by Meghan Quinn
Crossing her arms over her chest, looking as though I just slapped her across the face, she says, “Clearly you don’t.”
She picks up her purse from the counter and drapes it over her shoulder before walking toward the door. I stop her before she can go any farther. “You know that’s not true,” I practically whisper.
“Actually, Walker, I don’t know anything about you despite how much I’ve tried to find out.”
“Why are you mad?” I ask, knowing it’s a stupid question, but not wanting to let her go right away.
“Why am I mad?” She faces me. “Because I’ve gone out of my way to help you and your career, to polish your image—”
“I never asked you to.”
“It’s my job,” she shoots back. “It’s my job to connect you with the community. The least you could do is not be a jerk about it. You run so hot and cold, Walker. I never know what side of you I’m going to get, and honestly, I don’t know why I try, because you always end up saying something that hurts me. Why do I want to be your friend? I have no idea, but I think I’m done trying.”
With that, she moves away from me and walks out the door.
Fuck, how did that escalate so fast?
I lean up against the wall of the suite, my head knocking the hard surface a few times. One minute I’m stroking her hand—being open, honest . . . vulnerable, and the next, she’s leaving.
Giving up on me.
Which makes sense. I’m an ass. I’ve pushed her away, just like I thought I would.
But why do I feel cold? As if the sun has gone?
And why do I want to chase after her right now?
Chapter Twenty-Two
KATE
“What an asshole,” I mutter once I shut the door to my apartment, still fuming over Walker.
What was that, even? That entire interaction—what was that?
I’ll tell you what that was—it was a certifiable, well-placed mind fuck.
A blatant display of mindfuckery.
Twisted mindfuckery!
I place my purse on the hook next to my door, lock up, and walk straight into my bathroom, where I tear off my clothes one by one and toss them in the hamper.
What a tiring day.
No, more like what a tiring evening. My emotions have been run through the gauntlet. I went into the stadium tonight feeling upset, embarrassed, uncomfortable, and with the flash of blue socks, my heart sputtered in my chest.
He had fun.
That’s all I could think about during the whole game.
And then when he hit that home run, this might sound cheesy, but I got choked up, because when he rounded third, the cameras zoomed in on his face and what I saw took my breath away.
A smirk.
A very simple but overwhelming smirk from the man who’s been expressionless since I’ve known him.
He felt good rounding third, and the fans felt just as good, seeing this man succeed in the best way possible.
Knowing I had a small part in his success did all sorts of things to my emotions. So, when he asked to have dinner, I more than willingly said yes, because he was different, more open, and I wanted nothing more than to spend time with Walker.
Well, that was a huge mistake.
I think we can all agree on that now.
What was with all the touching?
That’s what I want to know. The pushing the hair behind my ear, the stroking of my palm. I don’t think my stomach has ever somersaulted as much as it did when Walker Rockwell was running his calloused fingers over my skin.
And just as quickly as it started, his touch vanished and his mask fell back into place, morphing him back into the emotionless man that I’ve come to know.
I was so upset with myself for thinking there could be more to our interactions that I just left.
I get it—there could be nothing more between us than friendship, and maybe it was a good thing that he abruptly ended our evening, because with my feelings so heightened, who knows what I might have done, but still . . . I can’t help but feel hurt.
Just in my bra and underwear, I wash my face and brush my hair out before slipping out of my undergarments and sliding into bed just as my phone vibrates with an unknown number.
Needing a distraction, I click on the message.
It’s Walker.
That’s it . . . just, it’s Walker?
How does he expect me to respond to that?
Should I even respond at all? I kind of don’t want to respond to his curt message. I don’t want him thinking I’m ready and willing to fall at his feet whenever he makes an appearance. Before I can dive too deeply into a response, my phone buzzes in my hand.
Walker: I’m sorry about tonight.
Okay . . . well . . .
I read his text three more times before my anger starts to fade away.
Damn it.
I’m well aware that any kind of relationship with this man is a big no. So, all of these thoughts and feelings shouldn’t mean anything. I shouldn’t be fighting a war of the worlds in my head with conflicting sides crashing together so violently.
I need to keep this casual.
These emotions that well up inside of me when I see him need to be pushed to the dark.
Trying to act as free-spirited as possible, I type back a response.
Kate: I thought we weren’t supposed to be apologizing.
There. Fun, lighthearted, easy.
Walker: When one of us is being an ass, an apology is expected. I was an ass to you, therefore, I’m sorry.
Well, when he puts it like that . . .
Kate: I’m used to your asshole tendencies by now.
Walker: Doesn’t mean you deserve them.
Kate: It’s really fine. Things got . . . weird. I think it was the pizza.
Walker: It wasn’t the pizza.
Kate: Yeah, I know.
I sigh, biting on my lip as the sheets slowly graze over my hardened nipples. Even reading his texts does something to me. Stirs an inner longing, so deep, so palpable that I can practically smell his fresh cologne wrapping me up in a warm hug. I’m a pathetic mess.
Kate: Thank you for reaching out. I appreciate it.
Walker: Couldn’t go to sleep without saying something. Also, thank you.
Kate: Thank you for what?
My lungs draw quick, rapid breaths, my pulse hammers in my ears. If only he was saying this in person, if only I could see his soulful eyes that carry the weight of the world in his chocolate-colored pupils.
Walker: Thank you for pushing me to be better.
Heart stuttering in my chest, my eyes squeeze shut as I take a deep breath. What is he doing to me? He’s enigmatic, unreadable, and I should not want more than a loose friendship with him. He’s a work colleague, not a potential boyfriend. So, why? Why him? Why does his darkness, his quiet pensiveness, draw me to him? I like fun people. I’m from a large family, so I like noise and silliness. And yet . . . he’s slowly erasing every reason I have to keep my emotional distance. But that’s what I need to reinstate.
I lift my phone back up and type out a response.
Kate: I’m just doing my job.
It’s not what I really want to say, but the professional side of me stepped up and took action.
Walker: Right.
Crap. Cue the shutting down. I should let it happen, though.
Kate: Was there anything else you needed?
Walker: Nope. Have a good night.
I set my phone down on my nightstand and bury my head in my pillow, willing this twisted situation to disappear.
Chapter Twenty-Three
WALKER
“With the trade deadline fast approaching, what are your thoughts going into the All-Star break in a couple weeks?”
“Just focusing on every game, one day at a time,” I answer, hating every second of this press conference.
“But you must have some thoughts, given the rumors of you being traded.”
I scratch the side of my jaw, my traps growing tighter with every question. “Winning, that’s all I care about right now.”
“The Bobbies have been talking to Phoenix a lot in the last few weeks. Are you nervous about being traded to a team that hasn’t been in a playoff run for over fifteen years?”
Yeah, fucking terrified, actually.
Keeping my composure and trying not to flick my bottle cap at this reporter’s head, I say, “I’m a Bobbie, and as long as I’m a Bobbie, I’ll do whatever it takes to help take this team to the postseason. Thank you.” I stand, done with this conversation, and head off the stage. Penn takes my spot, a huge smile on his face, and wearing a dumb-as-shit paisley jacket draped over his shoulders.
The guy’s such a douche.
Before I’m even out of the room, I hear someone ask, “Penn, are you still blaming Rockwell for your last rocky start?”
What? Blaming me? What the hell for?
Instead of moving out of the room, I stop in place and turn to listen. Penn looks to the side, spotting me. We exchange glances and I silently warn him that he better not say something stupid.
Holding my breath, I listen carefully.
“Walker had nothing to do with my performance on my last start, but the restaurant I got dinner from the night before does. A good case of food poisoning took its toll. I’m just glad Walker was there behind the plate, motivating me to do better.”
Oh, what a load of glittered-up bullshit.
“If that’s the case, why did you two share words in the dugout?”
Yeah . . . good question.
I cross my arms at my chest and wait for a response.
Penn smiles that winning smile of his and says, “He wanted me out of the game, I wanted to stay in. Simple as that. He knew I wasn’t feeling well, and I didn’t want to let the team down. In the end, if I’d stayed in, I would’ve let the team down. I didn’t see it like that at the time, but now I do.”
Wow, and the Oscar goes to . . .
My phone buzzes in my pocket, giving me the perfect escape for not having to hear Cutler spin shit for the press anymore.
I step into the hallway and answer, “Hello?”
“Walker, you have a second to chat?” The Irish voice of my agent comes through from the other end.
“Yeah.”
I walk farther down the hall toward the locker room just in case there are any eager ears to listen in.
“Spoke with Chuck Skaggs and asked him flat out what the team is thinking when it comes to your future with the Bobbies.”
My breath pauses in my throat as I continue moving forward. Chuck Skaggs is the general manager of the Bobbies and has had a love-hate relationship with me ever since I was signed. Loves my talent, hates me as a person. My career rests in his hands.
“What, uh, what did he say?” I try not to show how nervous I am to hear the answer, but I don’t do a good job of it.
“They don’t plan on making any moves before the trade deadline.”
I let out an audible sigh. Thank fuck.
“But they’re still not sure about extending your contract at the end of the season or pushing a forced retirement on your end. They wouldn’t give me an answer. So, all I can say is keep busting your ass and instilling in the Bobbies that you’re a fan favorite. And do me a favor—spice up your goddamn interviews.”
“What do you want me to do, sing them a song after I’m done talking?”
“At least a jig, for fuck’s sake.”
“Fuck off.” I chuckle while pulling on the back of my hat.
“Just maybe smile on occasion.”
“I don’t smile.”
“Well, start practicing in the mirror. I need you showing your best self, and that includes on and off the field. Did Kate talk to you about the Firefighters Ball?”
I think back to what we scheduled, but I honestly don’t recall any of the events, since I didn’t pay attention to what she was saying. I was honestly too focused on the way her mouth formed words and how her hair floated across her face so delicately, almost as if it were a silk ribbon.
Jesus Christ . . . a silk ribbon?
What the fuck is wrong with me?
“No, she didn’t.”
“Talk to her, today. As you know from recent years, this event is huge, and I want you at the podium, reading a speech. Talk about your dad’s experience as a volunteer firefighter and how touched you are to be at an event honoring men just like him. Show everyone you’re a goddamn person and not just a body with a catcher’s glove.”
“I’m not outgoing.”
“I know, trust me. But give me a little, and I guarantee you I can get you a lot. Okay? Don’t even meet me halfway, just a quarter of the way, and I can do the rest.”
“I’ll talk to Kate.”
“Thank you. Do it before you suit up so you don’t forget.”
“I’m not a child.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. Have a good game, Walker.”
Roark hangs up, and I stare at my phone, taking a deep breath before I go see Kate.
I’m just a job to her, that’s all. She made that quite clear last night, so I should treat her like a job, as well. I got lost over the last few interactions with her, but after our texts last night, I understand where we both stand.
Colleagues, if that.
Chapter Twenty-Four
KATE
“Damn, girl, that dress on you is sexy.”
I glance down at my black wrap dress that accentuates my waist into an hourglass figure and shows off a decent amount of cleavage. I paired the dress with purple high heels and curled my hair in long waves, giving my hairdo a pretty, textured look. I might have thrown on some extra mascara and perfume, as well, because why the hell not?
Last night was both eye-opening and frustrating. I stepped over the line and I got myself burned. I can’t do that again. I also realized that there’s no harm in looking nice for your job.
I smooth the fabric down my sides. “Thank you. I got it from Anthropologie. On sale, of course.”
“I never find anything worth buying on sale there. I always end up paying for things full price because I have no self-control,” Vivian says while handing me a folder. “Today’s events. Nothing spectacular. John Young Elementary is singing the national anthem on the field but there’s no meet-and-greet. They do have a special section in the stands devoted to them and their families. But that’s it. So, easy day for the girls.”
“Good,” I say, quickly scanning through today’s schedule. “I need some time to plan out some of my upcoming events. I don’t feel organized at all.”
“You might think that, but you’re at least ten times better than the girl who had your position before. Trust me, we’re all so happy you’re here.”
“Thank you.”
Knock. Knock.
I look toward the door to my office, where Walker stands, hands in his jeans pockets, wearing his Bobbies shirt like it’s his own skin. The hat on his head makes his eyes darker and more devastating.
“Have a second?” he asks, his voice rumbling over me, sending a shrill chill right up my spine.
“Yeah, sure.” I turn to Vivian. “Thank you for this. Meet you up in the suite to go over a few things before the game begins?”
“Yup. I’ll save you some of those mini quiches you love so much.”
My face burns red. Things he doesn’t need to know . . .
“Thank you.” Once Vivian leaves, I ask, “What can I help you with?”
He takes another step toward me and shuts my office door, sending me on high alert. “My agent wants me to do a speech at the Firefighters Ball.”
“Oh?” I lean on my desk. I was possibly expecting a different topic, but we can roll with this. “Do you want to make a speech?”
He grips the back of his neck, his bicep bulging against the fabric of his shirt. There’s something so sexy about the way he dresses—casual, not really caring—but it works so well
with his rugged, athletic look.
See, there I go again, checking him out. Do I have no self-control?
Growing very serious, he says, “My dad was a volunteer firefighter in our small town. He’s retired now, but I’ve never shied away from helping out those who’ve served. I feel personally close to this cause.”
“Did Roark tell you he wanted you to make a speech?”
“Yeah.”
“I see.” I move around to my desk, where I sit down. “I have Cutler and Torres making speeches right now since they’re the most prolific out of you boys. Do you really think you’re up for a speech?”
“I’m not completely laconic.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” I answer with more snark than intended.
He picks up on it, because he steps farther into my office and takes a seat across from me, his large frame slouching across the leather chair, his legs wide and creating a solid foundation for him. I know men like to sit with their legs spread, but why does it have to look sexy? If a woman does that, we look as if we’re trying to invite woodland creatures into our pants.
“Let’s just get it out there and over with,” he says, confusing me.
“Get what out there and over with?”
“You’re mad at me.”
Wow, he’s upfront.
Nervously, I fidget with things on my desk. “I’m not mad at you, Walker.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” he says, throwing my words right back at me.
That’s fair.
“Fine, I might be irritated.” I move a pen to the inside of my desk.
“Hey,” he says sternly, and I immediately snap my eyes to his. “Stop fiddling with that shit and talk to me.”
I should’ve guessed talking with this man would be like this. To the point, no fucking around.
“Why are you irritated?”
If he wants to talk, then we’ll talk.
I fold my hands on my lap, square my shoulders and say, “You can be very hot and cold and hard to read. It’s difficult for me to effectively work with you when you’re so challenging.”
“Challenging? I’ve done everything you’ve asked.”