Make Me Yours (Top Shelf Romance Book 4)

by Devney Perry

  “It’s nowhere, Scout, because the trade hasn’t even gone through yet.”

  My heart falls into my stomach at his words. “What do you mean? I don’t—”

  “You’re the first person to even utter the city Dallas . . . so that means my trade is still in talks and hasn’t been completed. You may have seen papers, Scout, but there were most likely more. Others covered in notes from talking with teams like the Orioles or Tampa or the Mariners.”

  Oh my God. What did I do? Panic, disbelief, shock. All three become an eddy of emotion tearing through my system and wreaking more havoc than I ever thought possible.

  “Your face says it all. So yeah, thanks for nothing. You win, Scout. I’m gone.”

  “I didn’t win shit, Easton,” I yell, grasping for straws as the eddy of emotion turns into a tornado and slams into me. “Do you think this did me any favors? Do you think I got the contract? I don’t even know yet. I have to go back in the morning to find out—”

  “You and your precious goddamn contract. It’s always been about the contract, hasn’t it? Not me? Only you.” Disgust is what I hear in the bite in his voice.

  “No. No.” I take a step back to try and calm the situation. His temper. My sobbing. His accusations. My denials. “Please. Just listen to me. The only reason I remotely care about the contract is because of my dad.”

  “Convenient.” He snorts as he turns his back on me and stumbles to the windows leaving me fumbling.

  “Don’t you see I’m the one who could lose everything?”

  “Poor baby. Forgive me if I’m not feeling much sympathy for you and—”

  “No, that’s not what I meant by—”

  I cut my own words when I can’t hold back my sob anymore. It’s pointless. This conversation and trying to reason with him while he’s drunk. Fighting to explain my actions, my decisions, myself, when he’s right. It wasn’t my place to make a decision about his life for him regardless of the circumstances or my selfless intentions behind them.

  I stare at him—the broad shoulders and proud stance—and think about the first time I saw him like this and what that led to. My heart aches for him. For the road he’s traveled, for how hard he fought to get back again, only to be blindsided by Cory.

  Much like how he fought for me. Why is it that now when I can admit to myself I’m in love with him, I’m going to lose him? Literally and figuratively.

  “Easton . . .”

  I made a mistake.

  I should have stalled for time.

  I should have . . .

  I love you.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t have lied.” The derision in his tone only serves to reinforce what I already know.

  “You’re not listening to me. If you’d actually hear me you’d see that . . .”

  “Believe me, I am hearing you, more now than ever. It’s your actions not your words that speak fucking volumes.”

  “I did what I thought was—”

  “Stop. Stop saying that. It means nothing to me.” He strides to the kitchen. Glass rattles before he pulls out another bottle of whiskey from the liquor cabinet, and takes a long swig from it while I silently beg for him to stop. I’ve never seen him like this—helpless, hopeless, careless—and knowing I contributed to this is killing me. When he finishes his drink, he slams the bottle down for emphasis. “What you did was put yourself in a prime position with that fucker Tillman. I’d be out of the picture—no stress, no distractions, no sleeping with the player to screw up the contract hanging over your head, and no worry for you about a guy who’s going to leave you. Thanks for making sure this went nowhere. And thanks for thinking you know what I want out of my career and making a decision you’re not qualified to make. Thanks for nothing, Scout. Go to your meeting tomorrow. Take whatever the Aces give you. Be happy with the result. You screwed me to serve your dad. And while I get it, I don’t.” He flops down into a chair facing the view beyond with his back to me. “We’re done, but then again, I guess we never were started according to you . . . so, uh . . . see you around, Scout. Or not. You know where the door is.”

  He makes a show of lifting the bottle in the air and then bringing it to his lips. When he finishes his drink, he slouches down farther into the chair and continues to stare into the darkness.

  He doesn’t say another word.

  There’s nothing else left to say.

  Easton

  I should pick them up.

  The little green shards of glass all over the floor. Reminders of Scout. Of the explanations she gave. The words I hurled. Of everything that is broken.

  I should pick them up.

  But I don’t.

  I stay where I’ve been seated all night. And now I guess morning. Head pounding. Gut turning. Eyes staring.

  At the empty stadium. The one I couldn’t stand to see lit up last night is vacant now. A mausoleum of memories of my career. I reach down to the new bottle of whiskey, but just run my fingertips around its rim, knowing I don’t need any more.

  But I take a sip anyway. Tip the bottle to my lips to drown out her voice in my head.

  Formal trade options. Correspondence with Dallas over trading you.

  To block out the look on her face and the hope that slowly faded from her voice with each and every accusation I threw at her.

  Orders for you to be sent down. There was an email to the manager . . . you were going down to play for them.

  I can blame her all I want, but I did this. I knew some day it would happen. That my secret would ruin something I loved.

  But not like this.

  Not with these kinds of consequences.

  I only had seconds, Easton. Seconds.

  The sky is grey. Moody and gloomy and miserable.

  I’m in love with you.

  Another drink. Then another.

  There’s too much noise. In my mind. In my heart.

  Why did you sign the papers? Why would Finn ever let you agree to that? Why wasn’t he there today?

  There’s no sun to light up the sky like normal. The pinks and oranges that filled it yesterday as we made slow, sweet love are gone.

  I scrub a hand over my face. Try to wipe the memory away because it hurts like a bitch. The soft sighs. The throaty moans. The smell of her skin. The feel of her lips.

  I’m in love with you.

  “Fucking hell, Wylder,” I say to no one, knowing I should be thinking about the game. About where I’m headed. About what it’s going to feel like cleaning out my locker. About what I’m going to say to my mom when I drive out there to see her later today and prepare her for my departure.

  But I’m sitting here thinking about Scout. About the position I put her in. About the decision she made. About how I blamed her because it was so much easier than telling her the truth.

  The bottle feels heavy in my hand. It’s so tempting but I opt to drink it rather than throw it like I did the other.

  The fight in me is gone.

  It left when Scout walked out.

  When I pushed her out.

  When I forced her to take the blame.

  I’m in love with you.

  Did she mean it?

  What does it even matter now?

  She still betrayed me. She didn’t fight for me.

  So why should I fight for her?

  Get up, Easton. Take a shower. Clean yourself up. Start packing.

  Stop hurting.

  My cell rings again. It’s the third time in an hour.

  I give in. Relent. Give up.

  “Finn.”

  “I just got the paperwork. What she told you last night was right. It’s Dallas. The reporters are rabid for an explanation, so Tillman’s holding a press conference at eight thirty to announce the trade. I’ll be there, and then I’m going to hound the fuck out of him in our meeting and demand to see all the documentation. I want to see what that slimebag had you sign and . . .”

  He keeps rambling but all I hear is Dallas. I should feel relief. I sho
uld be able to breathe a bit easier knowing the where. She was right. It’s close enough that I can still take care of my mom. It’s close enough that I can come home. It’s the next-best scenario to being in Austin . . . and yet I won’t be an Ace anymore.

  The one certainty in my life is no longer there.

  “. . . and I’m going to let him know when Boseman returns, I’ll have him looking into the shady shit he pulled. I want Tillman’s balls nailed to a wall for—”

  “Cancel the meeting, Finn.”

  “What?”

  “There’s no need to fight it. When and where do I need to report to the Wranglers?”

  “I don’t understand. What’s going on?”

  The same thing I’ve done my whole life. Dodge. Avoid. Distract.

  “I’m done. It’s over. Accept the terms. Book me a flight. Or I’ll drive there. What-the-fuck-ever. Just tell me when I need to report, and I’ll be there.”

  “But Cory needs to be—”

  “No meeting, Finn,” I say firmly as my fingers tighten on the neck of the bottle and my fingers on my other hand end the call.

  The sky’s still grey.

  I have a feeling it’s going to be that way for a while.

  But this is on me.

  Not Cory.

  Not Finn.

  Not Scout.

  All me.

  The guilt’s worse than the fear.

  But there’s no need to argue anymore.

  I can handle this.

  I brought it on myself, after all.

  Scout

  It took everything I had not to stop by Easton’s on the way into the ballpark. To go there and hope he would be somewhat sober and tell him he’s an asshole for saying what he said to me, and admit I’m a jerk for assuming to know what he’d want in the decision I made. We could scream and fight and get it all out and then I could sit there with him while he waited to hear about his trade. I’d help him bide his time to try and get us back on an even keel, and then when the word came through, reassure him it was going to be all right.

  But I didn’t stop.

  Because hung over might be just as bad as drunk. And because he made it clear I’m the last person he wants to see.

  I’ll let him have that.

  I’ll give him some time.

  But if he thinks I’m going to let him be done with me that easily, he’s crazy.

  He fought for me. To gain my trust. To make me want more with him. To make me see not everyone leaves. To ensure I fell in love with him.

  And now it’s my turn to earn that back from him.

  I’m just not quite sure how to do that when we might be living in two different cities.

  Easton’s worth it. I need to figure out how to make it work, but every single ounce of effort is what I’ll give.

  God, yes, I was hurt last night and still am by some of the things he said. But after replaying our fight in my head over and over while I stared at the ceiling in a bed less familiar to me than Easton’s, I realized there was a missing piece to the puzzle. It was the look on his face that kept flashing in my mind. He’s not telling me something and I can’t figure out what that something is.

  I’m petrified I won’t be able to fix this. Fix us. My stomach is in knots over where to start.

  Then there’s my dad and his damn contract. He’s the reason I’m sitting in this waiting room obligated to meet the man responsible for this turmoil and one who I don’t trust in the least.

  A daughter’s duty versus a woman’s wants.

  “It’s going to be a few more minutes yet, Ms. Dalton,” the receptionist says motioning to the closed conference room door with the Aces logo on it.

  “Thank you. I’m going to use the restroom then.”

  The bathroom mirror only serves to reflect what a shitty night of sleep I had and how poorly I did covering it up with makeup. And the sad fact is I hate myself for being here. For picking the contract over trying to make things right.

  Family first.

  And while I’m choosing the contract now, opting to do something for my dad, I make a promise to myself to take care of me next.

  With a deep breath and a resolve I barely feel, I head out of the bathroom and come face to face with Cal. We both freeze.

  “I hope you were successful at whatever it was you were trying to accomplish, Ms. Dalton, considering you did it at the expense of my son’s future.” Disdain drips from his voice. “Your little lie had some serious consequences.”

  “It cost me more than you can imagine,” I say softly, voice breaking, as I try to keep my composure.

  “Really?” he sneers as he steps into me. “You don’t have a clue what this cost Easton. You tell me to protect him, praise him, and then you screw him over? It’s my son whose life has been turned around. He took less money for years to stay right here and have a life instead of the constant moving around most players do. To be loyal . . . But then again, it seems you know nothing about loyalty, do you? Your true colors burned bright, Dalton.”

  “There’s more to the story than—”

  “Ms. Dalton, Cory will see you now,” the receptionist interrupts from the doorway, and I wonder how much she heard.

  “Thank you,” I murmur with a tight smile.

  “Asshole,” Cal mutters under his breath. I snap my head his way, hoping for one more second to explain what I can to him, but he’s already walking the other way.

  The only thing he’s left unspoken is whether he was referring to Cory or me.

  “. . . and that is why I still believe Dalton’s Physical Therapy would benefit the Aces organization successfully with a team contract,” I say, completing my spiel with conviction all the while looking at the man across the table from me and wondering how I got myself into this position. Why I’m fighting for a contract with a team where I can’t trust—or stand, for that matter—the man who would be my boss.

  “And yet you couldn’t get Easton Wylder rehabbed and back on the active roster in the time frame allotted,” he rebuts.

  “Correct.” Every part of my body revolts at the lie. “As I expressed when I was brought on, I disagreed with giving him a time frame. Every body recovers differently from injuries.”

  “But I believe your other words were, ‘I can have him ready by mid-August.’”

  Asshole. “Yes, that is correct.”

  “Hmm,” he murmurs as he sits back in his chair and levels me with an unrelenting stare as if he’s trying to intimidate me. I meet his stare and don’t back down. “And what should I do about the matter that you breached the parameters of your contract?”

  “In concern to?”

  “Having a relationship with the player you were charged to rehab.”

  Is that what this is all about? Did Cory want to call me in here just to pull his chest-thumping bullshit and remind me he’s in control? Use this as his leverage and to justify why he traded Easton?

  But even then, it doesn’t explain why Easton’s signature was on those damn agreements. Or why Finn let him.

  “If I recall correctly, Ms. Dalton, I’m referring to your violation of section D, part five of your contract.”

  Every part of me clings to my attempt at civility when all I want to do is tell him where he can shove said contract.

  “Well, seeing as how my personal life is none of your business—”

  “It is my business when you’re contracted with the team.”

  “Noted,” I say with as much courtesy as possible as I attempt to regain some of my footing. “But seeing as how being in a ‘relationship’ with Mr. Wylder didn’t influence my opinions regarding his recovery, then our ‘relationship’ shouldn’t be taken into consideration. You’d think I’d give him preferential treatment. That I would be swayed to deem him one hundred percent, so he could return to the active roster. And somehow or other, because I didn’t show such favoritism, he’s been traded, which leads me to feel partially responsible for the situation.” It’s my turn to stare
at him with eyebrows arched in an exclamation point to my comment.

  “Mr. Wylder’s trade has nothing to do with you. There were agreements in place before you came on board.”

  “Agreements? Like heal in a set time frame or be traded? I’ve worked in a lot of clubhouses, but I’ve never seen those stipulations made on a player’s rehabilitation.” I’m pushing the envelope, I know I am, and yet I can’t help it. All I can think of is the devastation on Easton’s face last night.

  “It’s a standard practice I implement for the teams I work with.”

  “Standard practice? Trimming costs is one thing, but making a body heal on a clock . . . I can’t imagine why an owner would allow that policy.”

  He sighs as if he’s bored with this conversation already. “There were terms agreed upon by Mr. Wylder. Just like the terms you agreed to and broke in your contract.”

  “I did.” I draw the words out intentionally, not oblivious to his sudden change of subject.

  “My concern, Ms. Dalton, is how do I know that if I were to give you the team contract, this situation wouldn’t happen again?”

  “Tell me something, Mr. Tillman,” I say shifting in my seat and leaning forward with hands clasped on the table in front of me. “Is this no relationship clause a standard part of your contract or was it only amended for me? If that’s the case, I’d hate to one, think of the organization as being sexist, and two, that they’d be narrow-minded enough to not think men can’t have relationships with other men too.”

  He furrows his brow, and for a split second I fear I’ve gone too far. Maybe he’s one of those men who can’t handle being challenged by a female. In my line of work, I learned early on that assertive women often scare men.

  He chews the inside of his cheek for a moment, and I swear I see a hint of amusement in his eyes despite the silence suffocating the room. “Dually noted . . . but that still doesn’t give me an answer.”

  “To which question?”

  “How do I know it won’t happen again?”

  It’s a loaded question, and one I know I need to heed carefully. “Considering you’re in the midst of trading my boyfriend, then it’s a moot point. I’ll be here, and he’ll be wherever you send him so . . .”