by K. Bromberg
Waiting for him at home plate, I give him a moment to enjoy feeling semi-normal again, putting his gear back on for the first time in months. It’s a milestone—physically and mentally. And I love that when he walks out of the dugout, he’s greeted by hoots and hollers from his teammates still in left field.
“’Bout fucking time, Wylder!” one of them yells, which earns him a middle finger from Easton, but his huge grin doesn’t lie about how this makes him feel.
“So, here’s the deal . . . we’ll start off slow. We’ll warm up tossing the ball, and then once you’re warm enough, I’ll take a few steps back—we’ll throw some at that distance—and then I’ll step back farther, keep going until you feel any pain or discomfort.”
“Sounds good, but why the gear?”
“Because you throw different with your gear on. You might not think so, but you do. Slow and steady wins the race here, Easton. There’s no prize for coming out hard.”
“Fitting.” His laughter is loud and rich and hits me about the same time I realize the innuendo in my words. All I can do is shake my head and step down the first base line. “I know all about slow and steady, Kitty. Don’t you worry there.”
I turn to glare a warning at him. “This is contract, Hot Shot,” I say knowing damn well he’s enjoying this. “We’ll start working our way to first base, and then, depending on how you’re feeling, we can move on to second.”
Thankfully, he lets that innuendo slide with only a snicker as I lift my glove and motion for him to throw the ball.
“How is it feeling?” It’s been about thirty minutes since we started, but the grin on his face tells me all I need to know.
I think.
“Good. Better with each throw.”
“That’s good.” My hands go automatically to his shoulder, pressing, kneading, feeling. “Was there any tightness or pinching or—”
“A little tightness, but this is the most I’ve done in months, so it feels good.”
“Mm.” I stare at him, wishing he’d take off his sunglasses so I could see his eyes and know if he’s being truthful or not. But this is where I have to trust him. He knows his body best, after all.
“So, do I get to play with second base?” he asks, hopeful that I’m going to let him throw the full distance.
“Wouldn’t you like to know.” I laugh because all of this—his lack of pain, how good his arm looks and feels, our flirty banter—has put me in a good mood. Add to that working with Easton out in the sunshine and making progress has given me time to think.
“You’re looking good,” Drew Minski says as he jogs over on his way to the dugout from the outfield.
“Feels fucking great to have leather and laces in my hands again,” Easton says.
“Hi, Drew.” I greet him when he nods my way. “Great at-bat last night.”
“Thanks.” He glances over to Easton and then back to me. “Hey, man, some of us are thinking about going out tonight if you want to hang with us.”
“Thanks, but I have plans,” Easton says, and I hate that regardless of how much I’ve pushed him away, a little part of me is jealous of whoever he has plans with.
“Your loss. I know it’s your thing to keep them all strung on a line, but that pretty little blonde keeps asking for you.” He chuckles in that way that says, go for it. I’ve been in enough clubhouses to know the sound of encouragement when I hear it.
And the sound of it pisses me off.
He’s got plans with one woman, is stringing the blonde along, all the while making promises to me. Done with the conversation, and not wanting for him to read the emotions I can’t seem to hide from him, I turn without saying another word and head over to grab my bag.
I try to be rational. I try to not care, and I hate that I’ve lowered my guard enough, let myself hope enough, that I thought he really liked me. Believed he was different. Not a player.
And the idea of other women liking him irritates me because I know thousands of women would way more than just like him; they’d hop in bed with him without a second thought.
“Scout?”
“You’re done for the day.” I try to hide the hurt, try to hide the fact that I might be overreacting, because I should know better. Hope is a dangerous thing, especially when you’re pinning it on someone else.
One step forward and five steps back in the How Fucked-up Is Scout’s Head game.
Cool down like normal. Ice for twenty minutes on, twenty minutes off. Text me if you have any problems.
-Scout
A note?
She left me a fucking note?
Whoever did a number on her is a fucker. Grade A asshole. But I don’t have time to worry about him because I need to find her. Talk to her. Wear her down. Figure out what the fuck spooked her again.
I run out of the locker room—cleats still on—and see Manny. “Hey, Man. Did you see which way Scout went?” A grin spreads slowly on his lips, and I know he’s assumed I’m looking for her for more than just my cool down instructions. “Save the lecture, old man.”
His grin grows wider, and he points down the tunnel that leads out to the parking lot. “No lecture at all.”
His laugh echoes after me as I hustle down the corridor and out the side entrance of the ballpark. It only takes me a few seconds to spot Scout and jog after her.
“A note, Scout?”
She freezes midstride for a split second before she begins walking again. “Yep. A note. You worked out. You can cool down with my instructions. I’m your trainer, and—”
“If you’re my trainer, then do your goddamn job!” I shout at her, frustrated in every way imaginable by this woman who continues to test me, push me away, run away, when I can see in her eyes that she wants me just as much as I want her.
“I was. You got your instructions. You know what to do. Didn’t know I had to hold your hand, Wylder.”
“I know what to do, all right,” I mutter as I glance around to make sure no one from the team is around. Throw you over my shoulder and take you up to my place so we can figure this the fuck out. And then I can lay you down and we can make this all better.
“Once a player always a player, right?” she sneers.
“Drew.” His name is all I have to say to know what she’s pissed about. I’m a dumbass for not putting two and two together.
“String ’em along? Is that what you’re doing to me, so you can keep a woman in every city, ready and waiting for when you pass through town?” The hurt in her eyes is undeniable, and I hate that I put it there.
“What the fuck did he do to you to make you think so highly of men, Scout?”
Emotions flicker through her eyes before she can clear them and avert her gaze. “Never mind. Forget I said anything.”
I jog after her, pissed at myself for chasing her, and at the same time wanting to figure out what exactly is going on. “The blonde is no one.”
“Mm-hmm.” She keeps her eyes focused straight ahead and refuses to look my way.
“Seriously. You want to keep this all secretive—”
“There is no this.”
“And Drew is part of the club,” I explain, completely ignoring her remark. “What did you want me to do? Correct him? Tell him to shut up when normally I just laugh at all the guys’ ribbing over the women in bars? Then he’d really know there was something going on between us. And there is something going on between us,” I say, cutting her off before she can argue with me again. “So save yourself the argument.”
“You’re an arrogant asshole, you know that?” she spits out as she turns toward me, arms folded across her chest as if that will protect her from the truth she can’t seem to face.
“Maybe, but you’re fucking adorable when you’re angry at me.”
There’s a slight crack in her anger. A bit of a smile.
“And I kind of like that you were jealous.”
“I was not.”
“Ah, Kitty, but you were.” Another crack in her smile. “A w
oman only storms out when she’s jealous, and while the sight of your ass swaying as you stalked away was almost enough to let you keep being pissed, you needed to know the truth. There is no blonde in the bar waiting just for me, because she waits for anyone. There are no strings of women. There is no one else in another city.”
She stares at me. Searches to see if she believes me, and fuck . . . not only can the woman stand her ground, but she can take care of herself too. Tell me that’s not sexy as hell.
And frustrating all at the same time.
“Tell me what you’re thinking, Scout.” There’s too much silence. Too much time for her to doubt and poke holes in what I said and bend it to match whatever insecurities are banging around inside of her.
“I just . . . you’re just . . .”
“I think you’re thinking how much you want to kiss me right now.”
“Too much,” she says at the same time I speak, and we both smile softly as it feels like the explosive wave of her temper may have just blown over.
“So you want to kiss me too much?” I say, combining our comments and garnering a huff from her.
“I don’t know what to do about you,” she finally says, softly and full of trepidation.
“Nothing, Scout. There’s nothing to do. There’s just us going out to have a good time. There’s just us figuring out if there’s anything here. There are no commitments. There’s no need for anyone to know anything. It’s just us getting to know each other and enjoying each other’s company.”
“What if I don’t want that?”
There’s that doubt again. The insecurity I don’t understand.
“You want this.”
It takes everything I have not to lean in and taste those bee-stung lips that tempt me every single time I look at them. Not to lean in and remind her of how it felt earlier when we’d kissed.
There’s just something about her I can’t let go, and I don’t even know her that well yet.
Because there are women who are good for a quick fuck. There are women you would fuck, but are better in the friend zone. And then there are women like Scout. They make you wonder, make you crave them, and drive you absolutely fucking crazy because you want them when you shouldn’t. They’re an enigma. Confusing, alluring, tempting, and fucking perfection.
I stare at her, with her ponytail whipping around her face on the downtown sidewalk, and have never wanted so badly to pull a woman against me and soothe the trouble in her eyes as I wait to hear her response.
You want this.
“Easton. The contract. My dad. It’s just—”
I look around for space. For privacy. For what I need to prove a point that she needs to feel, not just hear.
“Complicated? Messy? Welcome to life, Scout. Mine’s all of those and then some, and you don’t even know the half of it.”
Her smile tugs at me. Makes me want to take care of her when I’ve never wanted to take care of anyone in my life other than my mom.
“Easton.”
“You keep saying my name like that and I’m going to think you like me.”
She laughs. The darkness clears from her eyes some, and I know I’ve made an inroad.
And at the same time, we pass a little alleyway behind the stadium, out of view of the public, and I push her backward into it. Before we even clear the sidewalk, I have my lips on hers.
God. Damn.
She’s fucking addictive.
I want her.
Her taste.
Must have her.
The scent of her perfume.
Say yes to this, Scout.
The softness of her lips.
Say yes to me.
The tentativeness of her tongue as she fights her will to dive right in.
Let me the fuck in.
Even her temper turns me on.
And so I take what I want from her. What I need from her. My dick hardens from the kiss. From the way her fingers twist in my shirt. From the feel of her tits rubbing against my chest. From the goddamn moan that sounds like the white flag waving as she surrenders herself to me.
I don’t want this to end. But my dick is hard and I still have my cup on, and fuck, that’s a miserable feeling. Plus, we’re on the street. Near the stadium. And while I’d love to relieve the ache in my balls by doing a variety of things with her—right here, right now—it pains me to have to end the kiss.
To pull back and try to hold tight to my control that’s hanging by a thread.
But I don’t release her from my grasp when I lean back and look in her eyes. I try to catch my breath, try to quiet the caveman side of me, and then she speaks.
“Well, I guess that’s getting to know each other as good as any other way.”
The smile is there, but it takes a few seconds before the cautious look in her eyes reflects the same confidence reflected in her voice.
But fuck. I’ll take it.
I’m putting myself out on a limb for a woman who wants to run, when for the life of me, I’ve never been one to stay.
But I’m not going anywhere.
Nerves rattle around within me when they shouldn’t.
“This is . . . unbelievable.” I look around the facility. There’s a state of the art batting cage with a multi-pitch batting machine set up on one end, and a sloped floor to collect the balls and refeed the machine. The turf beyond houses a complete infield. The walls are littered with sports memorabilia from some of the greats—signed jerseys, bats, and balls from Mickey Mantle, Babe Ruth, Jackie Robinson, Hank Aaron, Ted Williams . . . and a few from Cal Wylder.
I walk along the walls, stare at the living history lining them, and am in awe of the mini-museum of men I grew up hearing my father talk about.
“It’s my wall,” he muses quietly, allowing me to take it all in as I turn from the legends beside me to face one that I feel has equal potential.
“It’s a good wall,” I muse, heading over to the rack of bats all sized and weighted to match his preferences. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Yeah, well . . .” He shrugs and blushes and it’s rather adorable. “The machine is having issues, or else I’d tell you to hit a few.”
“I haven’t touched a bat in what feels like years.” I run my fingers over the butts of them and then continue to explore the space. We both fall silent, but I know he’s watching me, and I’m not quite sure what to do about it.
I asked to see the field because it was safer than going into his condo where I will be reminded of the other night when I need to still process the events of the day and how I feel about them. How I let him wear me down, kiss me senseless twice, and then manage to get me to admit that maybe I want to see where all of this leads us because me agreeing to come here means it is, in fact, going somewhere.
And that scares the hell out of me.
There’s a wall to the left of a bathroom. It’s lined with framed jerseys in different colors and sizes, and it takes me a minute to figure out what they are. “These are all of your Little League jerseys, aren’t they?”
I stare at the simple idea and can’t believe how touched I am by the sight of them. The history he has with each one. The memories from then that made the man he is now.
“Yes. My parents kept them all.” He says nothing more, and the silence prompts me to wonder more about him, his family, but I have a feeling it’s an off-limits topic.
“Have you always wanted to play baseball?” It’s a simple question, one I expected him to answer immediately, and his pause piques my curiosity.
I turn to look at him while he’s looking at his history on the wall. I take in his profile—the bill of the baseball hat shadowing his face, his thick lashes, straight nose, and full lips. His scruff is longer today than normal, and there’s something about it that’s incredibly sexy.
“It was what was expected of me.” The honesty in his voice is haunting. His exhale is uneven. “I mean, I’m Cal Wylder’s son.”
There’s an unreadable
emotion in his tone, and I sense there is so much more beneath the surface, but I’m afraid to pry, even though I want to.
“Were you always good at it? You’re such a natural, but I’m sure it had to be hard living in the shadow of your dad.”
He chews the inside of his cheek as he continues to stare at the wall. He points to one of the smallest jerseys up there. It’s a faded dark green with the number ten on its back. “That was my first year playing. I remember I got in a fistfight with Joey Jones. He told me I had to have been adopted, because there was no way Cal Wylder’s son could be so horrible at playing baseball. I cried for days. My dad was on a road stretch and I dodged his phone calls, too embarrassed to tell him what had happened. I knew he was going to be so disappointed in me—not because of the fight, but because of how bad I was. I spent days sick to my stomach and worried about what he was going to say when he came home and saw for himself.”
I want to walk over to him and hold his hand. I want to tell him I’m sorry. Tell him I understand about living in shadows of giants and the weight those shadows bear. I want to do anything but hear the sadness in his voice. Yes, he has the last laugh now, being as successful as he is, but even success can’t erase the scars of childhood memories.
“That must have been hard.”
He nods, shifts his feet, and then points three jerseys down to a dark blue one with the same number on it. “That was the year everything clicked for me. I was eight. My hand-eye coordination suddenly matured, and I learned to read a ball out of a pitcher’s hand. All of a sudden I went from zero to hero. And, of course, that meant my dad came to more games when he could. Suddenly I was Mr. Popular. Kids who wouldn’t give me the time of day before now wanted to be my friend in the hope that they’d get some pointers from a major leaguer when he showed up.”
I close the distance between us and step up beside him, our arms touching, and let him get lost in his thoughts.
He points to the next frame over, a red and white jersey; this time the number on the back is eighteen. “That’s the year my parents divorced. I lived at the field that season. It was so much easier than being at home where my mom cried nonstop, or being with my dad when he was in town and feeling guilty for leaving my mom home alone. Baseball became my escape that year. I put everything I had into it. It was the first time I really fell in love with the game.”