by Kate, Jiffy
Two rings and I close my eyes, trying to quiet the thrum in my chest.
Three rings and I know I should hang up.
But I hang on, just in case he has a voicemail box that’s set up. Maybe I can at least hear his voice...leave him a message. I lose track of the rings until a sleepy “Hello?” breaks through the line. Breathing heavy, I stare at the peeling black paint on the wall across from me. “Charlotte?” Bo asks a few seconds later, a rustling sound in the background. “Are you okay?”
“Hey, Bo.”
“You okay?” he asks again and it sends warmth through my body. Nobody besides Casey and my mom and dad ever ask me if I’m okay, and even they forget to do that from time to time. I think they all assume I’ve been in this business so long that it comes easy to me, but it doesn’t.
And sometimes it just feels fucking good for someone to ask if you’re okay.
“I’m stuck in a bathroom,” I tell him, not wanting to completely unload on him. “Well, not literally.” Laughing to myself, I tilt my head up and turn my attention to the ceiling. “But if I leave, they’ll want me to do a line...and I don’t want to, but I’ve had too much to drink to make good decisions, which is also why I called you...sorry I called you.”
“It’s okay...so, you’re okay? You’re, I mean...” Bo starts and stops and then lets out a deep breath. It makes me wish I could see him, be close enough to feel his breath on my skin. “Do you need help?”
“No.” I blink back rogue tears that spring up from nowhere. “I just needed to hear your voice.”
We sit in silence for a few seconds.
“Am I too much for you?” I ask. “I’m too much...I’m...I’m a distraction. And you’re too good for me,” I admit, feeling the truth of my words down to my toes that are still cramped in these fucking stilettos. The only thing about what I’m wearing tonight that feels like me is the leather jacket, and I had to fight for it. “You’re too good for me, Bo Bennett, and if I was a better person, I’d lose your number and not mess up your life...but I like you...a lot.”
“I saw a picture of you.” His words sound pained. “I didn’t go looking for it. One of my teammates sent it to me...I told him about you...and he sent it to me.” There’s a pause and I wait to see what he’s going to say next, my heart beating furiously, hoping this isn’t where Bo Bennett and I end—in a shabby bathroom of a club. This isn’t me. It’s not him. We fit better in New Orleans, tucked into a hidden booth in an unknown restaurant.
That’s home.
That’s Bo.
“You looked beautiful,” he says. His voice is barely above a whisper. “But I hated seeing his lips on you.”
My breathing stops, stuck in my chest.
“It wasn’t what it looked like,” I assure. “It was Cody being the asshole that he is and playing it up for the cameras. Trust me that the behind the scenes was the polar opposite of whatever the paps tried to make it out to be.”
“I believe you, but I wanted it to be me,” he confesses. “I want to be the one kissing you.”
“You do?” I ask, my hand going to my chest, holding in the warmth that’s settled there.
“Yeah.”
I can picture the light blush that creeps up on his chest when he steps out of his comfort zone, like the night he kissed the side of my mouth.
“And I’m gonna take you out on a date...a real one.” His voice dips down to a low, gravelly rumble and it shoots straight to my core, causing my stomach to tense.
“You wanna take me on a date?” I ask, just wanting to hear him say it again.
“Yes,” he says, pausing. “I’m gonna take you on a date...I have a day off when we get back. Will you be back in town?”
“Flying back early in the morning,” I tell him. That wasn’t the original plan. Terry had more publicity shit scheduled for me, but I just made an executive decision. I need to be back in New Orleans.
“I’ll be back late tomorrow night.”
“Text me?” I ask, needing that open line of communication with him.
“Yes.”
I sigh, kicking off the wall and straightening out my dress. “I’ve gotta go so I can schedule an Uber and get the hell out of here.”
“Text me when you’re back to your hotel room?” he asks.
I smile.
“You sure?” I ask, knowing it’s late and seriously past his bedtime. “I know you get up early and you have an early game tomorrow.”
“Never too late for you,” he insists, his voice taking on the consistency of honey, dripping through the phone and making me wish I could teleport myself to Sacramento.
“Okay.”
Chapter 11
Bo
“I don’t even drink Red Bull and you think I’m gonna put my dick in some random chick?” I ask Mack incredulously.
He just tosses his head back and laughs as do the other guys sitting around us—Davies, Jorge, Phil, Luis. I have a feeling they’re all in on it, but I’m not mad.
It’s not my money down the drain.
Well, it was my fifty bucks, but I felt like I owed it to her for her trouble.
“You shoulda seen your face,” Luis laughs. “It was priceless.”
“How the fuck would you know?” I ask, remembering the incident with vivid clarity. There wasn’t anyone else in that hallways besides my scantily clad new acquaintance...Sparkles, I think was the name on her business card. I thought about leaving it in the room for the next person, but quickly decided against it. That wouldn’t be something I’d want traced back to me, so I flushed the evidence down the toilet before I left.
“Peephole, dude,” Luis confesses. “I had a fucking front-row seat.”
I groan, leaning my head back onto the seat of the bus. At this time of night, everyone on this bus should be dead on their feet, but we’re not.
The adrenaline rush from our first sweep has us all on a high we probably won’t come down from for a while. Our chartered flight puts us back in New Orleans before midnight. Since we have an off day tomorrow, most of the guys will probably head out to a bar or Mack’s house, but all I can think about is Charlotte.
Ever since our phone call last night, which feels like a week ago instead of a day ago, I’ve needed to see her. When she told me what the photo of her and DiMarco portrayed was not as it seemed, I’ve felt this insane need to put my eyes on her—the real Charlotte—and see for myself that she’s okay...she’s there...and he’s not.
I sound crazy.
I do.
Even in my own head, I sound crazy.
And I don’t even want to know what that says about me.
A month ago, I didn’t want a distraction.
Now, I want her.
Tipping my head up, I glance at all the guys sitting around me and I let my mind wander. They all make it work. They all have relationships—girlfriends, wives, one-night-stands. If they can do it and continue to play at the level they all do, then why not me?
For the first time in my life, I want to try.
I want to try to balance.
Maybe it’s finally making it to the majors that’s freeing up this place inside me.
Or maybe it’s Charlotte.
“You coming over?” Mack asks when we get to the field. “Late night poker?”
“Nah, man,” I tell him, appreciative for the invite, but needing something—someone—a little more tonight than being part of the team. “I’m going to call it…” I start for the lie, but end with the truth. “I’m gonna call Charlotte.”
A slow, wide, knowing smile grows on Mack’s face.
“That’s my boy,” he says, clapping his hand on my shoulder. “Go get your girl.”
Thankfully, the rest of the bus was caught up in their own conversations, paying us no attention. I’m okay with Mack knowing about Charlotte, but not the whole damn team. They’re all up in my business enough as it is. If they had an inkling there was a girl, they’d have a field day with it.
Onc
e we get to the field, I wave my goodbyes, Luis and Jorge letting me know they’re going to Mack’s. Even though we’re roommates, we don’t see each other much more than my other teammates. Maybe it’ll be different once we settle into the season, but the first couple weeks of being in New Orleans has been a whirlwind.
Climbing into my car, I start it up and pull out my phone.
After midnight.
My manners tells me it’s too late to call anyone, let alone a girl I’m interested in.
Booty calls.
Those are the only calls usually made at this time of night, and even though I want what that implies, I want other things more—conversation with Charlotte, her laughs, her warm eyes on me. I’d also settle for hearing her voice, and knowing her, she’s still up, so I hit her name and wait.
“Hello?” Charlotte says, sounding surprised...pleasantly surprised.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” she replies, and I can hear the smile in her voice.
It’s not lost on me that we no longer feel the need to announce ourselves. The first couple times Charlotte and I spoke on the phone, our beginning lines were “hey, it’s Bo” or “hey, it’s Charlotte.” But now, it feels familiar...good.
“Hope it’s not too late,” I tell her, still sitting in my car in the parking lot as the rest of my team files out, leaving me the last man standing.
“Nope,” she sighs. “Just finished up rewriting the verse to a new song.” She sounds a little sleepy but content. “I was just getting ready to text you and see if you’d made it back.”
“Just got to my car.”
“Headed home?” she asks, and if I’m not mistaken there’s a hint of hope there.
“Uh,” I start, but suddenly feel a rush of heat. I’m not a forward guy, but I’m also not someone who shies away from something he wants. It’s just the thing I usually want doesn’t walk on two luscious legs and have a body that won’t stop. It’s not a living, breathing person that I can’t get out of my head. “I was thinking about maybe stopping by for a minute?”
I leave it as a question, wanting to clarify that I’m not expecting anything, except to see her, but wait to see what her response is instead.
“You wanna come over to my house?” she asks, a hint of teasing creeping into her normally seductive tone.
“If it’s a bad idea—”
“Bo,” she stops me mid-sentence. “It’s a great idea.”
“See you in about ten minutes?”
“See you then.”
Excitement, that’s what I hear in Charlotte’s voice right before the line goes dead and my heart takes up residence in my throat.
When I pull up into Charlotte’s long drive, I stop at the gate and before I can even roll my window down to push the button, it opens for me. The house is lit up and looks gorgeous, even at night. Everything is white—the house, the pillars, the big-ass stone wall surrounding the property. It makes it feel like it’s cut off from the outside world. Driving up to the spot Charlotte guided me to the first night I drove her home, I park my car and smirk. It’s quite the contrast—my old Toyota and her impressive abode.
A jolt of nerves hit me when I see the door of the house open and get my first glimpse of Charlotte.
Gorgeous.
So fucking gorgeous.
Unlike the first night I met her, her hair is wavy and piled on top of her head and she’s not wearing any make-up. The baggy sweats mixed with her relaxed smile tells me I’m getting the purest version of Charlotte Carradine, and I fucking love it.
She’s beautiful.
“Bo Bennett,” she says, her smile growing. “I heard you made quite the winning play tonight.”
The smile I’m wearing is unavoidable, between her and her comment, I can’t help it. “You heard about that?” I ask, running a nervous hand through my hair.
“I might’ve googled you.” She shrugs and gives me a wicked smile, opening the door wide for me to step inside.
“Wow,” I say, getting my first glimpse of her kitchen. “This is nice...and it smells amazing in here. Are you cooking?”
Closing the door and resetting the alarm, she walks over to the large island. “I’m heating up some leftovers, thought you might be hungry.”
“Starving, actually,” I admit. “I almost stopped for something on my way over but everything that’s open this time of night in New Orleans is usually overrun by people partying on Bourbon Street. And I’m not much for fast food.”
“Good thing I have some food I picked up at Verti Marte.”
“Creole Chicken?” I ask, my mouth immediately watering at the thought. Charlotte and I ended up there one night last week after a late game.
“Yep,” she says with a pleased smile. “Wasn’t expecting you, but it’s like the universe just knew.” Her eyes drift to mine and they seem to sparkle in the bright white kitchen. “Want a quick tour?”
I glance around for a second before answering. “Sure.”
I’m starving and the food in the kitchen smells amazing, but I want to see her place. If Charlotte is going to let me in, I’m not going to turn her down.
“Casey’s already in bed,” she says as she passes by me and walks toward a great room that’s filled with overstuffed furniture and a large television mounted on one wall. There are personal effects, mostly sheets of music in frames along one wall and a large canvas on the other. But it’s the piano in the corner that really catches my eye. It looks expensive and I have the feeling it’s not just for decoration.
“Do you play?” I ask, pointing to the sleek black instrument.
She nods and twists her pouty lips, hiding her obvious insecurity. Who would’ve ever dreamed she even has any? “I do, but I’m not great...I’m no Elton John or anything, not even good enough to play on stage, but I love it. Sometimes when I’m stuck on a song, it helps to sit down there and just feel out the melody on the keys. It’s completely different than picking it out on my guitar.”
“Wow,” I tell her, seriously in awe. “I can’t play anything. I mean, I’ve never tried, but I’ve always been impressed by people who can.”
“You should try,” she encourages. “A lot of athletes are good with their hands...and timing,” she drifts off and if I’m not mistaken, I catch my first glimpse of Charlotte Carradine blushing. And it makes my stomach tighten and my hands ball into fists at my side to keep from reaching out and touching her. “They usually make, uh, good musicians.”
After she shows me around the rest of the common areas of the house, the one I’m most impressed with is her studio. It’s state-of-the-art and from the second we walked inside, it’s like I can feel the creativity buzzing in the room. There are boards of lights and knobs connected to large monitors, a huge window in one wall that leads into a side room. In there are a couple microphones and some weird foam panels. Charlotte explains that they’re for acoustics, which I’ll have to take her word for.
The studio is her version of a baseball diamond.
She knows every inch of it like the back of her hand.
In there, she’s in her element, at the top of her game...living her best life. I can see it in her expression, the way her eyes light up and she talks animatedly about it. Seeing her like that makes me like her even more. I love her passion.
As we finally settle in on one of her oversized couches, Creole Chicken in hand, she clicks on the television. “Hulu or Netflix?” she asks, going to a menu on the screen.
“Uh, I don’t get a chance to watch much television, so whatever you want.”
“Netflix it is then,” she says. “So...what are you in the mood for? Action? Comedy? ...Romance?”
I give her a half-smile, wanting to tell her that I’d watch anything, as long as she’s sitting beside me on this couch, but instead, I shrug. “You choose.”
“Are you a Julia Roberts fan?” she asks, pointing the remote control toward the television as she scrolls through menus, punching buttons faster than my roommates whe
n they’re playing Call of Duty.
“I’m not sure I’d say I’m a fan,” I answer, noncommittally. “But I thought she was great in Pretty Woman. Call me old school, but I think movies made in the eighties and nineties are better than most of the movies made today. And yes, I realize I wasn’t even alive in the eighties, sue me.”
“Notting Hill?” she asks, cocking her head in my direction.
“Excuse me?” I reply, unsure of the question.
“Notting Hill,” she repeats. “Probably Julia’s best work to-date—she’s a movie star and her co-star, Hugh Grant, is a bookstore owner in Notting Hill,” she explains. “It’s hilarious and heartfelt...everything a movie should be.”
Her passion for this movie sells me without even seeing one scene.
“Notting Hill it is,” I tell her, unable to stop my smile growing as she beams at me.
After she makes the selection, she trades one remote control for another, dimming the lights. “Good choice,” she says, like it was all my idea all along, as she gets comfortable in her spot—legs crossed with her bowl propped on a pillow. With her hair in a messy ponytail-bun thingy on the top of her head and her face fresh of any makeup, Charlotte looks ten years younger than her actual age. If someone didn’t know her, which is kind of hard these days—between her childhood acting and current music gig—they’d maybe guess that she’s pushing twenty.
She’d definitely get carded at a bar.
Once again, it’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her how beautiful I think she is and maybe it’s the dim lights or the comfortable atmosphere, but before I can stop myself, I mumble, “You’re so pretty.”
Her big brown eyes slide slowly over to mine and if the room was better lit, I think I’d see that blush from earlier creeping back. “You’re not so bad yourself,” she whispers.
We watch Notting Hill, which I admit is a great movie, and eat our Creole Chicken. Well, Charlotte eats hers like a lady and I do my best to not inhale mine like a starving child from a third-world country.
I ate today, both before and after the game, but I also expelled a lot of calories and nothing tasted quite as good as the bowl of food I just finished.
