exactly as you’d guess.”

  “Mean?”

  I shake my head. “No, just short-tempered. He was never mean, maybe rude at times, but more so trying to move the conversation along so he could leave.”

  “And are his eyes just as sinister as they seem behind his mask?”

  Whispering, I say, “Even more so.”

  “Ugh, I knew it. Out of all the guys on the team, Walker seems like the type who bosses you around in bed, takes what he wants while giving you the most epic orgasm of your life, and then leaves you panting and begging for more.”

  Can’t disagree with her there.

  “Or he could be terrible,” I say, clearing my throat and tapping the pen in my hand on my desk. “But if you could add him to the promotional materials for the upcoming events, that would be greatly appreciated.”

  “Not a problem. I’ll get right on that. Spending my day photoshopping him onto some graphics is going to be no hardship at all.” Vivian stands from her chair and heads toward my door. “Are you staying for the game tonight?”

  I shake my head. “I have to clean my apartment and do some packing for the road trip to Colorado tomorrow.”

  “You’re so lucky you get to travel with the team.”

  “It’s not as glamorous as it seems, trust me.” I give her a quick wave. “Thanks for the help.”

  Once Vivian leaves, I check through my emails again and see a message from Walker Rockwell with the subject line: Proof.

  Interested, I open up the email to see a picture attached with one word in the body.

  Happy?

  I download the picture to find a screenshot from his Instagram. I hadn’t looked at any of his social media prior to our meeting yesterday, but that’s something I’ll do later. But I am surprised at what he sent. It’s a picture of him playing cards with an older man and a caption at the bottom that says: “Getting schooled by Colonel Jameson before the game tonight.” Walker geotagged St. Andrew’s Nursing Home and then offered up how to volunteer with the center.

  The post already has over ten thousand likes and over one thousand comments.

  I’m impressed.

  Very impressed.

  And I can’t help but smile to myself, because even though the conversation we had yesterday was less than stellar, at least I made an impact in some way. Maybe the least-liked player in baseball can be trained.

  Chapter Seven

  WALKER

  “You really suck at poker,” Ryot says as he picks up the cards and starts shuffling them again. Since we’re on a plane, we don’t bet with anything besides chocolate-covered pretzels. It’s lame, but it’s all we have.

  “Never said I was good.”

  “You’d think you’d have learned some tools of the trade from Colonel Jameson.”

  I pick up the cards Ryot dealt and start sorting them. “He couldn’t tell if he was holding a six or a queen when I played him.”

  “Oh shit, really?”

  “Yeah, but . . .” I pause, pushing a pretzel toward the center of the table as an ante. “He has some damn good stories.”

  “And he might be the only person on the planet who doesn’t think you’re an asshole.”

  “Nah, he still does.”

  “Poker, don’t mind if I do,” Penn says, sitting down next to Ryot with a bag of carrots. He deals himself five cards straight from the top of the deck and tosses a carrot in the middle.

  I blink a few times. Has he lost his goddamn mind?

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I ask.

  “Being friendly.” He looks at my pile of pretzels, or lack thereof. “Shit, you suck.”

  I toss his carrot back at him. “Leave.”

  “Don’t be a child,” Penn replies, putting his carrot back into the center. “Plus, if Coach sees us playing poker together, he’ll stop riding my ass for a few seconds about you.”

  I grumble but see his point, even if I don’t want to think it’s a good one. Coach hasn’t let up when it comes to my relationship with Cutler—it feels as if every week he pulls us into his office to ask how we’re doing. Cutler goes in with the fakest smile, slaps me on the back, and blabs on about our fantastic teamwork while I sit there, arms crossed, letting the idiot gab on as Coach eats up every word dripping from Cutler’s mouth.

  Maybe a few games of poker in front of the team without fighting might make the old fart happy.

  “How did this all start?” Ryot asks, interrupting the peaceful silence.

  “What start?” I ask.

  Ryot motions between the two of us. “This hatred for one another. I know you grew up in the same town and played together since you were young, but what happened during that time that made you two so angry?”

  What happened? How can I even fucking answer that without breaking out into a cold, dead sweat?

  Penn motions with his thumb at me, completely obtuse. “He’s the angry one.”

  “You hate me just as much as I hate you,” I grumble, not wanting to get into it, and I lay down two cards, asking for two new ones.

  “Yeah, but I don’t spend all my waking hours wasting my energy on hating you. I have better things to do with my life.”

  “Don’t give yourself that much credit.”

  “What happened?” Ryot repeats, growing irritated.

  “Your typical shit,” Penn replies. “Saw each other in the locker room, my penis was bigger than his, he got jealous.”

  “Fuck. You,” I answer, tossing in a pretzel.

  Penn laughs and meets my bid with a carrot. “There was a rumor spread around in high school about Walker and he said I started it, which I didn’t.”

  “You did fucking start it. I have three witnesses that said you did,” I answer, knowing that was what started my hatred, but not what solidified it.

  “We butted heads way before that over the fact that you wanted to pitch but Coach Peters thought you were better suited behind the plate, which is exactly where he parked your ass.”

  True, but I got over that quickly when I realized how good I was behind the plate.

  “Hold up,” Ryot says, trying to understand. “You wanted to be a pitcher?”

  “Desperately,” Penn answers for me as I try not to crush my cards in my hands. “But could you imagine Walker Rockwell as a pitcher? The dude is built like a brick house. He didn’t have the stamina or the range to be a pitcher.”

  He’s unfortunately right.

  “So, he had to settle for being the bridesmaid, not the bride.”

  “The bride being a role you play very well,” I say, showing my pathetic pair of eights.

  Ryot throws down a pair of tens while Penn smirks and presents two pair. The motherfucker. He scoops up his winnings and plops a pretzel in his mouth.

  “Basically, what it comes down to is Walker Rockwell has been jealous of me his entire life.”

  “Yup,” I deadpan. “That’s it.”

  Or maybe I hate him because he’s a pompous jackass who’s had everything handed to him on a goddamn platinum platter.

  “What was the rumor?” Ryot asks, shuffling the cards again.

  Talking over Penn, I stare down at my two pretzels and say, “That I cheated on my girlfriend with some girl on the softball team.”

  “Did you?” Ryot asks as I plop a pretzel in my mouth and stand from the table.

  “No.”

  I move past Penn, bumping against his shoulder, and make my way toward a secluded part of the plane. That rumor wasn’t even the worst of it all, it was just the tinder that lit the flame for my hatred of the man.

  “Long flight, huh?”

  I loll my head to the side just in time to see Kate Chapman sit in the empty seat next to me. Just what I fucking need. After Penn pissed me off, the last thing I want is this girl to come at me with her pret
ty smile and bubbly personality.

  “What do you want?”

  Not even flinching, she says, “Well, aren’t you a ball of sunshine. I can’t imagine why you’re having such image problems.”

  I turn my head back to face the seat in front of me and close my eyes, hoping she gets the hint.

  She doesn’t.

  “Got your email. Loved your Instagram post.”

  “Something you could’ve told me in an email reply, not in person,” I say, slouching in my seat, trying to get comfortable despite how uncomfortable Kate makes me.

  I’ve had one other interaction with her, but during that interaction, it was as if she made my skin crawl. Not in a disgusted way, but in an unfamiliar way. The minute I spotted her, I felt my stomach flip from the sight of her beautiful, wavy hair stretching down her back, and the easy smile she wears, something I’ve never been confident showing off.

  She’s gorgeous, has a very pretty face, and there’s something about her authoritative, take-no-bullshit voice that made me feel as if I shouldn’t be near her . . . at all.

  “If I emailed you, then I would’ve missed witnessing your reaction in person to my praise, which I must say is just breathtaking.”

  She’s a fucking smart-ass.

  Another thing I like.

  “What do you want?” I ask again, keeping my eyes closed, trying to tilt my head to the side so I don’t lean toward her neck and take in the sweet scent that’s filling the small space between us.

  “Clearly, to talk to you, because the conversation is positively riveting.” There’s a bite to her tone. She pokes my arm and says, “Hey, a little respect, bud. Face me for a second so I can talk to you.”

  Boy, did the Bobbies hire the right person for her job. Relentless, tough, and doesn’t take shit. I’m impressed.

  Exhaling heavily, I turn my bulky frame in my seat to face her.

  “What?”

  She smiles. “Your conversational skills are endearing.” In a grumpy voice she tries to impersonate me by saying, “‘What? Look at me, I’m Walker and I’m unapproachable.’”

  Jesus Christ.

  I push my hand through my hair. “You’re getting on my last nerve.”

  “Which is odd, since we’ve barely interacted. You must have a short fuse. Well, who am I kidding? You like to break bats over your thighs. Of course you have a short fuse. But don’t worry, I won’t be here very long. I just came by to see if you were going to accept any of the requests on your calendar that I set up for you.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask as she lightly licks her lips, their pink sheen catching my eye for a second.

  “You know, all those events we went over the other day?” she asks slowly. Is she fucking mocking me?

  With the sass coming from her, I wouldn’t put it past her.

  “Yeahhh,” I answer even slower.

  “Well, you have to press the accept button.” She taps her finger against nothing, as if to show me what pressing an accept button looks like.

  “I said yes to them, to you. I’m going.”

  “And I appreciate the way you grunted out your disapproval for every one of those events while nodding your head, it made me feel enriched while completing my job, but I’m going to need you to accept the calendar invites so I know that you’re actually going to attend, not just verbally grunt a yes.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  She shakes her head. “I’m not. So, while you’re over here stewing to yourself, please go through your emails and press accept. Thanks.”

  I reach for my phone and hold it out to her.

  She tilts her head to the side and smiles. “Oh, Walker. It’s funny that you still think I’m going to do it for you. You’re a big boy, accept the invites.”

  “Why are you a pain in the ass?”

  She points to herself. “Me? You think I’m the pain in the ass between the two of us?” She laughs and then blows out a long breath. “Oh boy, do you need a reality check. It’s an easy accept button. Just press it so the calendar invite goes to your phone to remind you. It’s not that hard, Walker.”

  “Maybe you should trust the fact that I’m a grown-ass man and when I say I’ll be there . . . I’ll be there,” I snap, while unlocking my phone and going to my email. I may not be a happy-go-lucky guy, but I never back out of something I’m committed to. Never.

  I feel her eyes watch me as I open her calendar invites and start accepting them. Fuck, how many did she send? I don’t remember signing up for this much shit. But I’m not about to make a stink about it after, apparently, I already agreed to them. I must have blacked out during our first meeting.

  Once I finish, I pocket my phone and turn away from her. “Done. You can leave.”

  She shifts in the seat next to me, clears her throat, and says, “Thank you.”

  I don’t respond; instead, I close my eyes and lean against the window of the plane, hoping she gets a clue.

  She does . . . thankfully.

  Chapter Eight

  KATE

  Take a deep breath and approach him with confidence, like you did on the plane. You owned that conversation, you held your composure, and you didn’t give in. Doesn’t matter that you were internally shaking like a leaf ready to blow away any second.

  This is just like on the plane. No big deal. It’s not like he’s going to snap at you, like everyone else who’s approached his table this morning.

  He’s a gentle soul.

  A kind spirit.

  A grumpy asshole . . .

  Ugh, I’m not in the mood to be faced with those sharp eyes and wicked tongue again.

  But I have official business that needs to be discussed. I have a reason to disturb the fuming peace that orbits him. Time to put up that shield of confidence and face the beast.

  In my highest of heels, I make my way through the crowded tables in the banquet hall the hotel sectioned off for the team and head to the back where Walker sits by himself, phone in hand, fork in the other.

  Without an invitation, I take a seat next to him and place my tablet on the table in front of me.

  He doesn’t move, doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he scrolls through the Twitter feed on his phone and asks, “What do you want?” before shoveling a forkful of eggs into his mouth.

  So pleasant.

  “I wanted to make sure you were prepared for your meet-and-greet today.”

  “What’s there to prepare for? Shake some hands, sign some shit, move on.”

  He didn’t read my email. Should I be surprised after the whole calendar invite debacle?

  Knowing his personality, at least enough about it to know I have to be vigilant in my demands of him and to never back down, I steel myself for the conversation we’re about to have.

  Gathering up my nerves, I place my palm over his phone screen and flatten his hand to the table, earning his attention with a raise of his brow.

  Go in for the kill.

  “It’s not as simple as you make it out to be. The meet-and-greet is with an Army veteran who used to be a catcher in the minors. He was on the fast track to being called up to the majors when his brother passed away during a deployment. That night, he decided to leave the team and join the armed forces. A few months ago, his convoy was attacked and he lost both of his legs. He’s throwing out the first pitch tonight, but since he looks up to you, we thought it would be a great opportunity for you to show your support for the armed services.”

  The anger in his eyes fades as his brow starts to unknit. He pushes his hand through his unruly hair that never seems to be tamed and lets go of his phone as he leans back in his chair.

  “What’s his name?” Good. Connection.

  “Lieutenant Drake Gordan. He’s stationed here in Colorado.”

  Walker slowly nods and then forks some more eggs into his mouth, silence passing between us.

  Is that it?

  Is he not going to say anything?

  I wait a few more seconds
before the tension starts to build. Does he always have tension like this with everyone?

  “Are we done here?” Walker asks finally, keeping his eyes on his plate.

  We are, technically, but there’s something about Walker that makes me want to stay, that makes me want to dive deep.

  But hours before a game isn’t the time or place, and that’s why the next words out of my mouth completely and utterly shock me.

  “No, we’re not. We still have a lot to talk about. Dinner, tonight, six. In the hotel restaurant. Don’t be late.”

  He slowly cocks his head to the side.

  “What?”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “You heard me.”

  “Dinner? Is that necessary?”

  “Yes.”

  “Doesn’t seem like it. An email will be fine.”

  “Clearly it’s not since you didn’t read my email this morning but instead trolled your Twitter feed.”

  “I wasn’t trolling,” he mutters and turns back to his plate.

  I gather my tablet to my chest and stick my chin in the air, hell-bent on making this man break for me. “So, six. Make sure you shower beforehand. I don’t want to smell gross catcher pads at dinner.”

  I stand from the chair, waiting for a reaction, but when I don’t get one, I walk away, hoping he doesn’t stand me up.

  “Pick up, pick up, pick up,” I say while pacing the hallway of the hotel.

  “Hey, girl. How’s Colorado?” Vivian asks, her voice cheery.

  “Vivian, I asked him out.” I wave my iPad in front of my face, trying to control the sweat that has broken out over my face.

  “Asked who out? Why do you sound panicky?”

  “I asked Walker out.”

  “Wait. What?” she practically shouts. “Kate, you can’t ask out players, it’s against the rules. I know we joke about how hot he is and the muscles on that man, but no fraternizing.”

  “Not romantically. On a business outing. I asked him to dinner, so I can get to know him. Well, I didn’t really ask him, I forced him. Didn’t give him the choice to say no. I don’t know what got into me. I got so frustrated with his brush-offs that I couldn’t take it anymore, and I laid down the hammer, but I don’t have a hammer, I’ve never had a hammer, Vivian. But all of a sudden, I’m sitting there, staring at his boorish eyes, and then this hammer appeared in my hand, metaphorically of course, but there it was, and before I knew it, I slammed the hammer on the table and told him what was what.”