by Kate, Jiffy
She rolls her eyes, laughing as she sidles up beside me. “Not that, but we’ll revisit the puppy debate later.” Her eyes searching the screen, she halts, cocks her head...looks a little closer...and then a wide, knowing smile spreads across her pretty face. “This.”
Holding the phone up for me to see, I recognize the landscape of the club I performed at last night, Good Times. What a great name for a club in New Orleans. And it really was good times. The crowd was so into the songs, belting back the lyrics, singing with me. The energy was amped—buzzing and unique, just like New Orleans. And for the first time in almost two months, I got to perform without an air cast or boot. When we landed in New Orleans two days ago, my doctor gave me the all-clear.
It’s still a little tender, but surprisingly, my combat boots are the perfect support. I just had to forgo the four-inch heels.
“That was such a fun show,” I tell Casey, peering over her shoulder as she zooms in on the photo. The first one is of me on stage and my hair is fanned out around my head as I strum a deep cord on my electric guitar. “We should contact the photographer and ask him to send that file to us. It would look great on my website.”
Casey nods. “I’ll email him later.”
When her fingers scroll down to a wider shot of the crowd and she zooms in again, I know what the smile was about moments ago. She wasn’t smiling at a photo of me, no...she was seeing what I’m now seeing. Tucked into the back of the dark, crowded room is a tall frame with a baseball cap pulled low down on his brow, and wearing a denim shirt I’ve seen countless times.
“Bo,” I whisper and feel Casey’s buzz of giddiness beside me. “How did he know? He had a game…” My words are to no one, but she answers.
“I texted him,” she confesses, no regret or remorse to be had. “When I realized you weren’t going to, I gave him the address, no details, and left his name on the list at the door.”
“You little shit.”
“You love me.”
I do. So much. She has no idea. But now seeing him in the background of these photos, I’m kicking myself. I should’ve invited him. I should have called him, gone to him, the second I was back. What a fool.
Gingerly, I hop down off the bar, keeping the weight off my ankle that’s still healing, and I walk across the kitchen to grab my phone.
“What are you doing?” Casey asks, excitement in her voice.
Taking a deep breath, I open up my contacts. “What I should’ve done two days ago.”
Sitting in the box that Ross Davies secured for us, I feel like this is my first game...or maybe like I’m playing in the game. I don’t know. The feelings are similar to what I experience before walking out onto the stage. Sometimes, the adrenaline is pumping so hard, my lips feel numb. It’s like being drunk, but without an ounce of alcohol. My body is tingling with anticipation.
The game is getting ready to start and I feel Casey’s eyes on me.
“Are you going to stand the entire game?” she asks, munching away on her popcorn like she doesn’t have a care in the world...and she doesn’t. That’s the beauty of Casey. But right now, I’d like to choke her out with the rally towel they gave us at the front gate.
For the first time in months, I left the house without a disguise. I left the wig at home. But my trusty Revelers cap is in place, pulled down tight. It’s become something of a good luck charm, and I know how baseball players are when it comes to finding something that works and sticking with it.
“Maybe,” I finally tell her, twisting the towel in my hands. My eyes stay glued to the dugout, waiting on my first glimpse of Bo. After Mack grounds out to left field, I know he’s coming up, my body and ears already anticipating his walk-up song, one I added to my own personal playlist because every time I hear it I think of him...see him so clearly in my mind.
It’s funny how a song does that, creates a memory and holds it hostage.
But when Work Hard, Play Hard doesn’t play and in its place is...me, mine...Hard Hitter. I slowly lower myself to the seat behind me, gripping the wall in front of me.
“Told you,” Casey says full of cocky confidence and jubilant satisfaction. She’s referring to my fear I had voiced to her: what if he doesn’t still feel the same? What if he’s moved on?
“I want to hear it, Charlotte,” she goads. “I want to hear I was right.”
You’re a hard hitter,
Breaking down my walls
Bo Bennett
I’ve never been happier to tell my sister, “You were right.”
My eyes stay glued to number thirty. He walks up to the plate and goes through his pre-batting ritual. I know it by heart. I actually play it in my mind when I’m feeling nervous or anxious, for some reason, it oddly calms me down. It’s weird, I know, and something I’d never tell anyone, but it’s true.
Feet shoulder width apart, knees slightly bent, one fist on top of the other. Tap the bat across home plate one time, then again toward where the pitcher stands. Then, the sign of the cross just before the bat comes to rest on his strong shoulder.
Deep breath in, deep breath out, and...swing.
“Bo,” one of the reporters calls out from the back of the locker room. “How does it feel to be one of only two rookies playing in this year’s All-Star Game?”
I watch Bo’s face split into the biggest smile and it makes my heart flip in my chest. Holding my breath, with my hands clasped behind my back, I’m creeping off to the side of the locker room. A press badge around my neck gives people the initial idea I’m part of the press. Thankfully, no one has really paid me any attention. Most of the players are busy showering and getting out of here, ready to start their All-Star break.
“It feels great,” Bo says with a light laugh, running a hand down his face and then through his still damp hair. “I mean, it was one of my goals for the season.”
“Work hard, play hard, right?” the reporter asks, getting the mic a little closer as he waits for the response from Bo.
He nods, smiling. “That’s right.”
“Why the change of walk-up song?” another reporter asks and I find myself leaning closer, wondering what his answer will be. “Most players would never dream of changing something so influential in their game play at this point in the season.”
Bo chuckles, shaking his head. “Uh,” he begins and I notice the hint of pink creeping up on his cheeks and I want to jump in and save him and steal him away. “It’s a song that resonates with me,” he continues. “I needed something to inspire me and this song does that...I feel like I can climb Mt. Everest every time it comes on.”
“Does the song choice have anything to do with your relationship with Ms. Carradine?” a tall, dark-haired reporter asks, her stilettos sticking out like a sore thumb in a locker room full of sweaty athletes and baseball gear.
“Is it true the two of you broke up?”
“Does that have any effect on your game?”
“How are you able to balance out the media frenzy with the grueling schedule of baseball?”
With the questions flying, Bo’s expression softens, turning a little disconnected, and he pulls his brows together thoughtfully, those long lashes falling to his cheek. “Char—” he starts, but stops himself, his eyes flashing up to the people surrounding him, realizing he was about to bare his soul to strangers, people who don’t deserve that piece of him. “I’d rather not discuss my personal life.”
There’s some muttering between the reporters and I feel one of two things is getting ready to happen—Bo was getting ready to bolt or they were getting ready to pounce. I couldn’t let either happen. I came here for something and I’m not leaving without it...him.
“Bo,” I say, stepping up into the mix and pushing my way toward the front, now within an arm’s reach. “What’s your strategy for the second half of the season?” I ask, my question really only having one purpose, which was to let him know I’m here.
I thought about what I wanted to ask and considered a few dif
ferent options, but then decided it didn’t matter, because the gesture should be enough to take him back to a different time and place...something the two of us shared, a moment in time when everything felt right.
I want that back.
I want him back.
There’s a split second where he checks himself, his breath hitching...pulse probably picking up at being caught off guard...but he recovers, clearing his throat as his eyes bore into mine.
“Uh,” he starts, licking his lips. “My strategy is to do what I always do—take it one day at a time...one game at a time.” A small smile turns the corner of his lips up. “I’m hoping for less strikeouts and more homeruns.” I swear my entire body responds to that statement, from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. “Take each opportunity I’m given and hold onto it.”
The entire locker room quite possibly shuts down for those few seconds, but then again, maybe that’s just me.
“That’ll be all,” Bo says, holding a hand up to dismiss the reporters while simultaneously pulling me by the arm and out into a private hallway, away from reporters and teammates, where it’s just us. Our breaths echo off the concrete walls and when he turns me, my back against the cool, hard surface, I swallow hard. “Hey,” I tell him, unsure of what to say, but also not feeling like talking.
Kiss me, I want to beg.
“Did you just Notting Hill me?” Bo asks, humor and light in his voice, so much levity, like a weight was lifted.
My laugh bounces off the space around us, my hand coming up to cup the side of his cheek, loving the new scruff there. I can’t help running my fingers through it a few times, appreciating the change. “I did.”
“God, I love you,” he murmurs, like it’s as easy as breathing. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it to come out like that, but I’ve wanted to tell you for a while...and I promised myself that when you came back...because I knew you would…” he pauses, his hand coming up to caress my cheek. “I’d tell you.” His rambling delivery is better than any eloquent soliloquy or rehearsed speech. It shot straight from his heart into mine.
“I love you too,” I tell him, my lips brushing his when I speak. “I’m sorry I took so long.”
“I would’ve waited longer.”
Epilogue
Charlotte
July
With the sun beating down on my back, a cold glass with beads of sweat dripping in my hand, and Bo Bennett lying next to me, this is paradise.
His eyes are covered by sunglasses, gorgeous, chiseled torso on display. Everything about his body screaming finely-tuned athlete, but right now, he’s in full relaxation mode. It’s well-deserved. The All-Star Game was a huge success, bringing the league their first win in over six years, and Bo was the star of the show. In three at-bats, he had one home run and three RBIs. His defensive game was nothing to blink at either. If he keeps it up, he’ll be a shoe-in for Rookie of the Year.
As we lay here, in the Key West sun, on the beach, just the two of us, I’ve let my mind drift—ebbing and flowing like the waves crashing against the sand. Thoughts of me and Bo and our future, thoughts of last night—so completely wrapped up in him—and thoughts of the past. I’ve come to the conclusion it’s no coincidence Bo Bennett walked into my life. The only explanation for finding someone like him—not perfect, but perfect for me—can only be the result of divine intervention.
“When did you find out you were adopted?” I ask, my voice raspy from not being used in a while. It’s a question I’ve wanted to ask him since the day I found out we shared this connection.
Bo shifts on his lounger, angling his long body to face me and pushing his sunglasses up onto his forehead so I can see his gorgeous eyes. “Maybe when I was twelve or thirteen,” he says softly.
“How did they tell you?”
He must know I need this, because he clears his throat as he slides up to a sitting position before answering. “Mom and Dad sat me down and basically told me how much they love me and that after years of trying to have a baby, they couldn’t. Mom said they were able to choose their baby instead, that some families aren’t blood-born, but heart-born. She said from the moment they saw me in the hospital, they knew I was theirs.”
I swallow the lump in my throat and pull myself up to sit, facing him, knee-to-knee. “Were you mad?” I ask, voicing some fears I’ve held onto for all these years, things I’ve wanted to ask someone...anyone...Little did I know, Bo would be here, down the road, waiting for me. “At them or at your birth mom?”
Bo immediately shakes his head. “No, I wasn’t...it was different, but it’s like when she told me that this missing piece I’d always felt slid into place. I can’t explain it,” he says, gripping the back of his neck with his hand. “But it made everything make sense. I was glad they told me...I’m glad they didn’t wait.”
I lick my bottom lip, sucking it between my teeth. “That’s what I’m afraid of,” I whisper, my eyes drifting to the ocean twenty feet away. “What if they wait too long to tell him...or what if they never tell him?” Past pain threatens to strangle me, my throat tightening, until Bo’s hand reaches out, taking my hand.
“You don’t have any control over that...over other people’s choices,” he says gently. “I can only imagine how difficult it must be being on your side of things. You make me wonder about my own birth mother...who is she, what is she like, does she want to know me?”
My eyes come back to his and we sit there, locked in a moment, each feeling each other’s burdens and pains, but they don’t feel so insurmountable any more. Of course, they’re still there. I’ll always wonder, always worry, always hope and wish, but something tells me I’ll never have to do those things alone anymore.
Later, after a lazy dinner on our private patio, Bo lifts me from my chair and takes me into his arms, walking me to the outdoor shower.
“Strip,” he commands, setting me down on my feet and going to the knobs to turn the water on. I watch his back as he bends forward, lean muscles moving under his golden skin, and I want to pinch myself, just like that morning after Bo spent the night for the first time.
Like who is this guy?
And how did I get so lucky?
“Charlotte,” Bo says, disappointment on his lips, bringing me out of my memories. With an arch of his eyebrow in the pale moonlight, I do exactly as I’m told. I strip my flowy dress off, exposing my body to the cool night air, only my panties left to discard, which I do.
“Better?” I ask, giving him a wicked smile.
“The best,” he says, his eyes drinking me in and his tongue coming out to lick his full bottom lip. I’ve seen him do that on the baseball field and every fucking time, it makes me squeeze my legs together, just like right now.
Biting down on mine, I try to keep myself from falling apart before he even touches me. “You’re wearing too many clothes,” I inform him.
His hand reaches out to test the water and when he’s satisfied with the temperature, he stalks toward me, reaching me in just a few steps. “Do you want to do it or do you want me to?” he asks, his breath hot on my skin as he dips his head to kiss a path from my neck to my breasts.
When his hands brush my skin, wrapping around my waist and then cupping my ass, I groan.
“Off,” I plead. “Just take them off, please.”
I want to, God I want to, but right now, I can’t even think straight. Bo smirks, stepping back and yanking his shirt over his head. His pants are easily pulled down to his feet.
“Commando?” I ask, eyeing his already erect cock standing at attention.
The laugh that comes out of him goes straight to my core. “Thought you might like that.”
What a fucking cocky bastard.
“When did you get so cocky?” I ask, his hands resuming their position on my ass and my arms going up to wrap around his neck, our bare bodies feeling amazing as they press together.
He tilts his head, like he’s really giving it some thought. “Oh, I don’t know...maybe three...
four months ago.” My lips curve into a smile as I lean in and place them on his jaw, which is still scruffy and feels amazing. Apparently, it’s hanging around until their winning streak ends. I’m hoping for it lasting the rest of the season.
After the shower sex, we opt for some indoor floor sex, and then some bed sex...and then sleep. We only have forty-eight hours in this secluded bungalow and by golly, we’re getting our money’s worth.
The next morning, before I can even get my body moving, my muscles feeling like Jell-O, my phone rings from the nightstand. Rolling over, I stretch, Bo’s arms tightening around me to keep me next to him. When my fingertips find the phone, I put it to my ear.
“Hello?”
“Charlotte,” Janice Hopper, my new manager, says. “This is Janice. Did I wake you?” Her tone is full of regret, something I never got from Terry.
Firing him two weeks ago was the third best day of my life.
The first was the day I became a mom, because even though I don’t get to raise my son, he’s out there in the world and I get the privilege of knowing I gave someone life.
The second day was the day I met Bo Bennett.
“No, Janice. I was already awake,” I tell her, pushing up to lean against the padded headboard...and can I just say, thank God it’s padded? My head is grateful. Smirking at the memory, I ask, “What’s up?”
“Well,” she says, drawing out the word. “I have some great news and it just couldn’t wait until you were back.”
Glancing down at Bo, I see him squinting up at me, a lazy smile on his face. Unable to stop, I lean down and kiss him...his cheek, his nose, the side of his lips. “Good news?” I ask between kisses. “What kind of good news?”
“Three words,” she says, excitement evident in her tone. “MTV Music Awards.”
I sit back up, my eyes going wide. “What?”
