The Trade

by Quinn, Meghan

  That won’t be happening, not now, not when my teammates are in the dugout behind me, screaming and yelling my name to take charge, proving that they have my back no matter what.

  I dig my feet into the batter’s box, ready myself, and look to the pitcher. Two balls, one strike. It’s a tricky count because the pitcher doesn’t want to get another ball, but they also have a leg up on me with one strike. He’s going outside, I can feel it in my bones. I can feel it in the way I can sense the catcher moving behind me. Being a left-handed hitter in a park with a deep left field, it would be smart to pitch me outside, not inside when right field has a short porch, one that I’ve taken advantage of many times.

  Standing tall and setting his hands, Yang looks over to Marcus, checking his lead at first and then looks back at me. His foot rises and he sends a screaming fastball to the outside corner of the plate. Waiting a millisecond, I let the ball travel into the strike zone, just deep enough to punch it to the opposite side of the field. I take off running as the crowd falls silent. Marcus is on the run, and I look up at the ball in time to see it sail over the left field wall.

  Holy Fuck.

  And then there’s cheers . . . but only for a second before the fans realize exactly what happened. The guy they hate, the guy they can’t stand, he just secured the division title for their team. I round second as a collection of boos sound off in the stadium and I’m just . . . fuck . . . it’s funny.

  Really?

  They hate me that much?

  When I round third, I fist-bump my third base coach and see my teammates jumping up and down like maniacs at home plate, sunflower seeds and gum being flung all over the field. And there’s a giant cooler of Gatorade waiting to be poured over my head.

  They start chanting “the boss,” and when I hit home plate, for the first time this season, I allow myself to enjoy the moment. I chuck my helmet, spread my arms wide, and let the Gatorade be dumped over me as my foot touches home plate. The guys then jump on top of me. Jason kisses my cheek, Maddox shakes my shoulders, and it’s one of the best moments I’ve ever experienced as the fans boo me. They boo me so fucking hard.

  We’re headed to the playoffs. Fucking long-ass season, and we’re now headed to the playoffs. We have the W this year. It’s going to be a long October, but I can feel it. We’re going to the World Series.

  “Cory, the on-field correspondent would like to talk to you.”

  I glance to where they have an old Rebels player posed with a mic in front of his mouth, waiting to project my voice to the entire stadium. This is the first time they’ve asked me to talk, and I feel like I shouldn’t. Maddox and Jason notice my hesitation and quickly get behind me, propelling me toward Hank waiting with a mic.

  “We’re behind you,” Jason says, and he’s right, I can feel Jason and Maddox standing behind me, followed by the rest of my team.

  It’s such an overwhelming feeling, knowing how far I’ve come from last season to now, to have the respect of the guys I can call brothers on the field. It means everything to me, and even though the fans still seem to hate me, it doesn’t really matter at this point.

  When the boos grow exponentially louder, Maddox leans into my ear and says, “Fuck them. Literally . . . fuck them.”

  I chuckle just as Hank’s mic goes live and he asks, “Cory Potter, you just hit a walk-off homerun to win the division title for the Rebels. What are you feeling?”

  The boos still sound off as I try to talk over them into the mic. Hands on my hips, head bent forward, I say, “Just happy I had a piece in helping this team make it to the playoffs this year.”

  “I wouldn’t say just a piece. You’re leading the entire league in homeruns, batting average, and RBIs, a record-breaking season as an individual player and at thirty-five, how do you do it?”

  I grip Hank on the shoulder and say, “I don’t know, why don’t you ask the media? They sure seem to know exactly what I’m doing all the time.”

  Jason hollers behind me as Maddox laughs loud enough for me to hear him over the crowd.

  Hank smiles and then looks up at the stands, the noise growing. Shaking his head, he says, “What do you have to say to the fans that continue to boo you despite the accomplishments you’ve achieved this year for their team?”

  Looking out at the packed stadium, I take a second to soak it all in. The hatred, the name-calling, the false reports, the horrendous pictures that have been spread all over the Internet. Then I catch Maddox out of the corner of my eye. He gives me a brief nod, before I take a deep breath and lean down to the mic again.

  “What do I have to say to the fans that keep booing me?” Smiling, I say, “They can take the bat I just used to hit this team to victory and shove it right up their asses.” Straightening, I lift both hands and flip off the entire stadium right before my teammates all pile on top of me, all laughing and offering me praises for finally sticking it to the tenth man.

  And it takes me a second to hear it past the riot of my teammates, but once it dies down, for the first time since I stepped foot in this stadium, I’m not hearing a collection of boos. They’re cheering? Fucking cheering?

  “Holy fuck, that was awesome,” Jason says next to my ear, helping me stand up from the ground. “I’m going to kiss you.”

  “Don’t fucking kiss me.” I sidestep Jason’s attempt to pull me in just as Maddox wraps his arm around my shoulder and squeezes me tight.

  “Hell, I might kiss you.”

  “Not if I get to him first,” Marcus says, stepping up with puckered lips. I jump away from both of them, still on the field, everyone watching us and that’s when I hear it . . . a chant.

  Standing tall, I scan the crowd trying to understand what they’re saying. As people pick it up, the rest of the stadium starts to join in.

  “What are they saying?” I ask Maddox who stands next to me.

  We both listen carefully as it grows louder and louder.

  Clap clap . . . clap clap clap.

  We’re . . .

  “We’re what?” I ask Jason, who listens carefully and then snorts, laughing so hard that he bends at the waist holding his knees.

  Clap clap . . . clap clap clap.

  We’re bent over. Clap clap . . . clap clap clap.

  We’re bent over. Clap clap . . . clap clap clap.

  “We’re bent over?” I ask with a pull to my brow. “What the fuck does that mean?”

  Maddox and Marcus both hold on to each other, laughing as Jason grips my shoulder and says between a fit of giggles—yes, giggles—“Because you told them to shove your bat up their ass. They’re bent over.”

  Ohhh.

  My head falls back as a laugh rips through my chest and up my throat. Oh fuck, apparently all I had to do was tell them to pretty much fuck off and I would win their “affection.” Who knew?

  After a good laugh, I walk off the field with my boys, but not before giving the crowd another flip off and heading into the dugout. Hell, it felt good, really fucking good. So good that I have the motivation and the courage to move forward in my life, to stop living in this purgatory and get what I truly want: Natalie.

  I shower quickly, change into a suit, and then head out to my car where Maddox catches me. He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he gives me a slight head tilt and then hops into his black Ford 1969 Mustang Boss, no motorcycle today. He revs the engine and then peels out of the parking lot without a second glance. The look he gave me spoke a thousand words: it’s time.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  NATALIE

  “I can’t stop crying,” I say into the phone. “I feel like such a boob, but I seriously can’t stop crying.” I wipe away the fresh tears that just cascaded down my cheek.

  “Yeah, I got emotional too,” Monica says. She called me the minute Cory hit the ball out of the park, sending the Rebels straight to the playoffs.

  God, I can still see it, the determination in his eyes despite the fans booing him, the grip of the bat in his hands as he step
ped up into the batter’s box, the strong set of his shoulders, and the most powerful swing I think I’ve ever seen. I held my breath as I watched the ball travel farther and farther back until it went into the stands.

  A strangled sound came out of my mouth as I jumped off my couch and cheered. Happiness consumed me as I watched him round the bases, as Jason’s face came on the screen, him screaming and yelling like an idiot, tossing gum everywhere like it was confetti. I don’t think I’ve ever felt such joy, and then the fans showed their true colors and once again, I was disheartened. He just won the game, sent the Rebels to the playoffs, and that’s how they’re going to treat him?

  Granted, he hurt me and I’m still having a hard time dealing with the fact that he thought of me as expendable, but I’m human, and I can recognize when someone needs a break, when we need to give credit where credit’s due. Cory has come so far and they couldn’t even cheer for him.

  But then the best thing happened. He told everyone to shove his bat up their ass.

  And that’s where I lost it, because when they started chanting for him, I saw pure joy on his face. So much joy.

  “Jason’s going to be uncontrollable,” I say, thinking about how excited he was on the field and then how much more excited he’s going to be in person. It’s going to be obnoxious.

  “Yeah, good luck with that. Hey, are you doing anything? Want to come over for cake?”

  “Cake?” I laugh. “You just have cake at your house?”

  “Black forest. I was craving it.”

  “Black forest sounds—”

  Ding-dong.

  “Was that your doorbell?” Monica asks.

  “Yeah. Give me a second.” In my leggings, long-sleeved Rebels shirt, and slippers, I pad across the hardwood floors of my apartment and open the door. My breath catches in my throat when I see a tall man in a suit standing on the other side, but not just any tall man.

  Cory.

  Cory Fucking Potter

  “Are you being abducted? What’s happening?”

  Swallowing and staring at the man with the most brilliant blue eyes I’ve ever seen, I say, “It’s, uh . . . it’s Cory. I have to go.”

  “Oh, sweet Jesus, call me immediately after.”

  I hang up and place my phone on the end table in my entryway. Trying to be as casual as possible, I grip the door and say, “Hi.”

  Very classy.

  Very simple.

  With the darkest expression, he gives me a slow once-over, his eyes trailing from my slippers, up my legs, to my breasts and then my face. His deep black lashes frame his icy-blue eyes, making them stand out like beacons of light in a dark abyss.

  “Can I come in?”

  I look behind me, as if I have company, and say, “Uh . . . sure.”

  I open the door wider and quickly swipe at my eyes, hoping there are no remnants of tears. When he steps into my apartment, it feels like the walls shrink around us, his broad stature soaking up all the air. I shut the door and lean against it, wondering what the hell he’s doing here and trying not to let my mind run away from me.

  Instead of looking around my apartment, his eyes are fixed on me. “Were you crying?” he asks.

  Shit.

  I swipe at my eyes again, and say, “No.”

  “Don’t lie.”

  “Pretty sure you don’t have any right to tell me what to do or not do,” I say before I can stop myself.

  He lowers his head and nods.

  Well, this is off to a fabulous start.

  Just when I think he might leave from the awkward silence, he takes off his jacket, revealing the tight button-up he’s wearing underneath. No joke, the fabric outlines his pecs, defining them perfectly, leaving me breathless and staring.

  He drapes his jacket over his arm, his sculpted arm, and then walks into my living space without another word. He takes a seat on the couch and looks at my TV, where I’m watching highlights of the game.

  Crap.

  I turn the TV off with the remote as quickly as I can, and say, “Is there a reason you’re here?”

  “You saw the game?” he asks, still staring at the blank screen.

  “Yes. My brother is on your team, after all.”

  He looks at me and takes in my shirt.

  “And you’re wearing a Rebels shirt?”

  “Yes, because of my brother.”

  “And you were crying.”

  I run my tongue over my teeth and take a deep breath. “What’s your point, Cory?”

  Hands clasped together in front of him, he looks up at me and says, “Jason showed me your text messages.”

  Shit. How many? Which ones?

  Wow . . . just . . .

  You know, I’ve never known what it feels like to want to murder someone, but here it is, plain as day, an overwhelming urge to murder. Knife slaughtering to the chest kind of “reet, reet” murder.

  Because I have no other defense, I say, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Cory stands from the couch and comes to me, eyes fixed on mine. “Asking if I’m okay, checking in on me, scared to talk to me . . .”

  Murder, so much murder.

  “Cory, I—”

  “I’m sorry,” he says quickly and then grabs the back of his neck. “I’m so fucking sorry, Natalie. Asking for a break, for a pause, it was by far the most monumental mistake of my entire life because the minute you walked out of that hotel room, I knew I needed you. I knew life was going to be exponentially harder without you in it. And fuck, it has been. I’ve been living in a goddamn nightmare and not because of the media and all the bullshit that came with the team, but because I didn’t get to come home to your beautiful smile or your comforting arms. Because I couldn’t get lost in your scent, in your body, in your heart. Since I pushed you away, it was like I pushed a piece of me away as well, and I haven’t been whole without you.”

  Tears well in my eyes, and I truly can’t believe after seven months, he’s here, standing in front of me, apologizing. Why so long? Why now?

  “It’s been seven months, Cory.”

  “I know.” He dips his head down. “I fucking know.”

  “Then why now?”

  “Because I was lost,” he answers without skipping a beat. “Even though I knew pushing you away was a big mistake, I thought that if I could just get the other half of my life under control, then I could come back to you, beg and plead for your forgiveness, but with each passing month, it was as if my life kept getting worse and worse—”

  “Until you passed out in the locker room.”

  “Yeah.” He breathes out a heavy breath. “It’s been a rough road.”

  “Cory, you have put your body through hell, all for what? To prove something to a bunch of fans that you could have told to fuck off months ago and would have earned their respect?”

  He licks his lips and says, “I know. I just . . . fuck.” He grips the back of his neck with both hands and stares at me. “I’ve never done this before, Natalie. And that’s no excuse, because I’ve had good examples of what a relationship is like, but the added pressure of the media and protecting you—fuck, Natalie, you could have been seriously hurt during spring training and that scared the living shit out of me. Something had to change, at least that’s what I thought was necessary. But I was stupid, because the one thing I needed the most was you.” Eyes watering, he says, “I still need you. Desperately.”

  Oh God. A tear falls down his cheek, and it’s my undoing. I can feel my wall start to crumble.

  “You’re the goddamn love of my life, the person I want to call mine. The girl I want to come home to. My heart. My fucking soul. I didn’t know you were something I even wanted until you walked into my life with a smile that lit me up inside. I didn’t know you were going to rock my world in St. Croix. Challenge me, make me a better goddamn human. I had no idea that when I pushed you away, I was slowly killing a piece of my soul, the piece that made me a better person.” He takes a step forward a
nd I freeze in place.

  If he touches me, I’ll crack, so I say the only thing I can think to protect whatever shield I have left. “You broke me, Cory. More than Ansel did. I felt so worthless, like I was just a fling in your life rather than someone who actually mattered. You made me feel like I could be replaced in the blink of an eye.”

  “You’re not, Natalie.” He pats his chest, right above his heart. “You’re so far deep in here, so far etched into my very being that you’re anything but replaceable. You’re goddamn indispensable.” He closes the space between us and cups my face, his thumb running over my cheek as tears fall in a rainfall of emotion. “I love you, Natalie. I need you. Please . . . fuck—” He chokes on a small sob and takes a deep breath. “Please tell me you still love me. Please tell me I still have a chance.”

  Through blurry eyes, I stare up at him, and in that moment, I realize despite the anger that I’ve been harboring for the past seven months, it has nothing on the love for this man I’ve been trying to hide. He might have hurt me, but he also made me feel alive again for the first time in years. He brought back my smile, my laugh, my ability to enjoy life again. And maybe it’s time I drop the wall I’ve been trying to build, muster up my courage, and take the leap of love one more time.

  Chest tight, my heart thumping against my ribs as nerves spread through my veins, I say, “I never stopped loving you, Cory.” I shake my head. “Never stopped.”

  Before another tear can fall, Cory pulls me into his chest, lifts my chin, and presses his lips against mine. It’s a frantic kiss, scared and also desperate as we both cling to each other. His tongue rolls over mine, his teeth sink into my lip, his hands roam my back, and my hands go to the buttons of his shirt.

  I start to undo them as he pulls my shirt up and over my head and unhooks my bra in a frenzy, before lifting me up and taking me straight to my bedroom. He lays me down, rolls my leggings off me along with my thong, and then disrobes himself as well until we’re both naked and rolling on top of my comforter.