Make Me Yours (Top Shelf Romance Book 4)

by Devney Perry

Every part of me begs him to say no.

  But he doesn’t speak.

  “Yes or no?” I shout.

  “Yes.” I can barely hear the word. It rings in my ears.

  He knew.

  He organized for the asshole who ruined my career to play for the Aces. With his fucking son. His fucking first son.

  “You were never supposed to be traded. I didn’t have a clue what Tillman had up his sleeve. Not a fucking clue.”

  “Convenient.” I snort. “You felt the Aces could give him the same thing I had? What he wanted? Just to ease your guilt?” What about me?

  “I know you have no reason to believe me right now, but please, believe this, it wasn’t intentional. Tillman was looking for a back-up catcher—at least that’s what he told everyone. He said he wanted to bring someone on board to help ease your transition back. Of all of the available catchers, Santiago had the best stats of the lot.”

  “You can sugar coat it any way you want to make it easier for you to swallow, but let’s face it, you talked the asshole GM into bringing the guy who fucked up your son’s arm to the club he plays for out of guilt.”

  “Yes. No. I was desperate, Easton.”

  My laugh is anything but humorous as I try to wrap my head around everything. As I try to put myself in my dad’s shoes but know they reek of bullshit.

  “All he wanted was my time, Easton. A chance to get to know the father he never knew—”

  “He got a contract that doubled his goddamn salary. You can’t tell me money wasn’t a motivating factor here, Pops.”

  “He only wants more—”

  “Spare me your excuses, Dad.”

  We stare at each other. The fury coursing through my veins makes it impossible to listen to any more of this.

  “When you were traded,” he says after a moment, “I went to Boseman and told him what Tillman did. I told him about the rumors going around about what he did to other players. I’m the one who helped to get him fired—”

  “You expect me to thank you for that?” Jesus fucking Christ. “He’s an Ace. And I’m not. He took my position. My team. So fuck that, Dad. Fuck you. Fuck this whole fucked-up situation.”

  “It was a perfect storm of coincidence between Tillman’s and Santiago’s—”

  “He’s the one who fucked up my shoulder,” I shout at the top of my lungs to break through the fog he seems to be operating under. The sting of betrayal real and raw and unwelcome. “Why can’t you acknowledge that? Santiago purposely took me out and singlehandedly ruined my fucking career.”

  “It’s far from ruined, Easton.”

  “Don’t you dare defend him.” My shout thunders across the concrete space and echoes back to us. “He wanted what I had and you gave him the keys and opened the fucking door for him to take it.” I chuckle condescendingly. He may have stopped playing baseball years ago, but he’s still playing a game, now it’s with people’s lives. “You two deserve each other.”

  “Easton . . .” He takes a step toward me.

  “Don’t. Just don’t.” His eyes plead with me to understand him while my heart and head riot with rage from his betrayal.

  Why did I ever want to be like him?

  Fuck this.

  Fuck everything about it.

  I need to go home.

  I need Scout.

  Scout

  “Easton? Is that you?”

  It’s late. The room is dark.

  “Shh.”

  The sheets lift.

  The bed dips.

  He slides in behind me and pulls me into the curve of his body.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Just let me hold on to you, okay?”

  I hate the hurt in his voice. The pain. It breaks my heart.

  “I’ll be whatever you need me to be,” I whisper and slide my hands over his, resting on my abdomen.

  “You already are.”

  Scout

  I’m startled when I wake up to an empty bed. The sky is gray in that time of dawn where it’s not light and it’s not dark . . . but just is.

  I hear the rattle of keys. Smell the beginnings of coffee. And I wonder how he’s doing.

  “Easton?”

  “In here.”

  I find him in the kitchen, running shoes on, gym shorts darkened by sweat, and skin flushed from exercise. He’s at the stove fixing scrambled eggs.

  “Hey.” My voice is cautious, uncertain what he’s thinking after yesterday and what I swear were his quiet sniffles as he held me tight last night.

  “Good morning.” His voice is cheerful, seemingly unaffected, body still turned to the stove. “I just found out this building has an official kennel downstairs. An actual place where, if you have a dog, you can take them there like a daycare center—doggy daycare they call it—so those of us who want a dog can have one.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “I was thinking since I’m injured and we’re about to officially be in off-season . . . it might be a good time to get that mutt you were thinking about. What do you think?” He turns toward me for the first time since I walked into the kitchen.

  I study his face before he turns back to the eggs. There’s nothing there that hints to the drama of last night. “Easton . . .”

  “We can go next weekend if you want. After the series is over. We can adopt one from Pet Haven or we can go somewhere else. You should start thinking about what kind of dog you want.”

  “Do you want to talk about last night?”

  For the first time I see a break in his chipper demeanor, but it’s only a momentary stiffening of his shoulders. “And I think we should take a trip. Somewhere tropical. Or Europe. I’ve had my life on hold for so long for baseball, and I need to stop being a slave to it and start living, don’t you think? I was talking to your dad this morning and—”

  “My dad? This morning? It’s not even seven o’clock.”

  I feel like I’ve stepped into an alternate universe.

  “I texted him about something—needed an opinion from what he’s seen over his years—and he texted back. So then I called and . . .” He shrugs. “We talked.”

  “Okay.” I draw the word out. “Does it have anything to do with what he whispered to you before we left that night?”

  “Nope.”

  Mr. Talkative.

  I watch him dish the eggs onto two plates and place one of them in front of me. “Thank you.”

  “Of course,” he says, walking around me and pressing a kiss to the top of my head before sitting beside me with his own plate.

  “Easton,” I repeat. “Do you want to talk about what happened last night?”

  He’s quiet as he chews his food, and I wonder if he’s going to say something profound. “No.”

  “No?” I ask. “But—”

  “What time are you headed to the stadium today? I don’t have to report in until five but will probably get there at four thirty for one more run-through. We can walk over together if you want.”

  My fork is midway through the air, eggs perched precariously on its tines, but all I can do is stare at him and wonder if he’s in denial. Classic avoidance at its finest.

  “I think we should address everything . . .”

  His shoulders drop and he closes his eyes momentarily. He draws in a breath as if I’m the one frustrating him. “I don’t want to. Not now. I can only handle one thing at a time, Scout. And today I’m handling the broadcast. After that, I’ll handle getting a dog with you. You moved into my home and this is all me . . . so if we have a dog together it would be like creating something together. Maybe make here feel a bit more like yours too.”

  I’m not sure if going along with his avoidance is healthy or if forcing him to talk about everything is better.

  But at least his head is where it needs to be, on the broadcast tonight. That’s half the battle.

  And after the battle is won, it appears like we’re getting a dog.

  Together.

  Taking th
e next step.

  Easton

  It’s game day.

  I can feel it in my blood even though I won’t be touching the field.

  There’s excitement and energy and magic.

  Scout’s beside me chattering away about who she needs to stretch first, and how she’s concerned about Dungey’s elbow.

  “Everything good, Easy E?”

  “Manny-Man.” I turn to find the one face I’ve seen more times in my career other than my father’s and grab the old fucker and give him a hug.

  “You’re still pretty.” He smirks.

  “And you’re still ugly,” I reply with a lift of my eyebrows.

  And just like that, the little bit of nerves I had walking through these tunnels tonight vanish.

  “Someone has to be.” He steps back and looks at me. “I’m proud of you for giving it another shot tonight. I’m sure they have those teleprompters in perfect working condition.” He glances over to Scout and smiles with a nod before looking back to me.

  I swallow over the lump in my throat, hating that I’m lying to Manny of all people—the one guy who probably wouldn’t judge me—but it’s not the time or place to explain.

  “I’ve been assured they are.” I hold up my folder full of notes. “And if they aren’t, I asked for cheat sheets ahead of time so I’d know what to say.”

  “I always knew you were smart.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I laugh. “You sticking around to watch the game?”

  He eyes me for a second. “Yeah, I think so.”

  “Really? Which greats are you hoping to watch tonight?”

  “You.”

  I stare at him for a beat, too many emotions whirling around after all the shit last night. I don’t trust my voice to respond so I just nod.

  Scout steps up and gives him a hug. He’s startled by it, but when she says something in his ear, his smile widens and he laughs as she steps back.

  “See you after the game, Manny-Man.”

  “Not if I see you first,” he calls as we walk down the hall toward the locker room.

  “You don’t have to walk me in,” Scout says as she turns to me. I know she’s nervous that I’ll see Santiago.

  “Bullshit. He doesn’t exist to me, Scout.”

  We enter the locker room and they’re all there shooting the shit and relaxing so they can get in the zone. The calm before the storm. I fist-bump some of the guys, wish them luck, and razz them a bit as Scout heads to her office.

  And I might have even slipped a couple of packs of trick bubble gum into Drew’s stash.

  I miss this.

  And the longer I stand here the harder it is to know I may never have this again.

  Too much fucking shit all at once.

  “Hey,” I say to Scout from the doorway of her office. “I’m going to head up.”

  Her smile is wide as her eyes flick over my shoulder to where I’m sure all the nosy fuckers are watching us to see if they should make kissing noises like eight-year-olds before landing back on me.

  “Have a game, Wylder.” Her smile says everything her kiss would have.

  “You too, Kitty.”

  When I turn he’s right there. Standing in front of me. No smirk. No arrogance. Just him. A dozen pairs of eyes wait for a confrontation. They have no fucking clue how much has changed.

  Walk away, Wylder.

  They know he fucked me over, but they have no idea how bad.

  You’ve got a game to broadcast.

  I stare at the fucker, standing in my locker room with my uniform on.

  Don’t let him get any more of you than he already has.

  He deserves what’s coming to him. Every. Fucking. Thing.

  Walk. Away.

  And I do. I take two steps.

  That’s all I manage.

  Fuck ignoring him.

  Fuck. Him.

  I do everything I told myself I wouldn’t. My fist is cocked back and then flying forward before I even have a chance to think.

  I hear Scout yelp. I hear one of the guys say let them have it out.

  “You fucking asshole,” I grit, hand still fisted as he stumbles against the wall behind him. “You got exactly what you wanted, didn’t you? My job? My city? My fucking everything. What did I ever do to you? Not a goddamn thing. If you want to be pissed at the world, fuck up someone’s life, then do it to his. He’s the reason this all happened, not me.”

  Santiago stares at me with a look so very different than I’ve seen before. His hands are fisted and his smile taunts me. “Why should you get it all?”

  My blood roars in my head and blocks out all reason. There is a room full of guys listening to us right now. Assuming. Concluding.

  And I don’t fucking care.

  My fist flies again and glances off his cheek. His laugh fills my ears and ignites a rage I’ve never felt before.

  “You’re a spineless piece of shit,” I shout.

  “Like I care what you think of me.”

  “You should, you fucker.” My hands are fisted in his shirt and I slam him back against the wall. “What? Not going to fight back now?”

  I twist my hands tighter into his shirt and slam him again. The guys close in around us. My hands itch to punch him one more time. My fury crashes around inside of me.

  “No need to. I got what I wanted.”

  “Yeah. You did. Our daddy sure as shit noticed you. First by taking me out and fucking up my shoulder. Such a dickhead move. And then by the bullshit you pulled when you came here.” I lean in closer. “I shouldn’t expect any less from a bastard though, should I?”

  “You motherfucker,” he grits out as he throws a fist.

  It barely hits me because the guys are on him, holding him back before he can get enough behind it to do some damage.

  I stare at him, hands trembling and body tensing as every part of me begs to punch him again. Asshole.

  “You’re not worth it.”

  He’s not.

  I’ve gotta get out of here.

  I glance to Scout on the way out but don’t stop.

  The guys nod as I walk past them. Looking more than shocked.

  The secret is out in the open.

  Can’t say that I fucking care in the least.

  Scout

  The sounds of the game go on around me. The last-minute player rushing in for some eye black. Manny picking up the trash left behind. The voice on the PA echoing down the tunnel and into the locker room.

  But I’m glued to my computer screen where I have Fox Sports streaming so I can watch the game in real time.

  My knee jogs up and down as I wait for the known jingle to end while praying Easton does well. After that confrontation with Santiago, I need to know he’s okay, but the few times I braved my way to the press box, he was surrounded by others and I didn’t want to interrupt.

  But he seemed good. And after the shitstorm during the last twenty-four hours, that’s what concerns me more than anything.

  “Good evening, baseball fans. You are in for an incredible night of baseball here in game three of the World Series. The Austin Aces against the Anaheim Angels. The battle of the A-teams. Both have one win apiece going into tonight’s game, but it stands to be seen, can the Aces wrap this up while here on home turf over the next three games or will we be heading back to Anaheim without a victor? The man next to me might have something to say about that. Longtime Austin Ace, Easton Wylder, sits beside me in the booth tonight ready to help call the game.”

  “Good evening, Bud. Thanks, everyone, for joining us. Can you feel that energy in the air tonight? That’s the magic of baseball, folks, and we’re about to watch it come to life with the first pitch coming up shortly.”

  I let go of the breath I’m holding and feel like that little added comment, the magic of baseball, is his little way of telling me he’s got this under control.

  And he does.

  He makes it through the starting line-ups without even a stutter.

 
He ends the segment with a lead into their sponsorships before the commercials.

  Everything he was fearful of appears to be nonexistent this time around.

  Bud and Easton banter for a while about the strengths and weaknesses of each team.

  “Drew Minski is on fire with his bat right now,” Easton says. “He’s batting five hundred for the first two games and four hundred for the entire postseason. Look for him to be pitched outside tonight in the hopes he’ll chase the slider and strike out instead of crank it over the fence and add another RBI to his tally.”

  Bud chuckles as the camera zooms in on Drew finishing his warm-up in the outfield. His face is scrunched up and he’s pulling what looks like a black gob of gum from his mouth. His teeth and tongue and part of his lips are stained black also. “It looks like someone has fallen prey to a prank today.”

  “Nothing like a little fun to ease the nerves.” Easton laughs as Drew, still on camera, shakes a fist toward the press box.

  And I know. Easton strikes again.

  “You wouldn’t know anything about pranks now, would you, Easton?”

  “Not. A. Thing,” he says, but those who know him, also know that tone of voice. And that he’s lying.

  The silly prank is nothing on the grand scheme of things but it does wonders for me. He’s going to be okay. He’s wrestled his demons, and he’s going to be okay.

  I’m not sure how he’s compartmentalizing it all, but he is. And I applaud him for it.

  By the time the first pitch is thrown, Easton has more than redeemed himself from the last time and proven he’s a natural at adding color commentary.

  Scout

  I fight against the crowd as I make my way to the press box. There is chaos in the masses—strangers giving high fives, people whistling, the drunk ones stumbling, the kids in parents’ arms struggling to stay awake—as people make their way out of the ballpark to celebrate the Aces’ decisive win over the Angels.

  I’m excited for the Aces too, but I’m more eager to celebrate with Easton on his incredible success tonight. He was flawless and funny and charismatic and engaging. I couldn’t be prouder.