by Meghan Quinn
My heart flutters unexpectedly. I look around to see if Audrey is anywhere nearby, and when the coast is clear, I open up his message.
Walker: What are you doing?
Settling against the stairs, I type him back.
Kate: Going over the space for the firefighter fundraiser. Aren’t you supposed to be getting ready for your game?
Walker: Killing time. Send me a picture of you.
Kate: What? No.
Walker: It’ll help the team win. Don’t you want the team to win?
Kate: I can’t see how a picture of me will help the team.
Walker: It’ll put me at ease, which will help me hit the ball, which in return will help us score runs. Simple, babe.
Babe.
I bite down on my lower lip, willing the butterflies in my stomach to settle.
Kate: How about we talk about something else, because you know where I stand.
Walker: Ruthless. How’s the venue space?
Kate: Perfect. How’s the locker room you’re in?
Walker: Smells like a sock.
Kate: Are you saying your team smells?
Walker: Not my team. The carpet is twenty years old.
Kate: So, you won’t be taking a nap on it anytime soon?
Walker: No.
Kate: Do you ever nap before a game?
Walker: Never. That’s one way to kill your adrenaline.
Kate: Oh, I forgot, you’re a macho baseball player.
Walker: I squat for a living. I need the adrenaline.
Not that I would ever mention it to him, but thinking about all that adrenaline pushing through his veins, I can envision the flex in his forearms, the puff of his pecs against his jersey. It’s hot.
Really hot.
And the thought is warming up my body more than I would care to admit.
Kate: Do you have any superstitions?
Walker: No.
Kate: Isn’t that what baseball is, though? A game of superstitions?
Walker: No. Baseball is about mentally outdoing your opponent. If you believe in superstitions, then you already have a mental disadvantage.
Kate: Why did I envision you saying that with a growly voice?
Walker: Growly?
Kate: Yeah, that’s how your voice gets when you’re serious . . . or turned on.
Walker: Want to talk about how you get when you’re turned on?
I swallow hard.
Kate: I’m good. Thanks.
I hear footsteps coming down the hall from where Audrey disappeared, so I quickly wrap up my text messaging.
Kate: Back to a meeting. Good luck tonight.
Walker: Thanks, babe.
Damn it. I swear he’s doing that on purpose. But I like it. It hasn’t been that long since I’ve had a boyfriend, but being called babe by Walker feels . . . right.
Chapter Forty-Six
WALKER
Locker room showers almost always are quick and to just get the job done. Unless I’m in a fucking mood, I don’t like to spend a lot of time under the water in a public place, bare-ass naked.
It’s why I decided to take another shower when I got back to my hotel room. I let the scalding water beat my back as I stood there, head hanging, easing my aching muscles.
We barely earned a win today; if it weren’t for an error in the top of the ninth inning, we never would’ve gone into the bottom of the ninth, one run ahead. We played like shit all game and the mid-season fatigue is starting to show. Luckily, the All-Star break is right around the corner. Once we get home, we’ll have three games and then we’re off for a week.
Thank fuck.
I can use the time off.
Dried off, I’m wrapping the towel around my waist just as I hear my phone ring on the nightstand. Like a fool, I stumble to get to the phone with one person on my mind.
Kate.
But when I see the caller ID, I’m annoyed instead.
Picking it up, I sit down on the bed and answer, “What’s up, Roark?”
“Checking up on you. How’s it going?”
“Good.” I scratch my chest, wishing I was listening to Kate’s sweet voice rather than Roark’s Irish lilt. “I’m feeling pretty confident out on the field right now.”
“I’d say. You’ve been lighting it up. How’s the body?”
“Holding together, and looking forward to the All-Star break.”
“Are you sour you weren’t picked?”
“Not really,” I answer honestly. “I was on the team the last two years, so I got to see what it was all about. I’m happy for the break.”
“Any plans?”
“Not really, just relaxing,” I answer even though I’ve had thoughts of what I might want to do, if it were a perfect world with no consequences. I would be begging Kate to see me.
But since that’s not an option, I’ll probably be casually hitting up the cages once a day and then binging some show on Netflix.
“And the firefighter fundraiser, are you all set with that?”
“Yeah. Kate has me in the lineup for a quick speech. I even gave her a picture of me and my dad in his volunteer firefighter gear.”
“Good.” He pauses and then asks, “Do you like Kate?”
“What?” I ask, a nervous fear creeping up my throat. How the fuck does he know? Were we not careful enough?
“Do you like working with her? Is she keeping you in line?”
Oh . . .
Fuck. I try to hold back my audible relief at almost being caught, and by Roark of all people. If he found out what I’ve been doing, he’d fly from New York to Chicago to wring my dick with his own hands. Then Kate most likely would lose her job.
And then what . . . she has to look for something else? Would I even see her again?
Gathering myself, I say, “She does her job well. Doesn’t put up with my shit.”
“Good. No one should. She’s good at her job. Wouldn’t want to see anything happen to her.”
I grip the back of my neck as heated nerves stir in my stomach. “Why would something happen to her?” I ask.
“If she’s not doing her job, the Bobbies wouldn’t keep her around. And if you’re being a dick to her, not allowing her to accomplish what she needs to accomplish, then that would look bad on her.”
“Oh . . .” I bite down on my tongue, willing myself to tread carefully. “Yeah, I’m listening to her.”
He’s silent for a second. “You sound weird . . . is there anything you need to tell me?”
“No,” I say quickly, then curse myself for sounding so obvious.
“Because if there’s something you need to say—”
“Nope,” I answer, my heart nearly pounding out of my chest.
“Okay,” he says a little skeptically, and then I hear a voice in the background. “Hey, Sutton is giving me a death glare to get off the phone. Just wanted to check in. Let me know if you need anything.”
“Sure. Thanks.”
I hang up, toss my phone to the side, and lean back on the mattress, pushing both of my hands through the wet strands of my hair. Christ, that was nerve-racking for a second there. What if Roark did know? Would he tell the front office? Would Kate lose her job?
Everyone loves her in the front office. The players love her. The event organizers love her.
How could you not, though? Past her sexy curves and captivating smile, she has a soothing voice, a calming disposition, and a simple way to pull a smile from you. She’s sweet, understanding. She listens without judgment, and puts herself in your shoes. She’s easily the most warmhearted person I know.
And I hate to admit it, but that conversation with Roark, that brief moment of panic, is the exact reason why I shouldn’t be talking to Kate, why I shouldn’t be thinking about her, dreaming about her. Because if anyone found out about what we’ve done, how we’ve interacted, I wouldn’t be the one who would get hurt. She would.
She’d lose everything she’s ever worked toward. And I know she lo
ves her job. She enjoys what she does and she’s damn good at it.
Even if I want her more than anything.
I don’t want to hurt her.
My phone rings and I glance at the screen again.
Kate.
Hell . . .
My hand reaches for the phone, my thumb hovering over the answer button, but I hold back, my mind reeling from the conversation I just had with Roark. From the tone in his voice, the skepticism and the questions, I feel as if he knows something, or thinks he knows something. Either way, there’s only one way this could go . . . and it doesn’t include Kate staying with the Bobbies. Despite telling Kate that Dawn was my defender and protector, those instincts were engrained in me, too. To care for Dawn. To look after her and take her needs seriously. And I think that’s why I can’t answer this call. I can’t let Kate down, too. I can’t be the one who causes her disappointment. She means too much to me for that.
I let the call go to voicemail and bury my head in my hands, the consequences of this all tearing away at me, shred by shred.
After a minute, my phone dings with a voicemail. I unlock my phone and listen, putting the phone on speaker.
“Hey, Walker, it’s Kate. Just calling to congratulate you on another win. You’re probably celebrating with Ryot. If you want, give me a call. Okay . . . bye.”
I stare down at my phone and at the fifteen-second message. Before I can stop myself, I listen to it again.
And again.
And again.
But I never call her back.
Chapter Forty-Seven
KATE
Radio silence.
Absolute silence.
Walker is back in town, we’re day one into the All-Star break, and I’ve heard nothing from the man.
Not a text.
Not a call.
Not an email.
Just nothing.
I should be thankful, because he apparently decided to make a clean break, which is what I asked for, but now that I know he’s back in town with nothing to do at night, I’m itching to see him. Or at least hear his voice again.
“Drink,” Vivian says, plopping a shot in front of me.
We’re on shot number three of tequila. Having a slow day tomorrow we decided to have a night to remember—aka, drinking in my apartment while wearing matching pajamas and chowing down on Garrett popcorn, the cheddar and caramel mix. There really is no other combination that should be allowed.
“Maybe we can let the last shot settle for a second,” I say, holding my belly right before letting out a loud hiccup.
Vivian laughs and then hiccups herself. She clamps her hand over her mouth, and we both let out a laugh, hiccupping at the same time.
Oh yeah, I’m feeling the shots already. Number four won’t be consumed for a while.
“One more,” Vivian says, picking up my shot and holding it to my lips. “Open the hatch or I’m going to spill this all over your face.”
Before the liquid can spill, I part my lips and let the alcohol flow into my mouth. There goes holding off on number four.
Once I swallow, I quickly pick up a lime slice and suck on it.
Yeesh, that one was rough.
I hold up my hand to Vivian and say, “No more. Not for at least another hour, or else I might need you to hold my hair back and tuck me into bed like a child.”
“Oddly, I find that appealing,” she says as she starts to pour another shot.
I yank the bottle from her and point at her. “No more for an hour.” I set the bottle down out of her reach. “What are you trying to do? Get me drunk?”
“Yes,” she answers with conviction. “I want your lips loose.”
I raise an eyebrow at her. “Are you trying to take advantage of me? Experiment?”
“What?” She laughs and shakes her head. “No! I’m trying to find out who this mystery guy is, the same guy who had you all giddy last week, but now depressed this week.”
“I’m not depressed.”
She gives me a pointed look. “You’re checking your phone every five minutes, and when you don’t see a text, you frown.”
“You’re mistaking my smile for a frown.”
“That isn’t your smile. Your lips are turned down.”
“That’s just my face.”
“Shut up.” She laughs while pushing my shoulder. “That is not your face. Be straight with me—who’s the guy? And what did he do to make you so blue?”
Am I really blue? I didn’t think I was acting upset. I’ve been very careful with how I present myself at work, aiming to ensure my personal life doesn’t interfere with the job.
“I’m not blue.”
“You’ve worn black to work the last few days, as if you’re in mourning.”
“I am in mourning—the first half of baseball season is over. It went by far too fast.”
She wiggles her finger at me with determination. “Listen here, missy, if you don’t tell me who—”
She doesn’t finish what she’s saying, but swipes my phone like a ninja, points the face recognition at me, and then goes straight to my text messages before I can register to move.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting to the bottom of this.”
“Give that back to me.” I reach for my phone but she dodges out of the way and springs to her feet, swiftly moving around the coffee table, creating a barrier. “Vivian, don’t you dare look in my phone.”
“Wow, you sure do text a lot of the players.” Her brows shoot up to her hairline. “Oh my God, is it a player?”
“Vivian . . . please.”
“It is!” She goes back to my phone and starts swiping through it, calling out names. “Carson. No. Heath. No. Penn . . . no. But he’s hot. I would stand in line for a little attention from him.”
I lunge over the coffee table and swat the phone out of her hand, but it looks to be too late. Stunned, she glances at me, eyes wide as she whispers, “Walker.”
Fuck.
Leaning over the coffee table, I try to figure out how to respond, but when nothing comes to mind, Vivian starts asking questions.
“You have a thing for Walker. Have you done anything? Give me all the details.”
Resigned, I fall back on the couch and drape my arm over my eyes, unable to look at my friend from sheer embarrassment.
“We are not talking about this.”
“The hell we aren’t. You have a thing for Walker Rockwell. I mean, I don’t blame you, the man is a rugged alpha on a stick, but holy shit. Does anyone know?”
I shake my head, realizing there’s no use denying it. If she opened up my text messages with him, one glance would give her all the information she needs. “No one knows, and there really isn’t anything to know. I cut it off before it got too out of control.”
“He called you babe.”
Yeah, that’s pretty damning.
“He’s just joking.”
Vivian levels her eyes at me while crossing her arms over her chest. “You’re going to tell me everything that’s going on or else I’m going to text him myself and ask.”
“Oh my God, you wouldn’t.”
“I think by now you should know I always follow through.”
She does. It’s why I love her friendship so much, because there’s no bullshitting when it comes to her. What you see is what you get. And our friendship was immediate. First day I walked into the stadium, we clicked.
“Fine,” I huff out.
With a gleeful clap, she picks up my phone, hands it to me, and then takes a seat, poised and ready to listen. I’m going to need more tequila for this. I reach down for the bottle and take a big swig before handing it over to her.
“I don’t know how it started. He was such a bastard at the beginning, clearly wanting nothing to do with me, and I took that as a challenge.”
“Of course.” Vivian nods.
“So, I decided to go above and beyond and help him with his image. I spent extra time with him,
and all that extra time led to growing feelings. I mean, how could I not be attracted to the man?”
“He’s so handsome.” Vivian sighs. “He’s still young, but looks as if he has the wisdom of someone who’s been in the majors for twenty years. It’s hot. And his hands . . .”
“I know,” I groan, envisioning those hands all over my body. “I love his hands. They’re so sexy. Strong and thick with just enough callouses to drive you crazy.”
“Have you felt his hands on you?” Vivian asks, her brows shooting up.
“No, not really.” I wince. “I mean, not entirely. Just a little, and from the small amount I’ve experienced, I know I would take so much more if I weren’t so frightened of losing my job.”
“You’re not going to lose your job.” Vivian waves her hand in front of her face. “Not over a fling.”
I bite my bottom lip out of nerves. “I don’t think this would be a fling for me. I know it would be so much more. I feel invested in him, and that’s scary. It’s why I keep trying to keep myself away.”
Vivian studies me for a few beats before saying, “Let me read the texts.”
“No.”
With a pointed look, she motions with her finger. “Show me the texts right now, Kate. Or I’m going to have to take things into my own hands again. Is that what you really want? You know I’m scrappy.”
She really is, and I don’t foresee this ending anytime soon, so I unlock my phone and hand it over.
Smiling brightly, she says, “Perfect. Now, let’s send him a text.”
“What?” I fly to her side of the couch. “No.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
WALKER
What a boring fucking night.
I made myself a salad, a fucking salad. I’m drinking a water, straight from the tap, and I’m watching paint dry.
I mean . . . golf. I’m watching golf.
Carson and Ryot are at the All-Star game in St. Louis, leaving me with nothing to really do during my week off. They asked if I wanted to come and just hang out, but at the time, I thought I just wanted a breather. Now that I’m here alone, I wish I’d gone with them.