The Perfect Catch

by Meghan Quinn

“You really believe all that bullshit least-liked player stuff?”

  It’s just the media drumming up ways to drive traffic to their websites. Roark warned me that the first time I showed my true competitive colors, the media was going to eat it up. And they have. My face has been plastered under the headlines more times than I can count.

  “I don’t have to believe it, I see it.”

  “You see what you want to see.”

  “Not true.” She shakes her head. “I know what I see, and when I watch you play, I see a man who goes against what’s expected of him, which is to sit behind the plate and catch. I see a man who sticks his neck out on the line for his teammates, who puts them in their place when they’re out of line, and of course . . . the dark eyes with matching scruff.”

  “That’s such a stereotype.”

  “Are you saying you’re a big softy instead?” she counters, challenging me.

  “Nah, my heart is as cold as steel and black like my soul.” It is now. Once upon a time, in much simpler—carefree—times, it wasn’t. Once, I laughed with my family. I used to study hard, train hard, but also work hard at home too, knowing my parents appreciated the extra help. I loved being the son they relied on. Trusted in. Laughed with. But those days are gone. I sigh.

  Turning away, she pushes her hair behind her ear and I follow the movement of her delicate fingers threading through the silky strands. What would it feel like to have her hand in my hair? Her fingernails scraping over my scalp? Fucking good, I bet.

  “Why do you put up such a front, Walker? I know there’s a softer side beneath this tough exterior. Why don’t you show it?”

  “There really isn’t. What you see is what you get.”

  “Not true. You do a lot of volunteering on your own time. If you were as coldhearted as you claim you are, you wouldn’t be spending your time at nursing homes playing cards with old men.”

  “I like to take their money,” I try to joke, but it falls flat.

  “Stop hiding, Walker. If you let people in, you’d be surprised with how much could come of it.”

  “I don’t want to let people in. I’ve seen strong men get destroyed in this profession by letting people in. I’m a catcher, my career is on a short timeline, and I need to make the most of that. I need to keep my head down and focus on getting as much out of these years as I can.”

  “But when you keep your head down, you miss out on so much,” she replies while pushing her finger under my chin and forcing me to look her in the eyes.

  Deep chocolate, almost black, her eyes are mysterious, gorgeous, eyes any man could easily get lost in.

  Any man . . . like me.

  “Try opening up, Walker. You never know what might come of it.”

  And that’s what I’m afraid of—because if I open up to this girl who’s already starting to get beneath my skin, nothing good can come of it.

  She’s off-limits.

  I’m off-limits.

  We need to leave it at that.

  Because I’ve learned to live as an island.

  I’ve learned it’s better to guard your heart than give it away.

  I’ve learned it’s much safer than loving and then losing someone.

  Chapter Twenty

  KATE

  For the love of God, do not touch him again, Kate.

  I don’t know what has gotten into me. Frist, I touch his chin, then when the pizza came, I gripped his thigh to make him aware that dinner had arrived.

  Totally unnecessary.

  Especially since all I can think about is how strong his thigh felt underneath my hand. Like solid rock, no cushion whatsoever.

  “I hope you like pepperoni,” I say, flipping open the box and trying to shake the feeling of his leg from my palm.

  “It’s my favorite,” he says with zero excitement. Normally, when someone says something is their favorite, they have a certain inflection in their voice, but not Walker. It’s almost as if you really have to impress him to get some excitement out of the impenetrable wall that he is.

  I hand him a plate and say, “I feel as though things got a little deep a few minutes ago.”

  “You could say that,” he answers, keeping his head down while he grabs himself two slices.

  “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

  “Don’t apologize.” He grabs a napkin and a water bottle and heads back to the seats that overlook the field.

  Okay. Don’t apologize. Simple as that.

  But I have a need to apologize, because I feel as though every moment I interact with this man, I’m wavering on a thin line of being accepted or being pushed away. Not that we’re best friends by any means, but I feel as if I’ve developed a friendship with this man and I don’t want to lose that. Not after having to claw my way through his tough exterior to barely scratch the surface.

  I grab two slices of pizza as well, because I’m not that girl who shies away from stuffing her face in front of a guy, and join him on the balcony seats, but put a seat between us this time. When I sit down, he gives me a slow once-over and then lightly shakes his head.

  Confused, I ask, “What’s the head shake for? Are you judging me for taking two pizza slices?”

  “No.” He folds his pizza and takes a large bite.

  “Then what?”

  He chews for a few beats before swallowing and asking, “Can’t sit next to me now?”

  Oh.

  The corner of my mouth curves.

  My stomach flutters.

  And even though my heart rate picks up, my brain is screaming at me . . . NO!

  “You have broad shoulders. You take up a lot of space. I didn’t want to bump into you while I annihilate this pizza.”

  “Annihilate?” His brow quirks up.

  “Yup.” I take a huge bite and smile at him while chewing.

  He turns away, but before he can fully mask himself, I see the smallest of smiles peek past his lips. Oh, it’s so sexy.

  He’s so sexy.

  Everything about him. From his short brown hair, to his perfectly sculpted arms, to the brown in his demanding eyes. There’s a reason why he’s pinned to every Pinterest board out there labeled Hot Guys. Walker Rockwell is incredibly attractive, tempting, and mysterious. His deep voice sounds like Jason Momoa, but he looks more like an unsmiling, thicker Mariano Di Vaio. Sexy.

  Once I swallow—the pizza, not my tongue—I ask, “So if you had to choose, would you go with New York-style pizza or deep-dish?”

  “New York, every time.”

  “What?” I ask incredulously. “But you live in Chicago. Your allegiance should lie with the deep-dish.”

  Unapologetically, he shrugs. “I like thin crust.”

  “Judas,” I mutter and take another bite.

  This time, he chuckles, and I just about keel over from heart palpitations. That sound, so deep, rumbling over my skin like an earthquake, shaking up everything I ever thought I knew. Ooo, I need to hear it again.

  And again.

  “You like deep-dish over New York-style?” he asks casually, completely unaware of how he’s heated up every vein in my body.

  I chew quickly and then answer, “Born and raised here in Illinois, so of course I like deep-dish. I’m a loyal human being, through and through. That goes for hometown favorites, people, and teams.”

  “You value that—loyalty?”

  “Very much so. I take pride in people being able to trust me with their deepest and darkest secrets.” I lean over the seat and wiggle my eyebrows at Walker. “Want to reveal some dirt to me? Get anything off your chest? My mouth is like a steel trap.”

  When I mention my mouth, his eyes fall to my lips, and he stares, wetting his own lips, his eyes not straying. Fixed on me, a carnal expression materializes over his features—need. Want. With each second that passes, not a word is spoken, but rather a silent exchange of possibilities, and every cell in my body lights up from his blatant staring, the silence stretching.

  I wait for him
to break the spell, to drop his eyes, to shake his head and turn away, but when he doesn’t, I have this overwhelming urge to lean in closer. What would he do? Lean in too? Wet his lips one more time, drop the pizza, and thread his fingers behind my neck to grip me tightly and bring my mouth to his?

  I know I shouldn’t have these thoughts, but I also can’t seem to catch my breath whenever I’m around this man.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  WALKER

  Look away, damn it.

  I reprimand myself for staring way too damn long, but the gloss on her lips, the fullness of them . . . hell, I want to know what they feel like against my mouth.

  Does she taste sweet like the way her personality portrays?

  Is she shy at first, but demanding once she’s comfortable?

  Do her hands travel when her mouth parts, looking for more?

  Fuck.

  I blink, finally breaking the trance, and retreat back to looking at my gooey pizza. I pick up my water bottle and take a sip as I try to cool the inferno building inside my stomach.

  This woman is doing crazy things to me, to my body, lighting me up and making me yearn for something I haven’t wanted in a really long time.

  And what’s really fucked up is I probably wouldn’t have taken a second look at her in the hallway—not because she’s not gorgeous, because fuck, is she hot—as I always have my blinders on. It’s getting to know her that’s been my downfall.

  I can’t remember the last time I got to know a woman. Ever since I hit the big leagues, I haven’t even tried to develop any kind of personal relationship with the opposite sex. Too much time I don’t have.

  But Kate is different. Her personality intrigues me, her willingness to not give up on me, her ability to pull a laugh or smile out of me . . . it’s different.

  It’s nice.

  It’s soothing.

  Fuck. She soothes me.

  The raging anger that twists and turns in the pit of my stomach every day seems to cool whenever she’s around. In its place is a stirring of something else—desire.

  I take another big gulp of my water and then finally say, “No secrets.”

  She must be caught off guard too because she doesn’t respond right away. Instead, her gaze is fixed on the field in front of us, causing a quiet to settle over us. I don’t blame her. I just made things incredibly awkward.

  “I have a secret, want to hear it?”

  Not really.

  I don’t want to know another damn thing about this woman. I want to put up a shield of protective armor around me so she can no longer penetrate my walls.

  But I answer like a damn idiot. “Sure.”

  She puts her legs up on the bar in front of us, just like me, and scoots down in her chair. “You can’t tell anyone, not even Ryot.”

  “I don’t gossip.”

  “Oddly, I believe you. Maybe it’s because your answers and statements are clipped and short.”

  “Why waste time with words?”

  “Because words can be the secret to unlocking a soul,” she says, her eyes scanning over my lips this time.

  Fuck.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  Those eyes, curious with a hint of desire, will be my undoing.

  Look away.

  Do not look at her lips.

  I take a deep breath and will myself to stare out at the field, my jaw clenched tighter than I ever thought possible, my fist opening and closing at my side, the urge to reach out and touch her too goddamn tempting. Is she as soft as she looks?

  “Anyway,” she continues—thank fuck, “I lied during my job interview.”

  I wasn’t expecting her to say that. I was thinking more along the lines of pizza confessions.

  “How?” I ask.

  “I really wanted this job. I was working at the children’s hospital before this, helping out with fundraising events. I thought I owed it to my younger brother to work there, to dedicate my time to a place that tried so desperately to save him.”

  Save him?

  Jesus.

  “Did your brother pass away?”

  She nods, her face turning somber. “Passed away from leukemia when he was twelve. I was eighteen when he died. I won’t bore you with the details, but he was in the hospital for six months fighting for his life. The staff was amazing and made the horrible process of watching my baby brother slowly wither away a little easier. I wanted to give back, to be a part of making someone’s day in that dreary, white-walled facility a little better. But after a while, I couldn’t get past the dreaded feeling I had of going to work, having to pass by the room he spent time in. It made me physically ill. The memories, the pain—they were prevalent every day, and I felt my spirit start to fade. I needed a new job, and fast.”

  I want to reach out, take her hand in mine, comfort her in any way I can, but I don’t.

  I can’t.

  “When I found out about this job, I did pretty much everything it took to score it, not just because I love baseball and the Bobbies, but because I needed to be set free. So, I lied during my interview. They were small lies here and there, telling them I had experience in areas I had no clue about, but I just told myself I would fake it until I made it.”

  I’m silent, unsure of what to say, or how to react. Does she want my sympathy? Does she want me to ask about her brother? Does she want me to tell her about the sister I lost? Does she need a goddamn hug?

  I have no idea, so instead of reacting, I sit there, frozen and unsure.

  Of course, she takes my silence wrong and sets her feet on the ground. She shyly pushes her hair behind her ear and says, “I’m sorry I brought it up. I don’t know why I said that.” She stands with her plate in her hand, but before she can move, I take hold of her wrist and tug her into the seat next to me. Her uneaten pizza slides off her plate and onto the ground, but I don’t care. I need to make sure she’s okay.

  Knowing it’s a bad idea, I lift my hand and gently push loose strands of hair behind her ear, my eyes trained on hers. “What did I tell you about apologizing?”

  “Don’t do it.”

  “Exactly. Don’t apologize.”

  Her eyes flutter down, her teeth roll over her lip, and she says, “You’re just so hard to read. I don’t know if I’ve spoken too much, if I stepped over a line, if I’ve overshared. I don’t know where I stand when it comes to you.”

  Hell, I don’t know where she stands either, but there’s one thing I know for sure—I want her at least standing next to me.

  “You overshare,” I say, and her face falls. “You speak way too much.” She looks away. “And you’ve crossed the line far too many times.”

  “I’m—”

  “Do not fucking apologize.” I grip her chin with my thumb and index finger, forcing her to stare me in the eyes. “Don’t.”

  Eyes wide, she nods as I release her from my grip.

  “You might overshare and cross the line, but I like it.”

  “You do?” she asks, her lip trembling. An ache inside makes me want to reach out and run my thumb over her lip, soothe the nerves racing through her. Up until this moment, I’ve loved how she’s always been ballsy. Tenacious. But I also like this softness.

  “I do,” I answer honestly. “I like it too goddamn much.”

  Her chest rises and falls, the fabric of her blouse stretching across her breasts with each breath she takes. The temptation to rip her shirt open and expose those beautiful tits is strong. Kiss them. Suck them. Rub my rough scruff across her soft skin, marking her . . . claiming her.

  “And I’m sorry about your brother,” I continue while reaching out and turning her hand over. I draw a small circle across her palm. Her breath hitches in her chest as her eyes shoot up to mine in question. “I have experience when it comes to loss of a sibling. But that’s a story for a different day.”

  “You do?”

  “Another day,” I say more sternly. I continue the pattern on her hand, my blood pumping, my need for he
r driving to the head of my cock.

  This is stupid. Really stupid.

  I shouldn’t even be touching her, let alone be in a suite with her where anything could happen. Where anyone could catch the way I look at her or the way I’m currently touching her.

  Silence stretches between us as we both stare at my finger tracing over her palm. Small circles, over and over again, her silky skin soothing my ragged soul.

  It’s as though she breathes new life into me, into the part of my body that’s felt dead and overworked for years.

  “Wh-what are you doing?” she asks, breaking the silence—and the connection—between us.

  I slip my hand away and run it through my hair, gripping the deep brown strands tightly. “I don’t know,” I grumble, then stand. “I don’t fucking know.” I move past her and into the suite, pacing the small space. “I should go. This was a bad idea.”

  “Hanging out with me is a bad idea?” she asks, gathering our plates and throwing them out. Her voice sounds more hurt than I would hope for.

  “We shouldn’t hang out at all, Kate.”

  “Why? Because you’re a professional athlete and I run community events?”

  “No,” I say, insulted she’d think that. “Because . . .”

  Because why?

  You like her?

  You want to get to know her better?

  You want to hear all about her brother?

  You want her to know about the deep pain you suffer daily because of your sister?

  You want to know if the rest of her skin is just as smooth and delicate as her palm?

  Yes. That’s exactly why, because she’s a temptation I can’t have.

  But I can’t give her those reasons. I won’t. Instead, I say, “Because I have a busy schedule.”

  Her forehead furrows as she mockingly repeats, “You have a busy schedule? Did you really just say that to me? You realize wherever you go, I go, right?”

  “I don’t want people getting the wrong idea.” I swing my hand to the side. “What do you think someone would’ve said if they walked in on us right now? Rumors would spread. Do you want that?”