by Meghan Quinn
“What do you mean?” I ask, my stomach doing somersaults from the mention of Walker’s name.
“Before he took off that night, I asked him what you meant to him. I asked him if you were an easy fuck or if you meant more to him.” Penn’s eyes connect with mine. “He said you were so much more.”
My chest tightens.
“And then I asked if he loved you.” Penn rubs his eye with his palm. “I thought he was bullshitting me when he said he did, but now—fuck . . . he was telling the truth.”
“He—he told you he loved me?” I ask, my hands shaking in my lap.
Penn nods slowly. “He did. And from the look of shock on your face, I’m guessing that you not only didn’t know that, but that you probably feel the same.”
Finding my voice, I say, “It doesn’t matter either way. That’s in the past.”
“You could make it work—”
“Don’t, Penn. Please, just drop it.” I take his hand in mine and say, “Let’s focus on you and getting you better.” He starts to shake his head, but I move my fingers to his chin and force him to look me in the eyes. “You need help and I’ll be there by your side, but only if you’re willing to put in the time to do it.”
“I have to focus on the goddamn playoffs,” he says.
“Which means the season is almost over. One step at a time, Penn. Every day, you make one small step toward sobriety, even if it’s just finding someone to help you first. It’s a step in the right direction.”
“I don’t know. . .”
“How about this,” I say, growing serious. “I’ll help find you an AA meeting and go with you. But you need to find a sponsor, and I’m not going to do that for you. You and me . . . Dan. We can do it.”
His eyes flash to mine, a small ounce of hope reflecting in them. He wraps his arm around my shoulder and pulls me into a hug. He holds me tightly.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
Chapter Sixty-Two
WALKER
“You ready for tonight?” Dempsey, our center fielder, asks as he sits next to me in the locker room. He’s a bit of a talker, doesn’t quite get it yet that I like to be left alone, and he’s always asking around to borrow deodorant—what the fuck is that about? Either way, he’s fucking fast in the outfield, runs down balls like they owe him money, and he’s a decent guy to talk to, when I want to talk.
“Yup,” I answer while taping my fingers so Flanderson can see the pitches I call better. Some catchers paint their nails, others tape their fingers. I wouldn’t be caught dead with a bottle of nail polish, so I tape up. There’s a certain way to do it, too, that doesn’t hinder my ability to throw down to second.
“Did you see the neon-pink tape I got for you?” He nudges my shoulder. “You should use that.”
“That’s my last resort.”
He laughs out loud. “Why did I think that was going to be the case?”
“Because I’m not the kind of guy who goes around sporting pink fingers.”
“That could be it.” He wiggles his finger at me. “Did you take an extra bucket of balls in the cages this morning? I heard someone down there, beating the hell out of the ball.”
“Yeah, that was me,” I answer.
“Damn, dude, you’re relentless. No wonder you have the best batting average on the team.”
“Anything to help the team win,” I answer as the locker room doors open and a few other pitchers file in from their conditioning workout. Flanderson warmed his legs up, which is why he was part of the group, but I’m surprised to see who’s behind him, walking in with a towel around his shoulders.
Cutler.
I can’t remember the last time I saw him condition with the guys, let alone show up this early to a game.
“Check that out,” Ryot says, sitting next to me. “Cutler, actually sweating, and it’s from a workout, not a hangover.”
I eye Penn as he takes a seat in his locker and reaches for his water bottle. He squirts water in his mouth and then leans forward, elbows on his knees. He looks . . . exhausted.
After I left the ball, I started packing up my apartment, ready to get the fuck out of Chicago, but then the next day, Roark called me and said he didn’t make the call for the trade. After an earful from me, he explained that he wasn’t going to make a professional move based off an emotional reaction. I told him he was fired.
Two days later, he showed up at my apartment with a red velvet cake and we sat down and talked. He made me open up, which was painful. I told him how I wasn’t handling being around Kate very well and, thankfully, he took care of that. He spoke with the front office and told them that my image was good enough for now and that since we were going into the second half of the season, he wanted me focusing on batting and making sure it was the best it could be. Thankfully, the front office agreed, and that’s what I’ve been doing. And it’s showing.
I haven’t seen Kate in two months, not even passing in the hallways, and I’ve been able to tunnel vision myself through to the end of the season, which is when Roark said we’d reevaluate how I felt about staying on with the Bobbies.
So instead of trading me during the All-Star break, the Bobbies traded a few prospects for Dempsey, who’s been a killer addition to our lineup, batting in the number two spot, right after Knox. Between the two of them, the speed on the bases is insane, and it’s taken us right up to the playoffs.
“Think Coach finally said something to him?” Ryot asks.
“Not sure, haven’t spoken to Penn, not for months.”
Leaning in closer, Ryot asks, “Do you think that’s why he’s pitching like shit? You know he thrives off pressing your buttons, off the challenge you present him. You don’t even talk to him when he’s on the mound now. When he’s throwing like shit, you don’t call him out on it. It’s like the animosity is gone and you’re just numb toward him.”
That’s exactly what I am—numb.
I’ve given up on caring.
I’ve given up on even trying to get into his head.
Why should I, after he threatened Kate’s job? There’s no fucking point. As far as I care, all I have to do where Cutler’s concerned is sit behind the plate, catch his balls, call the game, and move on. And that’s all he gets from me.
Nothing else.
He doesn’t deserve any more than that.
“He doesn’t deserve a second of my time.” I stand from my locker and stretch my arms above my head. “I’m heading to the cafeteria. Coming?”
Ryot and Dempsey stand, and together we head past Penn and out of the locker room, down the hall to the cafeteria. There are a few guys lingering with empty plates. We hand out some high fives and a few jokes—well, Ryot does—and I head straight to the plates, where I fill one up with chicken and broccoli. I grab a Gatorade from the fridge and take a seat at a table in the back. I stacked my plate with chicken, wanting to get in as much protein as I can before the game. I’ve really focused on my diet as well these last two months while putting in more time in the weight room. The result—the ball is popping off my bat, my throws to second are faster and more precise, and my body is a well-oiled machine.
“It bothers me that you stopped eating pretzels with me before the game,” Ryot says, taking a seat next to me. “It hurts my feelings.”
“You’ll live,” I say just as my phone buzzes in my pocket. I take it out and see that it’s a text from Jason Orson, the catcher for the Rebels, our rival team, and the founder of The Lineup.
Jason: I know you’re Mr. Hot Shot up at the plate lately, but figured I’d try my chances at getting a response from you. [Pray hands] I’m desperate to talk to you.
Smirking, I lean back in my chair and shoot a text back to Jason.
Walker: I think I can grace you with my presence for a second.
Jason: Jackpot!
Walker: What do you want?
Jason: A date.
Walker: Don’t you have a wife?
Jason: Not for me, for a friend.
She’s new to town, a teacher, super pretty, and fun. Also, former Division I athlete, coaches volleyball, and she’s really good at repartee.
Walker: Dude, I’m not dating right now.
Jason: Puhhhhh-lease! Just one date. You guys would be perfect for each other.
Walker: Is this your way of trying to throw me off my game?
Jason: No, it’s me trying to make you enjoy life. Come on, man. What’s it going to hurt?
Little does he know.
Walker: I’m not ready.
Jason: Did you just get out of a relationship I don’t know about?
Walker: Something like that.
Jason: Well, then just go have fun. If anything, you’re going to have a good time.
Sighing, I set my phone down and pick up my fork. I look up to see Dempsey and Ryot both staring at me.
“What?” I ask.
“Uh, care to share what the snorting was all about?” Ryot asks.
“Snorting? I wasn’t snorting.”
“You were,” Dempsey says around a mouthful of chicken. “There was a lot of snorting.”
“An uncomfortable amount of snorting,” Ryot adds. He nods at my phone. “So, who was it? Share with the table.”
Succumbing to their badgering, I say, “Jason Orson.”
“Uhh . . .” Dempsey looks around and then whispers, “Are we allowed to talk to the rivals like that?”
“Jason and Walker work together on a foundation that helps kids with physical disabilities compete in sports.”
“That’s awesome, man. So, we really aren’t rivals with the Rebels?”
Ryot shakes his head. “All media. Well, and Maddox Paige doesn’t mind throwing a fist our way every once in a while just for the hell of it.”
“Dude has a killer curveball.” Dempsey shakes his head. “Can’t tell you the number of times he’s struck me out.”
“It’s why he’s one of the best,” Ryot says and then nudges me. “What did Jason want that made you all snorty?”
Rolling my eyes, I say, “He wanted me to go out with some girl he knows.”
“Like on a date?” Ryot asks, a confused look on his face.
“Yes, a date. Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Because you don’t date,” Ryot says and then points his fork at me while talking to Dempsey. “He doesn’t date. Ever.”
“How does one even date while playing a professional sport? I’m so glad I met my girl in high school and she’s put up with me,” Dempsey says. “Are you going to say yes?”
Just then, the cafeteria door opens and Penn walks in, followed by a blonde with short hair. They sit together at a table and it isn’t until the blonde sets down her iPad on the table that I realize it’s Kate.
My Kate.
The Kate that I’ve been dreaming about almost every goddamn night.
The Kate that I push out of my mind when I reach the stadium.
And holy fuck does she look different. Not different bad, but . . . different. Thinner, her clothes don’t sit on her like they used to, and her facial features are sharper than before. Her posture seems stiffer and her composure serious. Her contagious smile is missing, and not to mention her hair is shorter, sexier.
I watch as she pushes her hair behind her ear and then quietly talks to Penn as she scrolls through her iPad. He nods here and there and I can’t help but wonder . . .
What are they talking about?
Are they together?
Does he think about her the way that I think about her?
“Dude, are you going to say yes?” Dempsey laughs next to me.
“Huh? Oh.” I turn back to my plate, trying to block Kate out. You don’t think about her when you’re inside these walls. Focus. Clearing my throat, I spear a piece of broccoli and say, “Not sure . . . maybe.”
Chapter Sixty-Three
KATE
Deep breaths.
Don’t look his way.
Keep your eyes focused on your iPad.
He’s usually not in here two hours before the game, so what is he doing here?
No, don’t worry about him. Focus.
“Kate,” Penn’s voice says softly. “You’ve turned into a brick wall over there.”
“Huh?” I look up from my iPad and straight into Penn’s eyes. His clear eyes.
Privately, we found him a sponsor who he’s been working with the past week. Every day, they talk either via FaceTime or on the computer. Nothing has changed overnight. I know that Penn has been drinking, but I also know there’s been two nights where he didn’t. Where he focused on a puzzle instead. He attempted to draw but realized he was awful at it and within an hour was drinking again. His counselor told him to find something that would occupy his mind, like a puzzle. So, that day, he went out and bought ten different thousand-piece puzzles. And that’s been helping him. At least the two days where he didn’t drink, he was immersed in sorting and putting pieces together.
They spoke about rehab after the season and I’m pretty sure that’s something Penn is going to take part in. He hasn’t committed yet, but he was the one who brought it up, so at least that’s a step in the right direction. He’s just trying to get through the season now.
We also have been filling his time during the day with community events, a strict training schedule, and keeping his mind occupied with other things so he’s not sitting around, just thinking. He hasn’t felt confident to go to any AA meetings yet, but he was able to get a sponsor via an online AA meeting and he’s starting the process of finding forgiveness. Penn has enjoyed the murder mystery podcasts he suggested. Just last night he listened to a podcast and did his puzzle, and even though he itched for a drink, he kept his mind straight, and I was proud of him for it. He’s made a little progress. But a little is better than none.
“Is he here?” Penn asks right before looking around the room and spotting Walker in the corner with Ryot and Dempsey, our newest acquisition during the trade deadlines. He was a great snag, too. Wonderful to work with and amazing with kids, plus his wife reached out to me and asked if there was anything she could do for the community, because she’d love to get involved. Apparently, she used to work for a professional hockey team in New England before Dempsey was traded, so she has solid experience. The kind of experience I love.
“He is here. Fuck, I’m sorry, Kate,” Penn mumbles. “Want to go somewhere else?”
“No.” I shake my head. “I’m fine. Let’s uh, let’s get to work. Are you going to be okay with showing up to the school on Monday to read books with the kids?”
“Kate, we don’t have to do this right now.”
I look up from my iPad and say, “This is on your schedule. We stick to your schedule no matter what. Do you understand?”
He nods. “Yes.” And then whispers, “Thank you.”
There has been a real change in Penn. He’s not the outgoing, charismatic asshole he used to be, but more somber, aware of how he’s fucked up, and trying to make changes. His teammates are confused, especially since he hasn’t shared his problems with anyone, but they’re also giving him space, which is exactly what he needs.
“No need to thank me. You know I’m here for you.”
“It’s why I love you,” he says and then clears his throat. “I need something to occupy me . . . need a drink?”
This has been common for him. Penn gets fidgety if he doesn’t have something to drink during our meetings, so I always make sure to join him.
“Blue Gatorade, please.”
He taps the table. “You got it.” He heads to the fridge just as Walker, Ryot, and Dempsey stand from their table. And even though I’m trying to avoid looking at Walker, I can’t help but glance in his direction.
God, he looks incredible. He’s wearing a skintight Under Armour shirt and his baseball pants, socks still drawn up high. His waist is narrower than before and I can see the indent of the V at his hips from how tight his shirt is, not to mention every indentation of his abs. H
is shoulders look broader, his biceps look thicker, and his hair is just a touch longer, making him look even more mysterious than before.
What I wouldn’t give to have him walk over here, pick me up from this chair, and pin me against the wall, to feel his muscles and strong arms wrapped around me, to taste his lips one last time. Or, hell, just to hear his deep, rumbly voice say my name or whisper it in my ear.
My eyes deceive me as they track him across the room. I tell myself to look away, to stop torturing myself, but then, he glances up and our eyes connect. Like the fool I am, I quickly look away, but not fast enough—because that one connection feels like he burned me. His expression, his dark moodiness, it’s branded on my brain, just like that.
All the emotions and feelings I’ve pushed to the side over the last two months come flooding back to me like an unexpected tidal wave, crashing into my heart and inundating me with what used to be. What I used to have, even if it was for only a second, I still held his heart in my hands.
Penn takes a seat and hands me my drink. I silently take it, unscrew the cap, and take a drink. When I’m done, I feel Penn’s eyes on me. “You still love him, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” I sigh. “I do.”
I turned off the TV an hour ago, unable to concentrate with the game on, especially since the announcers keep highlighting Walker and the hitting streak he’s been on. They’ve talked about his routine, his training, his diet . . . pretty much everything, and it was more than I could take, especially after seeing him in the cafeteria the other day.
Instead, I turned on some music and got to work on emails, emails that I’ve been putting off, given my workload has been pretty heavy lately with fan requests.
It’s the distraction I need, even though I’m growing tired of making dreams come true. I hate to be the martyr, but a part of me hates making dreams come true when I know my dream will never come true. Selfish, I know. I’m admitting how messed up it sounds. I never claimed to be perfect, and it’s how I feel.