by Meghan Quinn
“None of your goddamn business.”
“Hey”—he holds up his hand—“no need to be so fucking hostile. I was genuinely curious. Having girl problems of my own.”
I scoff. “Sure, Penn.”
“I am,” he says with conviction. “Well, we were just fuck buddies, but I miss rolling around the mattress with her.” Why is he talking to me about this? Doesn’t he know I couldn’t give two shits? Instead of responding, I allow him to carry on as I get ready. “When I met her, it was a mutual agreement, just fucking. I don’t know, though, I grew to like her. Grew to expect her to show up once a week. We’d eat Chinese, watch mindless TV, and then hook up. She was really into Netflix documentaries. It was her ideal night. Chicken Lo Mein, a jail documentary, and then fucking.” He rubs his face, his palm roughly scratching across his five o’clock shadow.
I mind my own business and fit my watch over my wrist.
“She loved it when I would play with her tits. I miss sucking on her nipples.”
Okay, this is just too much information.
He sighs. “She has the best tits, man.” He says that so casually, as if we’re really friends. “And she hates being fucked missionary. Said it was too boring.”
“Missionary is underrated,” I say before I can stop myself.
“That’s what I fucking think. Shit . . . I love staring into a girl’s eyes when I’m fucking her. Porn has ruined sex for everyone.”
Weary, I pull my shirt on and start buttoning it up.
“Does your girl like missionary?” Penn asks, his eyes soft, his question more inquisitive than maniacal.
And for some reason, seeing him like this, with no ulterior motive behind his eyes, I answer, “No idea, haven’t had sex.” Technically.
We dry-humped and I blew my load on her stomach, but I’m not about to say that to Penn.
“And you’re this caught up on her? Damn, she must be special.”
“She is,” I mutter, picturing Kate’s beautiful smile.
“Is she one of those forever girls?”
“Yeah,” I answer honestly. I take a seat at my locker and blow out a loud breath, unsure why I’m opening up to Penn right now. Maybe because I feel as though I can’t talk to anyone about this, that I’ve been driving myself crazy with all the thoughts about this girl and whether or not I should break the rules. “At first, I was just attracted to her.”
“Good body?”
“Great body,” I answer, finishing up the buttons on my shirt and moving to my cuffs. “But then I got to know her and her personality. I don’t know, she’s captured me in a way I’ve never felt before. She’s different. Smart as a whip, witty as fuck, and makes me laugh. She puts a sense of ease in my chest I feel like I’ve been craving for a very long time.”
“You act like you’re in love.”
I shake my head. “Nah, too soon for that shit. But I could see myself falling for her.”
I’m giving away too much to Penn, but fuck, it feels nice to get this off my chest. I feel as if I’ve been bottling it up for the past few weeks, ready to burst.
“Does she have a name?”
“She does.” But I don’t give it to him.
He chuckles. “Fair enough.” He stands from his locker and groans, stretching his back out. “You’ve made me think, Walker, maybe I don’t want to give up on this girl.”
“Brenn?” I ask, remembering her name from one of Penn’s many conversations about her.
Brenn and Penn . . . how fucking adorable.
“Yeah. I mean,” he says with a chuckle, “I miss her tits, man.”
“All the more reason to pursue a relationship,” I say, shaking my head. This guy is unbelievable.
“If you saw her tits, you’d know what I’m talking about.” He reaches into his locker, pulls down a towel, and then turns toward me. “So why haven’t we talked about this before?”
“Because we don’t like each other,” I answer while shrugging on my light gray suit jacket.
“But why? Because I spread a rumor? You’re really carrying a grudge for that damn long? Isn’t that exhausting?”
“It’s not about that,” I say honestly.
“Then what is it? Could you tell someone specifically why you don’t like me?”
“Yes,” I answer quickly, looking down at my bag and making sure I have everything I need.
“Then what is it?”
I look him in the eyes and I say, “The game comes too easily to you. You’ve never had to work for it.” And he belittles anyone who isn’t the same. Gloats. He’s a pretentious ass who doesn’t know what actual hard work means.
He barks out a laugh. “You’re fucking jealous of me.”
I snap around to look at him. “No. I’m not fucking jealous.”
He crosses his arms over his chest. “How is that not being jealous?”
“I’m not jealous,” I grit out. “But I am irritated because you’re just like Mickey Mantle, a waste of talent.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, stepping forward, his shoulders squaring toward me.
“It means you were born with this raw ability to throw a baseball, and instead of working that talent, you skate along doing the bare minimum. You drink like a goddamn fish, show up hungover almost every day, and put in minimal effort but still excel. You’re wasting away the type of talent men wish they were born with, but you don’t fucking care. And that’s why I don’t like you, because you don’t care about the game, you only care about yourself.”
“I’m not a waste of talent. They’re already talking Hall of Fame for me.”
“And imagine the impact you could have if you actually showed up healthy and built up your strength, rather than tearing it down with a bottle in your hand every night.”
“Don’t overexaggerate my personal life.”
“Quit showing up hungover to games and I won’t point out your drinking habits.”
“I handle it.”
“Really?” I ask, feeling the fire build up inside of me. “Is that why you pitched like shit today? You gave us quite the hill to climb in order to attempt to win that game.”
“I had an off day. Christ knows you’re allowed them.”
“When I start showing up to the stadium smelling like last night’s cigarettes and booze, then you can throw that in my face. You don’t put in the effort.”
“Fuck you. I put in more effort than the entire pitching staff combined.”
I grip my bag at my side and take a step closer to Penn, ticking off reasons on my finger about why he’s wrong. “You show up late, your head is never in the game, and it takes you about two hours to even warm up your body and get it working before we can start pitching. You’re irresponsible and throwing away a twenty-plus year career.”
“Not everyone needs to spend hours practicing to be an average player like you, Rockwell.”
I grind my teeth together, my mouth going dry like a desert.
“You’ve always been up my ass about practicing, even in high school. Yeah, I was born with talent, and I’m not going to apologize because you put in more hours than the average player just so you can meet the minimal requirements to play in the majors.” He pauses and shifts closer, our chests mere inches apart. “You think you got up here because of all your hard work?” He shakes his head. “You’re wearing that jersey because of me, because I told them about our history, our success, and they witnessed it. If it weren’t for me being called up before you, you’d still be in the minors, riding an old bus through the Midwest with nothing but twenty-eight thousand to your name. You’re pathetic, Walker, and should be kissing my ass for bringing you to the majors, not berating it because I like to have a drink on occasion.”
That’s utter bullshit. I’m a fucking incredible catcher. I know that. He knows that, but this is why I hate him. He probably believes every fucking word that just came out of his mouth.
My entire body is vibrating with anger, my fist clenchi
ng at my side. The temptation to punch Penn in the face is strong, almost taking over my entire mind, but it’ll only lead to blowing up everything I’ve worked toward over the past few weeks. A locker room brawl is not the type of headline I want my name under, not right now.
So instead, I blow past him, my shoulder bumping into his, sending him back a few steps.
Behind me, he laughs. The sound feels like nails scraping across a chalkboard, a shrill noise that climbs up the back of my spine, warning all my senses to be aware.
As I reach the doorway to exit, he calls out, “And here I thought you were going to say you hated me because of what happened to Dawn.”
I still, my shoulders climbing up to my ears, as a wave of nausea rolls over me so fast, I feel bile rise in my throat.
“Don’t,” I say with a clenched jaw. “Don’t you fucking dare say her name.”
“I’m right, aren’t I?” He laughs. “Jealous of my talent, and holds a grudge.”
I turn on my heel so fast, I have his shirt gathered in my hand and am pushing him against his locker before he can take his next breath. Looking him dead in the eyes, I say, “If you want to see tomorrow morning, I suggest you don’t ever utter my sister’s name again. Understood?”
“She was my friend too.”
“She was nothing to you,” I say, letting go of his shirt while pushing him back in his locker. “Don’t fucking talk about her, do you understand?” He has no right. No. Fucking. Right. To talk about my baby sister. She was never, ever his friend. She deserved so much more. So much more than she got.
He holds his hands up in defense. “Looks as if I was right, after all.”
Not sticking around to hear the rest, I storm out of the locker room with one thing on my mind, and that’s trying not to go back in and beat the living shit out of Penn Cutler.
Chapter Forty-One
KATE
I slip into my bed, naked like always, and let out a deep sigh.
What a long day.
The Bobbies lost terribly today. Penn was off his game and even though Walker hit a bomb in the eighth, it wasn’t enough. I could see the disappointment in his face when they interviewed him after the game.
He was short.
Clipped.
Didn’t bother to acknowledge his home run at all.
Hands on his hips, head tipped down, he barely gave the interviewer more than a few seconds before he took off toward the locker room. I cringed just watching it, wondering if he remembered anything about the training he went through.
It was a bad game and you could read how Walker felt all over his face.
But I shouldn’t care.
I’ve stepped away from that. I haven’t talked to him in a few days even though it’s been challenging, and I’m proud of myself for that. After the cake, I realized just how close we’d become, and I think he realized it too, because he hasn’t reached out either. Not going to say not hearing from him doesn’t sting, but I know it’s for the best. Quitting Walker Rockwell cold turkey is painful, but I’m doing it, not only for the obvious reason, but to save my heart.
I know that guy could rock my world, easily. It’s hard not to get lost in his eyes, in his chiseled jaw or thick scruff. Ruggedly handsome, he checks off every attribute I love in a man, but then his heart, when he finally shows it, is beautiful. And that right there is dangerous—getting to know his softer side, that could bring a woman to her knees.
Almost cut me off at the ankles.
I flip off my nightstand light, curl against my pillow as I turn to my side, and welcome the much-needed rest I’ve been looking for all day.
That’s until my phone rings.
My eyes shoot open and I spot the caller ID on my phone.
Speak of the devil.
I roll my teeth over my bottom lip, contemplating answering. I really shouldn’t . . .
But like the drug he is to me, I reach for my phone, unplug it, and put it on speaker.
“Hello?”
“Hey,” he says, a whoosh of wind following behind his word, as if he’d been holding his breath, waiting for me to pick up.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?” I ask, trying to keep things casual. “If you’re wondering about the Build-a-Bear event, rest assured, you’re no longer on the lineup for that one.”
He chuckles, the sound like a warm blanket draping over my body. “Wasn’t calling about that, but good to know.”
“Then how can I help you, Rockwell?”
“You can tell me about your day.”
Shit. I press my lips together and curse myself for answering. He just wants to talk . . .
Something I told myself I wouldn’t partake in.
Something I told myself over and over again would weaken me.
Something I told myself I could get lost in.
“You still there?” his low, rumbly voice asks.
“Yeah,” I squeak out, mustering the courage to tell him no. “I, uh—”
“Don’t shut down on me, Kate. Not tonight.”
Worry etches my brow. “Did something happen?”
“Nothing you need to worry about. Tell me about your day. Clear my head.”
He’s so short, concise with the way he talks, never floating around unnecessary words, almost as if he’s barking out orders, but with a teaspoon of sugar drizzled on top to sweeten his demands.
And I fall for it.
Every time.
Because I want to be the one he calls. I want to be the person he needs.
“It was busy,” I say, resigning myself to this conversation. I turn against my pillow again and set the phone next to me. “The firefighter event is taking up all of my time. We were going over the guest list today and there are people clamoring to buy tickets that we don’t have. We’re all sold out. So, we’re trying to figure out a way to have a second wave of people come who just donate to meet the players.”
“Sold out? That’s awesome.”
“Yeah, we’re pretty excited, but it’s caused a good headache, one that we’re scrambling to solve.”
“You’re smart, you’ll figure it out.”
I smile to myself, the compliment etching across my heart.
Walker Rockwell thinks I’m smart.
Trying not to go all gooey, I say, “Sorry about your loss today. Penn looked like shit.”
“Tell me about it,” he groans. “The fucker is such a waste.”
“It’s one bad night.”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line and I wonder if I said the wrong thing. It’s not a secret that Penn and Walker aren’t on the same page most of the time, but players are allowed to have an off night.
I clarify. “We can’t always be perfect. Baseball wouldn’t be baseball, then. The percentage for succeeding in baseball is considered pretty much failing everywhere else. A batting average of over three hundred is amazing, and yet that’s only a thirty percent success rate. You fail more than succeed. Penn failed tonight, but he’s succeeded more often than not, given the pressures of the game.”
More silence.
“Hello?”
He clears his throat, and I know that sound—he’s not happy with what I said.
But it’s the truth.
So, like the idiot I am, I continue, “Set aside your differences. Would you really be saying that about another player? I know you don’t like Penn, but the man is allowed to be human every once in a while.”
Silence.
A deep-rooted fear starts to creep up my back, the hairs on the nape of my neck start to rise.
“He shows his humanity too much,” Walker finally says.
“What do you mean?” I ask, grateful that he finally said something.
“It’s not anything I should repeat to you.”
The way he says you, with such disdain in his voice, causes me to have concern. He’s not just mad, he’s truly angry.
“Walker—”
“You don’t know the half
of everything, Kate, so your assumptions about him are incorrect.”
“I wasn’t trying to upset you—”
“And to defend him like that, after he let the team down because of his personal choices, is shitty.”
“Walker, I didn’t know—”
“I have to go.” He hangs up, without me being able to get another word in.
What the hell just happened?
I blink a few times, staring down at my phone. How did Walker’s anger escalate that quickly? I didn’t even want to pick up that phone call, knowing I would be sucked into his world, the one I swore I would stay out of, and even though he wouldn’t let me speak one word after his reprimands, for some idiotic reason, I feel even more sucked in than before.
Groaning, I bury my head in my pillow and curse myself for picking up.
That’s what you get for being stupid.
I’ve seen Walker act grumpy, but for him to snap that quickly—and at me—I guess I don’t know him as well as I thought I did.
I move my phone back to the nightstand, plug it in again, and turn away from it, tempted to turn it off.
It’s not as if I told Walker I wished Penn was lying in my bed next to me. I could understand his hatred for that scenario, but to talk about a baseball player in general having a bad day . . .
And then I think about something he said to me.
When I asked if there was something that happened to him tonight, he said it was nothing I needed to worry about.
Did Penn and Walker get into it again?
Annoyed that I’m even considering this, but knowing I won’t get any sleep unless I check, I flip back around and open up the browser on my phone. I search for any kind of fight between the two of them that might have been reported but come up short, only finding articles from months ago.
He hasn’t talked to me in a few days, and then he randomly calls me, with a boorish attitude ready to pounce, and pounce he did when I said the wrong thing.
There’s no other explanation other than he got into it with Penn.
I chew on the side of my mouth, considering what I should do. He said he didn’t want me to worry about it, and I should heed his advice.