by K. Bromberg
“I was ten without a dad and around kids who picked on me. I turned to baseball and who knew? I was really good at it. At that age, it was easier to be at the field than at home watching my mom grieve. That and it was the place where kids started to respect me instead of tease me.”
“You found your coping mechanism. Your thing,” I say gently, earning a look from him as if he’s not used to someone understanding that concept.
“Yes. Little did I know how important that would be to me later in life.”
I want to ask what he means but just nod and snuggle back into him, ready to hear his story.
“My mom remarried twice. None of them were nice to her, and the promise I made to my father to take care of her always weighed heavy on me. No matter how many times I tried to get her to see it as abuse, she refused to. And then Sal came along,” he says with a foreboding sigh that has me closing my eyes and picturing a younger version of him trying unsuccessfully to be the man of the house. “He was stepdad number two, lover of alcohol, keen on control, and prone to use his fists to make sure his stepson knew his place in the pecking order.”
Oh God. It’s one thing to lose your dad, but to be hit by a man who should care for you? Why didn’t his mom do more? How could she?
“I’m afraid to even hear more.”
He shrugs with an indifference only someone who has been through something like this can. “Baseball was my escape. I spent more and more time on the mound—”
“You were a pitcher?” I ask, feeling like a hypocrite.
“Mm-hmm. A decent one or so I was told, but that only comes from the fact that I basically lived at the field.” He reaches over and takes a sip of his water, as I try to fathom the notion of not wanting to be at home or that home isn’t a safe space. “Sal had a son. He played baseball too. He was mediocre in talent but Sal wasn’t having any part of that, especially when I was getting attention from four-year colleges and MLB scouts.”
“You must have been good.”
“I was decent,” he says and sighs. The agent in me wants to shake him senseless and tell him for MLB scouts to be looking at him, for my dad to be interested in representing him, he was more than decent.
A one-hundred-mile-per-hour arm that has command of five pitches is not decent.
It’s utterly, freaking phenomenal.
But I can’t say a word, and I think, of all of this charade, that’s the toughest part. I want to tell him he was incredible. I want to tell him that a team would have taken him and signed him for a one-year contract just to see if he could hack it. I want to tell him that regardless of what was his perceived lack of control, teams would have still been interested. That they overlook things like that when you have a one-hundred-mile-per-hour arm.
But that’s where part of my dilemma comes in. The part where I can’t be honest with him and tell him that even though Sal was a raging asshole who discredited him out of jealousy, Gunner really was quite incredible.
I try in the most muted sense possible.
“If major league teams were looking at you, I’m pretty sure you were more than decent.”
He shrugs. “It’s all relative. I truly loved the game and the escape it provided me from the toxicity of my house. I stayed home longer than I should have because I was trying to fulfill that promise to my dad to take care of my mom. I was trying to do what was right and make sure she was okay. I don’t know . . . Shit got bad. I didn’t care that I was acting out—hell, maybe I was acting out hoping she’d notice and pick me over him. Whatever it was, I thought I could help get her out of the situation with my stepfather, but I learned you can’t change people or make them see things differently. That realization came at a brutal cost to myself.”
“What do you mean, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Gunner explains about Coach Bassett believing in him and sending letters and videos out to agents and scouts. About stealing his stepfather’s car and crashing it. The brutal ultimatum given to him the next day between service or jail. Then the hard truth he found out months later that agents had called, had wanted him, and that Sal had supposedly ignored or misdirected them to his son instead of letting Gunner know.
That part got to me. Why didn’t agents persist? Why did they contact Sal when Gunner wasn’t a minor and they should have contacted him directly? Why did they give up on him?
But I know the reasons. Too many athletes, not enough time for the one who doesn’t call you back or shows zero interest. Difficult people—in this case, Sal—to deal with, so it’s just not worth the effort unless you see a star in the making.
No one saw the star. No one looked close enough to see his ability to shine.
And my heart breaks for him because of it.
But it seems that no one looked close enough at his situation for a long time.
He continues on to his time in boot camp, deployment, and how he realized life how he’d known it had changed.
“And then Dickman, our sarge, said we should write letters to those who mattered. To say goodbye to our dreams because life as we knew it was over. Even if we returned, we wouldn’t be the same men. And he was right. Not just because of what we experienced, who we lost, what we endured. But well, it was too late for me.”
“How do you know—”
“Because life had rolled on regardless of the darkness we saw every day, Chase.”
“Oh.” He should be angry. Or maybe he’s already grieved. Had his moments of anger. He shrugs again, and I lean in deeper to his hold.
“Anyway, we wrote our letters. I wrote to the agencies my mom mentioned had contacted Sal—don’t even remember who they were now—and thanked them for their interest.”
My dad. He’d written and thanked my dad. Even that made him a good man to say thank you.
“So that was your goodbye to a game you loved.”
He nods. “Something like that. But the funny thing is, I still use it as my therapy. I still go out at all kinds of hours when I’m off work and throw the ball with one of the catchers from the junior college.”
“You do?” I ask, thinking of the clerk at the hotel and wondering if it was, in fact, Gunner she saw.
“Yep. When things get too much—emotions, memories, stress—I go throw the ball for a bit. It helps me work through it all.”
“Memories? Of what happened over there?”
His sigh is heavy. “Fucking Nix.”
“The guy loves you with all his heart. He meant well by telling me.”
He pulls me closer to him. “How about we stop talking about me? I assure you there are much more interesting conversations we could be having.”
“Like?” I ask. But I totally disagree with him.
The man is fascinating. I thought it before and now I definitely know it.
“Like what’s your deal with bed bugs?” he asks and I laugh.
“Do I detect this topic of conversation as being over?”
“You do. The one thing I hate more than hearing myself talk is talking about myself.”
“Now that? I can agree with you on.” And I’ve been so lost in the conversation, in listening to him tell his story, that I never noticed it grew dark outside. I bolt up, startling both of us. “Oh my God. The bar. Your work. You forgot to—”
He offers me a shy smile and tugs me back down to where I was snuggling against him. “Don’t worry about it. I called in sick.”
“You what? Why?”
“Because I have a feeling it isn’t very often that you let someone take care of you. I figured I’d take advantage of the opportunity.”
He presses a kiss to the crown of my head and my insides melt.
“Thank you,” I say and press a kiss to just above his heart. If I was smart, I’d walk away right now. This man is too good. Too kind. Too genuine. Too thoughtful. Too . . . everything. I. Don’t. Deserve. Him. But I’m not smart.
I already know that my heart is going to hurt when I leave, and that’s totally my fault. I
own it.
I’m selfish, I’m sick, and he’s right. It’s been too long since I’ve let anyone take care of me. So, I take the extremely lame approach and ask, “Is there any chance you’d like to watch a chick flick like Die Hard 4.0 with me?” He laughs. And I’m sure it’s at me, which I don’t care about in the least.
“You mean Live Free or Die Hard?”
“Exactly. Die Hard 4.0.”
“Gotta say. That’s the first time anyone has referred to one of my favorite movies as a chick flick.”
“What? There’s romance in it. There’s a kiss in there somewhere.”
“Okay then. Die Hard 4.0 it is. Your request is my command.”
I chuckle, which makes me start coughing again. And even though I feel both heartsick and physically sick, there’s no other place I’d rather be right now.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Gunner
I’ve never had a woman live with me.
Not even for a few days.
Simply put, I haven’t found someone I like enough.
But there’s definitely something intriguing about having Chase here. Little things I notice here and there. How the bathroom towels on the rack are squared and fussed over when they’re usually crooked. How the dishwasher is loaded with all like silverware in each section of the tray. How I smell faint traces of her perfume at the oddest times. Almost as if it’s slowly weaving its way through every molecule of air so that when she leaves, traces of her will be everywhere.
“You getting any sleep, Romeo? I’m sure it’s more than taxing to ignore your new houseguest?” Ellie asks, fighting her knowing smile.
“It’s not like that.” She levels me with a look, and I laugh. “Okay. It is like that . . . but she’s been sick, so it’s been pretty chill.”
“Pretty chill as in she rides you reverse cowgirl so as not to breathe germs in your face—”
“Jesus, Ell,” I sputter. “I can’t believe you just said that.”
“Why? Sometimes you have needs even when you’re sick.” Her shrug is followed by a laugh that tells me she’s enjoying making me uncomfortable way more than I am.
“Is this the part where I put my hands over my ears and pretend I can’t hear you so the visual isn’t scarred into my brain?”
“Well, every time the two of you look at each other, I’m well aware of what your eyes are saying you want to do when you get back home. Bow chicka wow wow.”
“You are—”
“Awesome. Indispensable. The one you can’t live without?” She gives me a Cheshire Cat grin and all I can do is laugh.
“Exactly. Those were exactly the words that came to mind.” I wave to Robbie, who runs out onto the turf area where some of the friends he’s made are hanging out. It’s that limbo period between the school bus dropping them off and practice actually starting.
“He’s doing well,” Ellie says, catching my line of sight.
“He is. I think his dad has a tough row to hoe, so I’m sure he’ll have his ups and downs. Luckily he’s here and the other kids understand what it’s like.”
“Thanks to you and what you created.”
I glance over to her. Praise is rare from Ellie, kind words about me even more so, so I just stare at her and narrow my eyes. “You feeling okay?”
“Yes. No. I just thought you ought to know you’ve done good here with this place.”
“Ellie, don’t tell me you’re leaving me,” I say as panic fills me.
She laughs and swats at my arm. “Don’t be silly. Although I may leave you for Chase if she comes through with that sponsorship she’s talked about,” she teases.
“No shit,” I say with a shake of my head. “It’s pretty incredible. I wouldn’t even know how to go about finding opportunities like that.”
“Apparently she does,” Ellie says and walks to the mini-fridge in the corner of the office and grabs a water. “Lucky for us.”
I nod. “Definitely.”
“So what are you going to do when she leaves?” Ellie asks.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, let’s address the elephant in the room. She’s made no secret that her time here is short-lived, so, head-over-heels boy, what are you going to do then?”
“Head-over-heels boy?” I laugh.
“Well . . .” She lifts her eyebrows.
“That’s implying more than I’d like to admit at this point in time.”
“That’s such bullshit and you know it. You’ve fallen for her—and I can see why. She’s gorgeous and intelligent and has a great sense of humor. What’s not to love? But she’s leaving, Gunner. She never had any intention of staying and has been upfront about that. So what does that mean for you? How does that affect you?”
I stare out the window and twist my lips, knowing she’s right. “Isn’t that fucking life, though? Nothing is ever perfect. You have to take what you can get, enjoy it while you can, and just be fucking grateful that you even get the chance to experience it.” I step back and look at Ellie. “Will it sting like a bitch? Yes. Undoubtedly. But at the same time, is that sting enough of a deterrent to push away the good while I have the chance at it? No. I’ve lost a lot of people, and the one thing I’ve learned is to enjoy them while you can. Love them while you can. That way you can’t say you regretted not laying it all out on the table while you could.”
“No regrets.”
“Exactly. No regrets. So . . . I’m going to cram as much as I can in these next few weeks. Fun dates and slow kisses and great sex and laughter. All of it. And then when Chase leaves, I’ll be sad, but I’ll know I left it all on the table.”
“You wouldn’t try to make a go of the long-distance thing?” she asks.
“I don’t know. I see it through the skewed lens of deployment and how it rarely works.”
“Um . . . it works.” She raises her hand. “We were able to manage. Lots of people do. There just has to be trust and honesty between the two of you.”
“Chase is the most brutally honest person I know, so at least we have that going for us.” For some reason I think of her bed bug story, the expletives that flew from her mouth during it, and chuckle. “I don’t know, Ell. It’s not something we’ve talked about. I think we’re both just trying to enjoy each other as much as we can, while we can, and figure we’ll worry about that when the time comes.”
“Avoidance at all costs. I like that in a plan.”
We both laugh and finish closing The Center for the evening, but there’s something that sticks with me as I do it, as well as on the drive home. I just openly admitted that I’ve fallen for Chase Kincade.
It’s one thing to admit it to myself, it’s another to acknowledge out loud to someone else who can make my life miserable by teasing me every time they see me.
Or just knowing about it in general.
But when I pull up to my house and see the lights on inside, I can’t help but feel content. Happy. Anticipatory.
It’s weird and wonderful and new to have someone to come home to. A warm greeting when you walk in the door. A soft hum of the TV in the background acknowledging someone is there. The subtle scent of her perfume tickling your nose.
But she’s leaving, Gunner. So what does that mean for you?
As I open the front door, I shove away Ellie’s comments. I’m here, getting to experience this when guys like Dickman and Shotgun aren’t.
I’ll take the hurt in order to experience the bliss.
No regrets.
“There you are,” Chase says as she slides her hands around my waist and presses her lips to mine.
It’s only been a few days since we last kissed because she’s been sick, but I didn’t realize how long it felt like until now. Until her tongue has slipped between my lips and since the heat of her body has pressed up against me and warmed mine.
It’s heaven and hell, and I want to dive into her in a way like never before. Absence may make the heart grow fonder, but seeing the woman you want day in an
d day out, showing restraint because she’s sick, is plain fucking torture.
“I see you’re feeling better,” I note against her lips, my hands on the sides of her face then cupping her ass . . . then just everywhere I can at once.
“Mm-hmm,” she says as she kisses her way down the hollow of my neck, my dick already hard and begging to sink into her. “I have a surprise for you.”
That knocks me out of the moment and I lean back to look at her. “A surprise?”
It’s only then that I take in the fact that Chase is standing there in a coat—my coat—with a pair of heels on.
“Oh.” It’s all I manage to say as she steps back and shimmies the coat off her shoulders, proceeding to drop it to the ground.
But I’m not looking at where it falls.
Nope. My eyes are fixated on her and how she’s standing before me in heels, a red and white gingham apron, and the biggest, sexiest smile I’ve ever had the pleasure of being on the receiving end of.
“Now that’s a welcome home if I’ve ever gotten one.”
“You like?” she asks and does a curtsy. Her breasts jiggle out the sides of the ruffled section, which partially covers her chest and ties around her neck.
“I like all right.”
She does a little twirl, the tied bow resting above her bare ass, and my mouth waters and fingers itch to touch her.
“I made you an apple pie,” she says over her shoulder as she turns and heads toward the kitchen. “It’s ooey and gooey and warm and waiting for you to blissfully sink right into it.”
I stand there and watch. Take in the view of her hips swaying and ass moving, and I groan.
But hell, if she wants to tempt and tease and play coy, then I’m definitely game.
“An apple pie? I didn’t know you baked,” I say as I follow behind her, my eyes glued to every goddamn curve of hers.
“That’s all you have to say?”
“Oh, I have a hell of a lot to say but right now I’m just enjoying the view.”
“Does this give you a better one?” she asks and then proceeds to pull the oven door open and bend over to take the pie out.