by Devney Perry
Wanting a woman who could cause trouble if others found out.
Wanting a woman who made it clear she doesn’t want me back.
Scratch that. There’s nothing clear about it. She’s about as clear as mud, because she wants me. A marathon of sex is about as good a validation as any.
Now I just need to figure out how to make her admit it.
Damn woman.
I grit my teeth as I prepare for the pain that typically begins with the fourth set of repetitions, and then startle when it doesn’t.
There’s no pinch. No burn. There’s fucking nothing.
I repeat the movement. I lift and twist and turn a few extra times.
And still nothing.
I try one more time, push my shoulder farther than I should, until I feel a faint pinch before dropping the weight. And when I look in the mirror, I have a stupid grin on my face. It’s been so long that I forgot what it even feels like to not hurt.
And, of course, I immediately want to call Scout and tell her so she can celebrate with me over this tiny fucking milestone that shouldn’t feel like a victory but does.
But I can’t. Because she won’t pick up. And I know this because I’ve called and texted—enough times that I lost count—without getting a return response.
Someone did a number on her. That much I can tell from all her talk about players moving on and leaving her behind, but fuck if I can figure out who it was. No one I’ve talked to can remember her ever dating anyone. Her social media accounts show shit other than pictures of her in other team clubhouses posing for the camera with various players, arms hanging casually over her shoulders.
Fucking lovely. Isn’t that her term? Lovely? Well, that’s the first thing that came to mind when I saw the picture of her sandwiched in between Rizzo and Bryant after she worked with the Cubs last year. Or of a shirtless Posey laughing with her in the Giant’s clubhouse.
Not a single personal picture. No mutts. No weekend out boozing it up with girlfriends. No inspirational sayings that you want to roll your eyes at and scroll past. Nothing.
But she can go out dancing with me. She can stare at my stadium from the darkness of my condo and put into words everything that the sight of it makes me feel. A woman who can understand that shit is not normal.
And now she won’t talk to me? Can’t face me?
The other night was not a mistake. No way. No how.
“Where’s Ms. Dalton?” The voice of the club’s GM startles me from the other side of the training room. “Are you on her clock or are you putting extra time in on your own?”
I’m not sure why I hesitate to respond, but I do. He’s hard to get a read on, and so caution is the name of the game until I can.
“Hey, Cory. How’s it going?” Wiping the sweat from my face with a towel, I walk toward him.
When he steps into the room, I’m surprised to see my father right behind him. The best-buddy squad. Great.
“Good. And you? How’s the arm?”
“I’m feeling great. The shoulder’s feeling the best it has since surgery. I’m anxious to get back out there.”
“I’m sure you are. Is Scout around?”
“She caught a bug. I told her to stay home, but we’ve talked and gone over my regimen so I can stay on task.” The lie comes out smoothly, but I can’t for the life of me figure out why I feel the need to cover for her at all.
And yet I did, the need to protect her unexpected, but there nonetheless.
“I’m impressed that you came in on your own to get it done,” my dad interjects.
I stare at him, trying to comprehend why he’d think it was anywhere near okay for him to say that. And around my boss, no less. I’m not a child. This is my job, and I’m damn good at it, so he needs to leave me the fuck alone. The thought manifests into words, but I bite my tongue so hard it hurts.
It’s not worth it. Besides, Cory’s expression is guarded, making it nearly impossible to gauge his thoughts. And since professionalism is always the best route, I play the part they expect me to play.
“Like I said, I’m anxious to get back on the field. I miss contributing to the team.” I spout the company line, and even though they smile in response, there’s something off here. Something I can’t put my finger on but can sense nonetheless.
“The guys miss you, too. The Aces don’t quite feel right without a Wylder on the field.”
My dad laughs and slaps me on my good shoulder. “Keep up the good work, son. I have no doubt you’ll be back to fighting form soon enough.”
“Neither do I,” I say.
“Make sure to tell Ms. Dalton that I’d like a report in the next day or two on your progress.”
“Will do.”
I watch them leave and blow out a breath as I try to figure out what the little visit was all about. I don’t want to care but have to. He’s my boss.
“Everything good in here, Easy E?”
My smile is automatic, the irritation vanishing in a heartbeat at the voice I’ve known since I was eight years old. I turn to find the familiar face of our clubhouse manager, the man who used to entertain me with stories and jokes when my dad was too busy being the public persona.
“Hey, Manny-Man,” I say in the same exchange of nicknames we’ve done for over twenty years. “How’re you doing today? You staying to watch the game tonight?”
“Pretty damn good. And nope. You know me. I only stick around when the greats play.”
“Are there no greats playing today?” I ask with a shake of my head.
“Greats are few and far between, son,” he finishes his typical retort and surprises me when he continues. “I’ve watched enough baseball in my life to hold off watching another game until it’s someone who’s going to dazzle me with his talent.”
“Picky. Picky.”
His grin just widens, and I love that even though I’m injured, he’s still Manny-Man.
“I see the old man is still as hard on you as ever,” he says with a knowing nod, just like he used to do when he’d find me alone in the locker room, sniffling away tears in secret after I was hurt by something my father would say.
“Yeah, well. Why change now, right?”
He just nods, never one to be disrespectful, but a man I’m glad to have on my side.
“True.” He laughs, contrary to the gravity in his eyes as he searches to make sure I’m okay. “Look at me—forty years, and I’m still doing the same goddamn thing.”
“Taking care of us pretty boys?” I tease.
“There’s nothing pretty about you, son.” I bark out a laugh at the good-humored dig. “But that tough cookie who’s been working you over? Hoowee. Now, she? She’s definitely pretty.”
“She sure is,” I murmur before I catch myself, and wonder why nearly every conversation of late seems to come back to her.
Because she’s the one in charge of the decisions.
And the one currently clouding up and fucking with my head.
Scout
My lungs burn.
My legs ache.
And all I can think is one more side of the stadium before my nerves are calm and emotions dulled enough to be able to face Easton today.
Because how do I keep things professional when every time I have to touch him, I’m going to be reminded of the other night?
So, running the stadium steps I go. Up one section. Lower loge to loge to upper loge, across the top row of empty seats, then down the other side.
I replay my meeting with Cory. His insistence that I answer whether I think Easton will be up to speed by mid-August. His pressure on me to say if he’ll be back to one hundred percent, or if he will slowly slide down the slope of injured and irreparable that sometimes happens despite all rehab efforts.
Frustrated with their businesslike attitude when it comes to a human being—to tendons and muscles and soft tissue you just can’t superglue back together—I push myself harder. To the next section, to the upper loge, to the loge, to lower lo
ge, and then to the next.
Forget about it, Scout. It’s his job to get good players on the field and win pennants. Players are commodities.
I sprint across a row of seats.
Screw that. Players are people.
My lungs burn, but I need more.
Martinez hits a ball over the left field wall in his early morning batting session on the diamond below, but the crack of his bat is silenced by my ear buds. And I need it to be. I may be in the stadium, but I need to forget about baseball for a few more flights. And, in particular, a specific baseball player.
So, I continue to push myself. To use the physicality to burn my mind and ease my soul. To eat away at my anger. To calm me the hell down when all I feel is uncertainty.
When all I want is something I can’t have.
So, I climb. Section by section. Step by step. Trying to shed the burden of my emotions with the sweat that drips off my body.
But the clearer my mind becomes, the more room I have to think, and of course I veer to where I shouldn’t. To Easton and everything about him. The contrasts. The unexpected. The disarming smile and the intense eyes. His soft groans in the dark and his baseball-bat-roughened hands on my skin. The vulnerability he pulls out of me, when I’m tough with everyone else.
This is not a good sign—me thinking about him.
Not at all.
And, of course, when I turn to run down the next section of seats, he’s right there, running behind me. Matching me step for step.
I ignore him.
I still get thirty more minutes to myself before I have to deal with him.
I still need thirty more minutes to figure out how to look at him and not want to feel how I feel.
I still want thirty more minutes to calm the flutter in my belly just from knowing he’s near me.
So, I run faster. I take the steps two at a time.
He does the same and double-times it so that he’s now running beside me instead of behind me.
I push harder. Irritated. Competitive. Not wanting him to think I’m weaker or less than or both, even though he’s never made me feel that way in the first place.
But having feelings for him does, and so that makes it his fault. All of it.
And so, I run. But this time, instead of turning to cross over to the next section, I run straight through the exit to the concourse beyond.
One of my earbuds has fallen out, and my shoes squeak on the concrete as I run in an all-out sprint down the empty corridor, past the vacant concessions stands and team merchandise kiosks.
His shoes slap the concrete behind me, and his labored breathing echoes through the space.
I know he’s fast. Having clocked his time, I’m well aware he could be ten steps ahead of me in seconds if he really wanted to be, and the fact that he’s not grates on my already irritated nerves.
And at the same time, I’m out of gas—my legs, my lungs, my everything—and so I have no choice but to stop when I’d rather keep running right on out of the stadium instead of having to face Easton.
“Scout.”
Keep running.
“Scout.”
I can’t even breathe, let alone talk.
“Hey.”
I can’t do it anymore. I can’t run another step, and so I stop, knowing I’m going to have to face him—right here, right now—with a mind and body so exhausted it’s going to be tough to keep my guard up.
With my hands on my knees, sweat stinging my eyes and lungs heaving harshly, I glance over at Easton, strangely satisfied to see he’s just as winded as I am. Hands braced behind his head, elbows out, he walks around this mecca of gray concrete to cool down.
“It’s not your time yet. Go away.” I know I’m being mean. I know he doesn’t deserve it. And yet I need to catch my breath so I can think straight.
“I have just as much of a right to be in this stadium as you do, Kitty.” The nickname is a taunt I try to ignore. He has a way of pushing my buttons, and that damn name is just one of them.
Especially when I remember how he was pleasing my body the last time he called me that.
And that pisses me off more. I hate that I’m supposed to feel like I don’t care when all I want to do is care.
“I’m not on the clock yet, so this is my time.”
“Like hell it is.”
If he was looking for my full attention, he just got it. And not only that, but my temper to go along with it.
“Excuse me?” I stand to my full height and look at him for the first time. And when I do, every part of my body wants to move toward him instead of rail against him.
“You heard me,” he says, meeting me glare for glare as he takes a few steps toward me. “I never figured you to be the love ’em and leave ’em type, but hey, you’ve already underestimated me . . . so I guess we’re even. Right?”
There’s a bite to his tone. A defiant rejection edged with bruised ego. And all of that and more is reflected in his eyes as he takes another step closer while I glance around frantically to see if anyone is within listening distance.
“No one’s close enough to hear me, Scout. Or to save you from having this conversation.”
“We’re not having this conversation, so it’s a moot point.” I begin to walk away, and he sidesteps to block me. I’m forced to stop, or else I’ll end up face first in his chest, and touching him right now is not exactly the smartest thing.
“We are having it because there’re a few things that we need to get straight. First one: I’ve had plenty of fun in my life, in and out of the sheets. But not once have I ever snuck off in the early morning and not faced what I did or didn’t do the night before. I’m a bigger man than that, and something tells me you are, too. So, you want to tell me what’s going on?”
His dig is real. His hurt breaks through the spite in his tone. I hate that my immediate urge is to apologize and explain . . . but I can’t. I must stand my ground with him. I have no other option.
“Like I said, I’m not on the clock.”
“You’re damn right you’re not. But I’m not your clock, sweetheart.”
“Leave me alone.” The comment is quick off my lips, my temper flaring and body on fire from his words. The ones that make me want to step into him and let him taste the anger on my lips.
“What? I thought you weren’t on the clock. Remember? So, that means you don’t get to tell me what to do for about . . .” He looks at his watch then back up to me with amusement in his eyes. “Fifteen more minutes.”
That grin of his is maddening. And sexy as hell.
“Exactly. So, if you’ll excuse me.”
His hand is on my arm in a flash, and now my back is against the corner of two walls, and he is directly in front of me.
“You’re determined. I’ll give you that.” He nods and squeezes my arm ever so slightly as he steps farther into my personal space. And now when I breathe in, it’s him I smell. His shampoo. His cologne. His fabric softener. Him. “But I’m wondering where that fast-talking, loud-laughing, carefree girl I was dancing with the other night went because, while you’re still goddamn gorgeous, all the rest of her is nowhere to be seen.”
“Everyone makes mistakes, Easton.”
His chuckle is a low rumble that fills my ears and echoes in my head as he moves so that our bodies are merely a whisper away. Heat. Want. Need. All three dance a troublesome tango inside of me as he leans in so his lips are by my ear when he whispers, “It wasn’t a mistake. You know what I think? I think I got to you. I think when you close your eyes, you think about me. I think you don’t want to, but you do, because God knows I think about you, Scout. About what we did. About how I want more of it. With you. And you can give me the company line all you want, about how you are under contract and so we can’t pursue this, but fuck that. I don’t like to play by the rules. A contract is business, Scout. But this? You. Me? This is pleasure.”
His words ignite every ember of desire within me. “You don’t understand.�
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“Then try me.” The honesty in his words combats the promises I’ve made outside of this. When I refuse to meet his eyes, he provokes me. “I never figured you for a coward, Scout.”
“You know what? You’re right,” I state with an enthusiastic nod and a shrug of my shoulders. A ruse to mask the truth. “The other night was fun. Incredible. The best sex I’ve had in a while, but that’s all it was—sex. A little fun to let off some steam, and now that we’ve got each other out of our systems, we can forget about it. As you can tell by the way I left, I don’t do commitment. I don’t do more than what we did. So, thanks for the good time. Now let’s get to work.”
I try to dart past him, and end up with his hand back on my upper arm, refusing to let me run again.
“Thanks for the good time?”
“Yep. Thanks.”
His hazel eyes narrow, the edges tinged with green today as he squeezes my arm. “You’re scared.” And he makes the statement so matter-of-factly that my denial is automatic.
“No.”
“How did I not see it before? Why do I scare you?”
Mayday. Mayday. I avert my eyes. Shift my feet. “That’s such bullshit. Make sure to flatter yourself while you’re at it.”
“It’s not flattery if it’s the truth,” he quips, trying to get a smile out of me, but it’s kind of hard to smile when your heart feels like it’s beating out of your chest and your first instinct is to sprint but your feet refuse to move. “Besides, there was no need for you to run unless you were spooked.”
“What, so now a woman can’t have a one-night stand without a reason?”
“Nice play, but no dice. You knew this wasn’t a one-night stand, Scout. You knew we were going to have to see each other for the next few weeks. So you can try to convince yourself, but I’m not buying it.”
My thoughts fly out of control, and none of them manifest into words, so I just stand there looking at him, mouth opening and closing, like more of an idiot than I already feel.
“Then why push the issue? If you don’t believe what I’m saying, then why don’t you walk away?” There. I said something.
And yet I feel everything.