by McKayla Box
I shrug. “I guess.”
Truth is, I barely glanced at the paper. I knew it was going to be in there, but my phone conversation with Houston yesterday just soured me on the whole thing. I think I wrote a pretty good piece, but I’m just exhausted by the whole thing and everything that’s happened. I just want to be done with it and move on.
“A drink might make you feel better,” she says.
I shake my head again. “It won’t. Not tonight. I just wanna stay home.”
“What happened on Saturday night?” she asks. “You went to the party and…you’ve been in a funk ever since.”
I think for a second then decide I’m not quite ready to share, even with my best friend. “Same old, same old. But it’s all done now. I don’t have to be around him anymore.”
“You want me to stay home?” she offers. “We can eat ice cream and I can pretend to do homework with you.”
I laugh. “No, I’m good. Go have fun. I’m fine.”
She purses her lips, then shrugs. “Alright. Text me if you need me. Not planning on staying long. Unless I find someone who needs to get lucky.”
“So, see you tomorrow then.”
She shows me her middle finger, then leaves.
I laugh and shake my head. I wish I felt like going to happy hour and having a drink or two. It would probably take my mind off of everything.
Off of him.
But I’m kidding myself.
I know it will just amount to sitting in a bar thinking about him. At least if I’m home, it’s free, and I don’t have to make conversation that I won’t be paying attention to anyway.
I’m thinking about that when there’s a quick knock on the door.
I get off the couch. “You forgot your keys? Or did you already get lucky?”
I pull the door open.
But it’s not Shea.
It’s Houston.
“Did who get lucky?” he asks.
I’m shocked to see him standing there. “No one. What are you doing here?”
“I wanna talk to you.”
“No thanks. I’ve had my fill.”
He holds up the newspaper. “I wanna talk about this.”
I roll my eyes and turn around, heading back to the couch. “Great. Just what I was hoping for.”
I hear the door shut. I’m hoping he’s just left, but I know better. When I hit the couch and turn around, he’s standing there, the paper still in his hand. His hair is damp and his cheeks are pink, like he just got out of the shower. I hate that I notice how good he smells.
And I can’t help but picture his body naked for a second, just like when I was on top of him in his bed. I know how smooth his skin is, how taut his muscles are, what he feels and tastes like.
And he knows those intimate details about me, too.
I push the image from my head. “Fine. Talk.”
He looks at the paper in his hand, then lays it on the kitchen table. “You didn’t write about the suspension.”
“No shit.”
“Why not?”
“I told you to trust me,” I say. “Multiple times. But you just rambled on like I was your biggest enemy. You never let me explain.”
“Why didn’t you write about it?” he asks.
“What? Now you’re mad I didn’t write about it?” I shake my head. “You’re impossible.”
“No,” he says. “No. That’s not it all. I just…I thought you were going to include it. And you didn’t.”
“No. I didn’t.”
“Because we slept together?”
I roll my eyes. “Yes. Your sexual prowess just fucked it right out of me. I forgot to include it.” I frown at him. “No. It didn’t fit in the story. I’d already decided it didn’t fit. That’s what I came to tell you on Saturday before you freaked the hell out and then…and then it happened. But you wouldn’t let me even get it out.”
He folds his arms across his chest, listening.
“When I do this kind of stuff, I find a lot of information,” I tell him. “But that doesn’t mean I use it all. I wanted to write a story about you, not about the bullshit in your life or even about the character you sort of are as this superstar baseball player. I saw the relationship you have with Beck and your mom and your loyalty to them. That was way more interesting to me than some stupid high school suspension.” I stare at him. “You may not believe this, but I just wanted to write a story about…you. I wanted people to see you. Not the baseball star who struts around campus and who’s going to be famous some day.” I point at him. “I just wanted them to see you.”
Chapter 47
HOUSTON
When I read the article, I immediately had to read it a second time.
Because I was sure I missed it.
But I didn’t.
She didn’t write about my mother’s cancer or the suspension or any of that. Instead, she focused on my relationships with my teammates and my mother and my old high school coach. She made me sound like a regular guy who happens to be good at baseball.
Which I guess I am, even if I don’t always feel that way.
But I kept thinking through our workout that I missed something, that it had to be in there somewhere, and I was distracted the entire time. I begged out of the workout early, telling my coach that I needed to go meet with a tutor. He was more than happy to let me go because I’d pitched so well on Saturday and needed to take it easy for a couple of days anyway. I showered, dressed, and walked to Lila’s from the field, reading the article two more times.
It definitely wasn’t in there.
And now she was confirming it for me, like I was a moron who couldn’t read.
Maybe I was.
“You wanted them to see me,” I repeat.
“Yeah,” she says. “A normal guy who’s pretty good at throwing a ball. People know all the superficial stuff, or they think they do. That didn’t interest me. And what I saw was legitimately surprising. Your teammates would run through a wall for you. Your love for you mom is sweet. Your high school coach is protective of you. Those were interesting things to me that I haven’t seen about you before. That I wouldn’t have seen if I hadn’t spent time with you.”
I look at the paper again, then walk over and sit down next to her on the couch. She’s got black leggings and an oversized red T-shirt on. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail. She looks tired, but nothing distracts from how goddamn beautiful she is.
“Look, you should probably go,” she says. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”
I hold up a hand.
She looks at me.
“I didn’t let you talk and I’m sorry,” I tell her. “But hear me out. Then I’ll leave.”
She hesitates, then nods.
“After we hooked up in the truck, the first words out of your mouth were about the suspension,” I say. “I thought that was all you cared about.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Okay, but that’s how I took it,” I tell her. “And I understood. It’s the piece of me that no one knows and you got hold of it.”
“You told me about it.”
“Yeah, so I thought you just wanted to get that out of me,” I say. “Then you could write your article.”
“I didn’t make out with you in your truck to, like, thank you for telling me what happened,” she says indignantly. “That’s gross.”
“Okay, but I didn’t know that. People do weird shit to try and get close to me. You’d be surprised. I didn’t know you. We get caught in the truck, I drive you home, and the first thing you tell me is that the story isn’t that bad. Nothing about what just happened or anything like that. What am I supposed to think?”
“I said that because I didn’t know what to say to you,” she answers. “I was totally shocked that it happened and I didn’t have my thoughts sorted out, so I said the first thing that came to mind. It wasn’t because I didn’t care about what happened. At all. I was just talking to talk.”
I nod. “That
makes sense. But I didn’t know that.”
“You didn’t let me tell you that,” she says evenly.
“Maybe I’m impatient.”
She nearly cracks a smile. “Yeah. Maybe.”
“And you left yesterday,” I say. “You were gone when I woke up. No note, no text, no nothing. Then you call and all I hear is that you’re at the paper, working on the story. Again, something happens between us and you’re immediately onto the article again.” I pause. “Why did you leave without at least waking me up?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “You were asleep. And, please. I didn’t want to have some long conversation about what happened or even worse, have you say ‘hey thanks that was great see you later.’ I was not ready to have that conversation or get blown off. And, oh by the way, I had to write the damn article and get it turned in. I had work to do.” She pauses. “You know, you aren’t the only one aiming for a career after college here. You know how much baseball matters to you? Writing matters the same amount to me. I take it seriously. You talk about getting the job done and being dialed in and getting better. Well, that applies to me, too.”
I think about that for a second, then nod. “Alright.”
“Alright?” she says. “I wasn’t asking for your permission for that to be okay.”
I laugh. “I know you weren’t. Didn’t mean it like that. I meant that I think I understand that.”
“Good,” she says. “You should. I swear to you. I wasn’t using you for anything and I wasn’t using you to tell people I used you. I didn’t even tell Shea about what happened Saturday night. I haven’t said a word to anyone and I won’t. That’s not me.”
I stare at her for a long time.
“What?” she asks.
“I haven’t said this in a long time,” I tell her. “But I need to ask you something.”
She watches me, every part of her expression cautious. “What?”
“Are you going to leave like that every time we have sex?”
She starts to say something, then stops. Her cheeks turn pink and she’s flustered.
It’s so great.
“How do you know there will be a next time?” she finally says.
“Because I want a next time,” I tell her. “I want you. I want to quit the bullshit and games and articles and secrets. I want you, Lila. I want us.”
She stares at me, still cautious. “I was not expecting this.”
“I’m laying it out for you,” I tell her. “We’ve sucked at communicating this week. You’ve absolutely turned my life upside down and there have been times I wanted to never see you again.” I pause before I admit, “But there have been more times where I was hoping I would see you.”
“I really thought Saturday night was a regular thing for you,” she says. “Hook up and move on. No distractions.”
“Not with you,” I tell her, shaking my head. “I was pissed you were gone. Saturday night was…not like other nights. I want a next time. And more next times.”
She shifts on the couch. “Do you always get what you want?”
I nod. “Yep.”
She laughs. “Now that I definitely expected.”
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Do you always get what you want?” I ask. “The reporter who doesn’t give up no matter what? Do you always get what you want?”
She nods. “Yep.”
“Then tell me what you want.”
She looks at me for a long time.
Too long.
But then the corners of her mouth flick upward.
“I want you,” she says. “I want a next time. And more next times.”
I put my hand on her cheek and she leans into it. Her skin is soft and I love touching it.
“You drive me a little crazy,” I tell her.
She smiles. “You drive me a lot crazy. You jump to conclusions, you don’t listen—”
“But I’m listening now,” I whisper. “And I’ll listen tomorrow. And the next day. And the next.”
She just looks at me, her green eyes drilling into my very soul. Something ignites in my gut, something thrilling and uncomfortable.
“Even when I drive you crazy?” she asks.
“Even then.” I smile and brush my lips against hers. “Because I think we can do this. I want to do this, Lila.”
She wraps her hands around my neck. “We can definitely do this.” She kisses me. “I want us, too.”
I know we can do it.
I’ve never been more certain of anything.
I kiss her again.
We just need to focus.
No distractions.
Thanks so much for reading THROWING HEAT, the first book in the Baymont Bombers series. If you enjoyed this one, you won’t want to miss the second book in the series, CATCH FIRE, which you can pre-order right here!
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