Make Me Yours (Top Shelf Romance Book 4)

by Devney Perry

  “You staying to watch?” Drew bumps my shoulder and asks.

  I pull my shirt over my head and chew over the idea I’ve considered more times than I’d like to admit. “Probably not. Last thing I need to do is run into him in the hallway. A few months isn’t long enough for me to not want to rip his goddamn throat out.” The guys around me laugh. “Besides, if I did, I’d probably just fuck my arm up further . . . so, nah, I’m gonna watch from home.”

  “Gonna meet us after?”

  I glance over to the empty training room. The one Scout ran out of earlier. She’s the one person I’d rather hang with tonight, but fuck it, going out is probably just what I need to feel like my old self again instead of this overthinking, whiny bitch I’m feeling like right now. “Got nothing better to do than hang with my boys.”

  And then I see him. The rookie who was just called up from the Triple-A team outta Bum-fuck, Nowhere. He’s sitting on his stool, staring in awe at the locker with his name placard on it, much the same way I did my first time here, all those years ago.

  “Hey, Gonzo!”

  The kid startles as he turns around and sees me across the room. “Yeah?”

  “Thanks for filling in for me. You’ll do great. Knock ’em dead tonight.” I smile at him and nod. A little something to ease the pressure of his first time in the big leagues, and a subtle reminder not to get too comfortable in the gear because I’ll be back.

  I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince more, him or me.

  “Thanks,” he stutters, eyes as big as saucers.

  “We’ll see you at Sluggers after the game. The guys’ll show you where to go. It’s not every night you make your major league debut.”

  His smile widens, and he nods. And I’m left sitting, staring at my own locker, contemplating what it would be like to have that feeling back—the awe of walking into the stadium for the first time, the nerves that roll your stomach, the jog of your knee as you sit in the dugout for the first time, and the knowledge that when you hop over that chalk baseline there are thousands of people in the stands who would kill to take your place.

  All of it is a reaffirmation of how damn lucky I am, when I’ve been sitting here feeling goddamn sorry for myself.

  The chatter begins to die down as the guys head for the dugout. Some slap me on the back as they leave, some give a fist-bump. Good lucks are given. Shit-talking is required.

  And when I’m the only one left in the locker room, I head out, hating the feeling that I’m missing all of this with them. That they’re moving on—the next game, the next play, the next city in this long season—while I’m still sidelined and going fucking stir crazy over a game I love but can’t play and a woman I want but can’t seem to get.

  Talk about being majorly fucked.

  I laugh at myself as I stand in the tunnel and decide if I want to go to the right and past all the VIP fan events happening, where I’ll get wrangled into PR, or asked to head up to the announcer’s booth for a bit and add some color commentary, as I’ve done a few times over the past few months, or if I want to veer left and take the long route.

  Left. Definitely left.

  I’m not in the mood to deal with fans right now. Not when I’m pissed and just want the hell out of this stadium that suddenly feels like a prison I can’t escape from fast enough.

  My shoes echo against the concrete as I make my way through the maze of tunnels. My thoughts are all over the place. On my shoulder. On Scout. On watching the game today, the first time Santiago has been in the starting line-up against us since he fucked me over.

  “Don’t you go anywhere near him.”

  The voice comes from the next hall up, and the threat in it resonates down to where I am. By the time I wrap my head around the notion that it sounds like my dad, I’m standing in the opening of the passageway, staring at him and Santiago.

  Standing side by side.

  My dad’s hand fisted in my enemy’s shirt.

  There’s a tense second where it takes everything I have not to close the distance and smash my fist into his smarmy fucking smirk that has never said anything near an apology.

  “What the fuck is going on here?”

  He’s suited up to play. Just like I should be, but can’t.

  Because of him.

  “Dad?” I address my dad, yet I can’t help but stare at Santiago and try to figure out what in the hell his deal is.

  Santiago turns to look back to my dad, eyebrows raised. “Thanks for the chat, Cal, but I’ve got a game to play. See you on the field, Wylder?” he says as he looks toward me. “Oh. Wait. My bad. You won’t be there.”

  And with a fucking chuckle that is like acid in my gut, he pats my dad on the back and jogs the other way down the tunnel. We both stare after him without saying a word.

  “What the hell was that all about?” I grit the words out, clenching and unclenching my hands to prevent me from punching the wall.

  “I saw him walking down the hallway toward your clubhouse. I asked him where he was going. When he wouldn’t answer, I figured he was coming to see you. I told him he better not go near you or I’d have him thrown out of the ballpark.”

  I stare at my dad, but rage clouds my judgment to the point that I’m questioning whether he’s telling me the truth. And of course he is, he’s my dad, but it’s so much easier to listen to the anger and pick a fight with him.

  “You should have let him come at me,” I mutter as I scrub my hands over my face and pace a few feet past my dad, toward the opposing clubhouse’s locker room and then back the way I came.

  “For what, Easton? So you can get hurt again and piss the club off because your DL stint just got extended? Nothing good ever comes out of anger. Nothing.” He walks up to me, puts his hand on my shoulder, and squeezes. “I know you’re frustrated. I know it’s taking everything in your body right now to not storm in there and kick his ass. And I know more than anything you just want your norm back. Keep doing what you’re doing, and you’ll be back in six weeks’ time, according to the report that Ms. Dalton gave the front office.”

  Six weeks? How did I not know that?

  I push it away. The thought. The excitement. Because I was given a return date before and never hit it. A man can’t recover on a clock.

  But something else becomes clear. For the first time in what feels like forever, my dad is being my dad, not Cal Wylder. It’s just what I needed right now, even though he might not know it.

  “I’m going fucking stir crazy.”

  “It’s hard being cut off from what you love.”

  I look up to him, meet eyes that mirror mine, and see the concern. “Yeah, well, thanks to him.” I pace back and forth once more. “You know what I don’t get, though, is why? Why take me out? Why hurt me? Why any of this?”

  My dad clears his throat and chews the inside of his cheek as he thinks it over. “I just don’t know, Easton. The guy’s bat is on fire. He has a helluva on-base percentage. His arm’s flawless, and no one dares steal with him behind that plate. His style reminds me a lot of yours, yet he’s probably making a third of what you make.”

  “You think this is a jealousy thing? There’s no way. I mean, there’s hundreds of us taking the field every night across all pay grades and starting positions. If that’s the case, then why single me out? It just doesn’t make sense.”

  “Nothing seems to these days, son.”

  “The fucker went three-for-three tonight. What the fuck is up with that?” Drew mutters as he takes a nice long drag on his bottle.

  “Bad juju, man,” I mutter, tired as fuck but with zero desire to make it the few blocks down the street back to my place.

  “Yeah, but we won, so it couldn’t have been too damn bad,” Tino chimes in with a clink of his bottle to mine. “I think I deserve to get laid for that homer, though.”

  “Then go home to your wife,” I say, the same as I do every time we go drinking. It’s innocent enough, I know, because Tino worships the ground
his wife walks on, but he never fails to say it.

  Almost like a routine.

  Pretty much the same as the four of us sitting here after a home game, reliving the highlights, bitching about the ball that wouldn’t drop, or the shitty call that cost us the game, and taking time to unwind for an hour or two before we head home to our non-baseball lives. Tino, his wife; Drew, his three dogs; J.P., his girlfriend; and me to my empty bed.

  “I plan on it,” Tino says with a quick grin, “but I was waiting for Gonzo to get here so we could buy him a beer and fuck with him a bit.”

  “Yeah. Where is he?” J.P. says, craning his neck around the crowded bar to look for him.

  “He’s probably still sitting in the dugout, sporting wood and trying to believe he actually just made his debut in the show,” Drew says, and the image has us all thinking back to that first time and the rush of nerves and adrenaline that lasted for days.

  “The kid did good.” I nod. “Real good.”

  “Not as good as you, East,” Tino says. “When’re you going to get your ass back on the field?”

  “Soon. Four, five weeks. It’s up to Scout to clear me.”

  “Ah, the mysterious Scout,” J.P. taunts, but I don’t take the bait. Because fuck yes, I’ve thought about her tonight. When I was sitting at my place watching the game, shouting at the television, and flipping off Santiago every time the camera panned to him, it was her I imagined laughing at me. Even when I came down here to grab our table in the back and wait for the guys, sure, the women who approached were attractive, but all I kept doing was comparing them to her.

  I’ve got it fucking bad. Christ. Talk about feeling pussy-whipped when you aren’t even getting any pussy.

  “You mean that mysterious Scout?” Drew asks with a tilt of his beer toward the far side of the room.

  I look immediately, hating that my heart fucking slams into my chest as violently as confusion does when I see her on the other side of the dimly lit bar.

  “Dude, is she with . . . ?”

  “Well, we definitely know what team she wanted to win tonight,” J.P. murmurs, just above the chatter of the crowd.

  I shift in my seat to see better and try to wrap my head around why she’s sitting with Penski and Cameron, whose asses we just kicked tonight. I think of her Facebook page. Of picture after picture of her with other players.

  It’s her fucking job, Easton. Dealing with other men is her job.

  So why didn’t she say anything to me about them when I asked her if she wanted to do something tonight? If there was nothing to hide, then why fucking hide it?

  And if you’re trying to hide something, then why come to Sluggers when you know that’s where the whole team goes after a game to blow off steam?

  You don’t own her, East. She’s not yours. You don’t have the right to know what she’s doing when she’s not with you. You don’t get to lay claim to her.

  Fuck that. I damn well do.

  I’ve put the time in. I’ve gotten to know her. I’ve taken more care than I ever have with a woman, and so, fuck yes, she’s going to be mine.

  Wasn’t that the whole point of this?

  And it’s not lost on me, I can’t do shit about any of it. I can’t stare long enough to see that she has on a denim skirt, with some sexy ass cowboy boots on her feet. Or that her hair is curled and down, when usually it is thrown up in a ponytail. Or that she has some top on that makes my mouth water thinking about what’s beneath it.

  She gets dressed up for them, but not for me?

  My blood boils knowing that they’re over there enjoying the sight of it, getting turned on by her, when I’m over here trying to figure out what the fuck is going on, because I can’t do anything about it.

  Not with three guys staring me down. Hell, the guys wouldn’t give a shit if I was sleeping with her; the only reason they’d care is because that means they can’t get with her. But if they knew and accidentally told someone, and it got to the front office, then that could cause problems for Scout and Doc’s contract.

  Besides, I promised her I wouldn’t say anything. And with a woman who has a hard time believing promises, this is one I need to keep.

  The problem is, it doesn’t seem she’s keeping her word, either.

  Her word? Have another beer. She made no promises. All she agreed to was getting to know each other, to seeing where this might take us . . .

  And spending every day together on and off the field doesn’t qualify as that?

  What is going on here?

  “You okay there, Wylder?” Tino bumps my shoulder with his and pulls me from my thoughts, and I realize I’m still staring at her.

  “Yeah. Sure.” I down my beer and lift my hand to the waitress for another. “Just trying to make sense of it.”

  “She didn’t say anything to you during rehab today about knowing them?” Drew asks, glancing over to her again, and I hate that I want to follow suit, but can’t without being way too obvious.

  Because every time I look her way, my temper burns brighter. I try to justify that she knows I’m here. Christ, they weren’t sitting there an hour ago when I got here to save our table, so she had to have seen me when she walked in. Why hasn’t she acknowledged me? I get keeping a public distance to protect our professional relationship and her damn contract, but a simple nod of her head wouldn’t scream “We’ve fucked,” either.

  “Did she tell me she knew them? Not a word.” I thank the waitress for the new beer and take a long swallow of it.

  “You’d think she’d have said something about sleeping with the enemy,” J.P. jokes. He gets the laugh he was going for, but all it does is piss me off even further.

  I lose sight of her through the crowd and tell myself that’s a good thing. The conversation moves on like it should, even if all I can think about is what she’s doing here. With them. And why she didn’t mention it to me.

  “I’m gonna hit the head.” Drew stands, and when I glance Scout’s way, she’s staring at me.

  There’s a shot glass up to her lips, but she doesn’t offer me a smile, doesn’t acknowledge me at all; her face is expressionless—distant. And my fists clench in reaction to the fleeting thought that she’s ferreted. That she somehow got spooked and didn’t have the balls to tell me to my face we were over, so instead she came out tonight and sat where she sat on purpose, so I’d see her with them. And then I’d know.

  But as she tilts her head back and downs the shot in one impressive swallow before slamming it down on the table among the countless empties I can now see, all I can think is that there’s no way she’s moving on without me getting to have a final say about it.

  “Where’re you going?” Tino asks as I tilt my own beer back and down its contents.

  “Gonna buy the lady a shot, since it seems to be her poison of choice tonight.”

  Scout

  The burn of the shot numbs the significance of today’s date and yet does nothing to ease the shock to my system when I glance around and meet the ice in Easton’s eyes.

  I should have expected him to be here. It’s the postgame hangout, after all. But I could have handled him if things had stuck to the plan—just Penski and Cameron and me taking a few shots in my brother’s honor on his birthday. Yet another piece of my history that I keep tucked away.

  But things didn’t stick to the plan.

  Because now I’m seated across from the one man I want to be nowhere near but can’t ask to leave, considering he’s Penski and Cameron’s teammate.

  “That was two,” Cameron says with a nod. “Two more and Ford would be pleased.”

  “Pour me one.”

  I look across the table, and just the sight of him disgusts me. “No.” I snap the word out, causing Penski to nudge my knee under the table.

  Santiago just stares at me. The mixture of his dark features, the dim light of the bar, and the fact that he’s in the corner of the booth (thank God) so the shadow of the wall falls over his face makes him seem
like the asshole I’ve conjured up in my mind.

  And keeps him out of Easton’s line of sight.

  Because if there is ice in Easton’s glare at seeing me here with members from the opposing team—or maybe just men in general—then seeing Santiago here would set him off.

  No doubt.

  Because it sure as hell set me off when he walked in and sat down with us. I protested, told the boys that this was a ritual we’ve always done with just us—the only ones who really knew my brother—but they said it was harmless for Santiago to stay.

  But he’s anything but harmless. Not with his curious eyes always watching me. Measuring me. Making it clear he wants me.

  The neck of the bottle of tequila clinks against the shot glass as Penski pours Santiago the shot.

  “To Ford,” Cameron says, lifting his glass. “It’s been three years without you, brother. It feels like a fucking lifetime since I’ve heard that laugh of yours. Fuck you for leaving us. We miss you.”

  “Fuck you, Ford,” the three of us murmur in unison, and then we toss back the shot. This time, the burn is a little less, but the memories are still painful as ever.

  In fact, something about this year’s get-together to remember and curse Ford for leaving us behind seems so much harder than the last two.

  Maybe it’s because what started out as a promise one drunken night when they were trying to make me feel better over my brother’s death is tonight reminding me that next year I might have to perform two of these memorials instead of just one.

  I raise my shot glass. “To my brother,” I whisper as the tears threaten. “You have no idea how much I miss you right now. How much I need your friendship and advice. How, if you were here, I wouldn’t think everyone leaves. What I’d give for one more hour to lie in the long grass at Dad’s and pretend we were the only ones left on Earth. I miss you.”

  “Fuck you, Ford,” we say in unison, but when I finish my shot, as my head grows fuzzy and a lone tear slides down my cheek, I add in a whisper, “I love you.”

  “I guess shots are the order of the night.” Easton’s voice snaps me from my melancholic fog, and for a split second I forget we have eyes on us. I forget that we are supposed to be trainer and player. Relief floods through me from the presence of the one person I’ve unknowingly started to need.