“Save room on your arm for me.”
A clip of his arms outstretched, calling to the crowd behind him played over and over. Memes and gifs were everywhere. I only need one woman on my arm.
She sighed and clicked her laptop closed. She was in LA for one reason, to cover a story about the one person she hoped to never see again on friendly terms. Forced to cover something so personal to her was taking its toll. She had hoped a little heckling in the stands would have eased things for her. But then he’d responded so openly, so bare, so publicly. “You coming down here, Bonfire?” She should have thrown something at him. But instead, what had she wanted to do? Jump over the edge and run out into his arms. And that was most of the problem. No matter how ridiculous, no matter the proof right before her eyes, if Cole called, she was afraid she would always come running. And always get hurt. She’d deleted every single voicemail, all his texts. She couldn’t give herself a moment for weakness.
He had a press conference this afternoon. Mr. Stacy had called it. He seemed as bent on milking press attention as Dr. Grant at Belltown. These athletes’ lives were not their own. Again, she refused to feel guilty. But what she did feel was dread. She had to go listen to Cole talk about his ladies, his partying, the sudden increase in his time spent about town. That suddenly increased right about the time he started seeing her. And then, she was supposed to get his response about her and their relationship.
The hurt tore at her a little more, piling on the years of insecurity and hurt she felt every time she thought about Devin. Aiysha was right. Harlow had given Devin enough of her time, her emotion, enough years of her life. Their relationship has lasted only through the semester, but the fallout drug out too long. One good thing about Cole, he had appropriately squashed whatever impact Devin had on her life. Whatever she’d felt for Devin felt like a trickle from the faucet compared to the raging rapids that pounded through her veins whenever she thought about Cole.
Her phone dinged. Ryker. She swiped right.
Cole’s dad’s got cancer. Getting treatments. Stage four. Thought you should know.
The phone felt loose in her hands. She almost dropped it. And her heart didn’t know how to beat. Her hands shook as she tried to respond. How long has he known?
Just found out a week ago. Go easy on him.
She couldn’t answer. She couldn’t agree. But she couldn’t disagree either. Finally she just sent a thumbs up emoji and pulled out her laptop. Someone had to know where he was getting treatments. No news. At all. They had kept it silent. Ryker took a risk in letting her know. Apparently the family had gone to great lengths to keep it quiet. Finally she texted back. Can I see him? Where is Mr. Hunter getting treatments?
The three dots of someone starting to respond lasted longer than she thought any should. But finally he sent a California address. Mrs. Bennet says he’s there today.
Bless that woman. Skeeter’s mom took care of the Six Pack like they were her own. Harlow grabbed her bag, her laptop, and rushed out the door. Pulling up the app for a car, she wondered what she would say, was she welcome? She hadn’t even met his mother. Surely these people didn’t want her intruding on their lives, but she couldn’t stop herself. The part of her that cared for Cole and always would, no matter how idiotic he behaved, that part also cared for his father. And she felt it only right to go support him.
She asked the driver to stop by a local pharmacy, where she picked up a stack of baseball magazines, two of which had Cole on the cover with his arms out. She snorted. Served him right. And then she hurried back on her way to visit Mr. Hunter. The kind man who had taken her fishing. The sweet couple who had adopted a child out of foster care and had turned his life into something truly special. If Mr. Hunter was suffering, she wanted to help cheer him, or at least show some respect. Hopefully he hadn’t heard too much about the heckling.
As soon as she walked through the door of his treatment room, a weak but cheerful looking Mr. Hunter called out, “Ah, the heckler has come to call.”
She swallowed and her face heated. “About that . . .”
He held up his hand. “Say no more. I’m sure he deserved it.”
“I absolutely did not.”
Harlow whipped her head around and sure enough, Cole stood from his chair in the corner, eyes sparkling at her, their green visible from across the room. Everything about him beamed welcome. He held his arms out like he had before, “What’s it gonna be, Bonfire?”
She laughed. But did not lose herself in his welcome. She’d have to award herself a medal for the Olympian effort later on.
At length he lowered them himself and held out his hand. “Good to see you, Harlow.”
When she placed her hand in his, all the thrills ran up her arm, all the warmth in his eyes welcomed her in. She choked out, “You too.” Too good. How was she going to survive the press conference, her interview with him, being in his presence? How would she resist him like she needed to, especially when he was staring like he wanted to drink her up? As soon as possible, she needed to hightail it back to the snow of western Massachusetts. And then the article. What could she say? Truth came from all perspectives.
She turned to Mr. Hunter and for the first time, saw an older woman sitting at his side. “I brought you these.” She held up the magazines and Mr. Hunter waved his hand for her to come closer. His IV pumped something through his arm, and she hoped it would make him well, hoped he would beat the odds and beat this thing.
He said, “This is my wife, Marjorie.”
Harlow nodded. “I’m so happy to meet you. Mr. Hunter took me out on the boat and I had the best time. I was so sorry to hear about the illness.”
Mrs. Hunter nodded. “Thank you, my dear.” Her eyes held a hint more suspicion and hesitance, but Harlow didn’t blame her. What mother wanted her son’s interest captured by a woman who openly heckled him from the stands? Not a good girlfriend move, but she wasn’t planning on taking on that role and so felt safe in distancing herself as much as possible.
Mr. Hunter flipped through the mags and chuckled. “Cole.”
He stepped nearer. “Nice choice.” Cole’s eyebrow lifted, but she could tell he wasn’t unhappy. Apparently they already knew all about the coverage.
“Can I help it if my personal life is all baseball wants to talk about for a few minutes?”
“A few minutes is right, son. This stuff flies in and out so fast, no one will even remember any of it tomorrow. Mr. Stacy is crazy to think getting you in the press is going to make any sort of difference at all.”
Harlow found that interesting. “Mr. Stacy?”
Cole scratched at the delicious scruff around his chin. “Yeah, he’s got me going clubbing, being seen. I swear he calls the press to tell them where I’ll be. This has turned into a ninety-hour-a-week gig for me.”
She would have found it incredibly ironic that the man was complaining about having to find and date beautiful women, but instead, she felt confused. A tiny sliver of doubt in her anger began to wedge itself inside.
She didn’t say anything. Those smiles of enjoyment caught on film were not fake. And no matter what, Mr. Stacy-motivated or Cole-motivated, this was his life, and she knew she wanted no part in it all.
“Well, I better go. I just wanted to let you know I’m thinking of you. You can beat this, Mr. Hunter.”
Mrs. Hunter looked away and wiped her eyes, and Harlow knew she needed to leave. “Well, I’ll be seeing you.”
She stepped to the door and walked through it when she heard Mr. Hunter’s reprimand. “Cole.”
She was not at all surprised to hear his steps behind her so she turned. “You don’t need to walk me out. I know your father expects it, but we’re not—I’m not—I don’t need an escort.” She turned to go when he placed a hand on her arm.
“I finally figured out why you won’t answer my calls, my texts. Why I had the raging bonfire picking on me at my game.”
She crossed her arms. “Oh? I wouldn’t thin
k it took a genius brain to guess.”
Even in her anger, she regretted the words the minute they left her lips.
A flash of hurt crossed his face. He ducked his head. “I suppose I deserved that. It’s okay. Girls are always jealous. You should know—”
She huffed, a real-life teenage huff, and then said, “Jealous. It’s so much more than that, Cole.”
“I know. Let me finish. I’m not good with words like you are. You yourself say it all the time, dumb athletes, but just listen—when I realized why you were angry—”
“You couldn’t even begin to understand why I’m angry, furious, with you. The very day, the same twenty-four hours from your visit in my apartment . . .” She felt eyes on them and knew some of the hospital staff were starting to take interest. She lowered her voice. “And you’re off entertaining the entire female population of LA.”
“And this isn’t jealousy?”
“Ugh, Cole, it doesn’t matter. We both know this isn’t going to work, so it’s just good we found out before . . .”
“Before what?”
She was going to say before feelings were involved, but they were way beyond “involved” in her heart. She had so many feelings involved, she didn’t know which ones to let rule the day and when. Right now she was equal parts ticked off and full of yearning for his huge massive biceps to wrap around her, making her feel beautiful and cherished. Stop.
“Nothing. Look, Cole, I’m supposed to cover this story.”
His face drained of color. “Is that why you came to see my father, to catch some headline?” He backed away and held his hands up. “Maybe you’re right, Harlow, maybe this is too much for us.”
“No, that’s not—”
He gestured inside, speaking quietly, but she was sure the whole floor was now actively listening to every word. “This is not public information. I’m not sure how you came to be here, or why you showed, but I don’t want to see a word of this in the press.”
“Of course. Cole.”
He held up a hand and went back inside.
And she felt like an idiot.
Walking out, a small voice called to her and she turned and slowed immediately. Cole’s mom. Could she feel any more like a terrible intruder, disturbing the fragile peace of a family?
“Harlow, please.”
“Oh, Mrs. Hunter, I’m so sorry.” She wrapped her arms around the woman. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”
She gently stepped away. “Didn’t you?”
“Well, I mean, not today. I just wanted to drop by a gift, send well wishes.”
“And you didn’t expect Cole to be here.”
She shook her head, realizing the idiocy of that assumption. “I guess not.”
“Honey, he’s not what you think. You two don’t need to make anything special of this if you don’t want, but you need to know he’s not what you’re making him out to be. He’s a good-hearted man, a loyal friend, and when he does fall for a woman, she’s gonna be something special, and he’s going to fall hard, once, and forever.”
Harlow felt the truth of her words barrel into her pounding chest. And she nodded. “I’ll try to remember that.”
Mrs. Hunter patted her arm. “Thanks for coming. This has brought more entertainment to a boring afternoon than anything else could have. Mr. Hunter’ll be distracted for hours.” She chuckled. “Have a good day, now.” And then she turned and walked back toward their room.
Harlow felt even worse.
Chapter 20
Cole adjusted his sport coat, slipped on his glasses, and strutted into the packed room. Cameras flashed from all directions. He loved this stuff. He loved his fast cars, his fun clothes, the press, the attention. It was so much easier to point fingers, wave, and wink behind his sunglasses than to have a sit down with someone. Which is why trying to explain things with Harlow was so difficult. But his dad had told him he had to try. Somehow she’d won his father over, his mom too. Well, the bonfire was still raging from her direction, and he wasn’t bringing any of his insecurity anywhere near that, so he didn’t know what else he could do but wait it out.
His eyes caught hers, and he could tell she knew even from behind the glasses that he was looking right at her. She nodded. Something about her seemed mild. Maybe she’d forgiven him.
Her hand shot into the air just as he stepped in front of the mic. He called on her, “Bon—Harlow Ember.”
“Yes, I’m here with the Belltown University Press and we wondered what you wanted reported back to your fans from home about your recent activity in the night club scene here in L.A.?”
Maybe not forgiven. He cleared his throat, glanced at Mr. Stacy, and then did some of his signature dance. “This is nothing all my fellow Lumberjacks haven’t seen before. You can tell them,” he cupped his hands around his mouth, “OOOOOOOOHHHHHH! The Big Dawg has always loved the ladies. And sometimes, if he’s lucky”—his gaze cut into Harlow—“they love him back.”
Other hands shot into the air. Everyone wanted to talk about Joe being pulled up from the minors, about Cole’s situation on the team, about how long he expected to be in California. He was much happier to talk about those kinds of questions, and he could tell the owner was pleased also. Cole threw in a few plugs for the team, the other players, their chances of winning, and even told them his favorite concessions.
They were wrapping up, or so he thought, when Harlow’s hand shot up again. “You were recently at a pro-women meeting on campus at Belltown U. Can you tell me what you thought of what those ladies are doing?”
He paused, noticed a subtle shake of his owner’s head, and then shrugged. “As has been said . . .” He danced again. “Big Dawg always loves the ladies.” Everyone in the room laughed, and Harlow frowned.
He held his hands in the air and left the stage and out the side door before the owner or anyone else could complain. And he knew the bonfire was nowhere near dousing. Did he really want her awesome fire going out? The more he thought about it, he realized, no he did not want her fire doused, even if it meant they couldn’t be together. He wanted Harlow just the way she was.
Just because he was selling out to keep his job didn’t mean he should expect her to understand.
Harlow’s fingers pounded out words on her keyboard. The spacebar was taking a hit and her index fingers were really going after each letter. She fumed. Her face flushed. A headache brewed that only relented when she relaxed the frown across her eyebrows. Sentence after sentence about male chauvinism, misogyny, a woman’s true value in the world, about her point of reference. All of it somehow related to Cole and his dismissive answer to her question. A question he knew she cared about.
In front of all those people. It could have been beautiful, a plug for her conference. A tiny voice reminded her that again she had been trying to use him, just like everyone else. But she shuffled it aside. He supported her cause. He’d said so himself. He just wouldn’t admit it again apparently when the world was listening.
She typed more. Cole became the very epitome of all she despised in men, loving women as a showpiece only, refusing to listen or acknowledge their worth in other areas. The more she typed, the greater his villainy. Until at last she wrote, “Women will keep rising despite weak-minded attempts to keep them in their place.”
Then she sat back and let out her breath, relaxed her shoulders, and rotated her neck. She laughed, all the tension gone. Ten pages. “Wow, it took a lot to get all that out.”
She stretched, walked around her tiny cubicle ten times, and then sat back down. She opened a brand new document and stared at the blank, white screen. And she couldn’t begin the article she was supposed to write. So many conflicting emotions played across her brain. Cole’s ridiculous answer. His flirty behavior. Their moments alone, his mother’s comments. The hint that his owner was putting him up to this. The look in his eyes when he said, “If a woman says she’s being picked on, I say we believe her.” Their moments alone kept coming b
ack. Their kisses. She warmed at the thought and ran a finger across her lower lip. Oh, she was a mess. Then she remembered again his mother’s words, “…when he does fall for a woman, she’s gonna be something special, and he’s going to fall hard, once, and forever.”
Her heart yearned for that from a man. Did she want to be the one he finally fell for? Was that even possible? Could Cole Hunter be a one-woman guy like his mom thought?
Did she want to be collateral damage in discovering that he could not?
She sighed. Either way, she had an article to write, and she had to be loyal to her journalism instincts, and she had to write truth.
On hour later, still staring at a white screen, she thought long and hard, and then at last, she typed the words, “The Truth about Cole Hunter.”
Many hours later, a feeling of deep satisfaction filled her. She hit send on the email to her boss. Not sure how he would react, she decided long ago she didn’t care. That piece was one of the most beautiful she’d ever written. She was true to herself and her journalism creed, and that was all she could expect.
She longed to be outside, in a totally new environment, and suddenly, she wanted to go play with the kids at the center. She hadn’t been back since their first dodgeball game, and she chastised herself. How hard would it have been to stop by?
Well, no matter, she was going now. She drove quickly across town and parked near the front door. These were the after-school hours and it was a brisk spring day, so she suspected the kids were either out in the back fields or inside in the gym. She rushed toward the front door and stepped inside to the welcome warmth.
Pictures of the Belltown Six Pack, colored by the kids, lined the front entry walls. She took several pictures. This would make a beautiful follow-up. More than half of them were of Cole Hunter. She laughed. In every drawing, he was always huge, his head, enormous; he towered over anyone standing nearby. But his hands. As large as they were, they always held the hand of the child in the picture.
A lump grew in her throat. She wasn’t sure if it was so many hours of emotional writing or thinking about him so much or just the fact that she cared, but a tear fell down her cheek and then another. “That’s really beautiful.”
Falling for Centerfield Page 13