Extra Innings

by Michelle Lynn

  “Why are you here?” she asks, placing her pizza back on the plate.

  “I don’t know.” I shake my head and stand to my feet. “Making a fool of myself, I suppose.”

  I dump the half-empty water bottle into the trash can under the sink and grab my jacket off the chair, making a point to shrug my arms through each sleeve.

  “What are you talking about?” Her tone is curt and annoyed.

  Ignoring her, I move toward the back door. My hand covers the knob. I should turn the metal. I need to remove myself from this situation.

  I whip around to face her. “Why did you completely shut me out?” I ask.

  The not-surprised look on her face tells me, she knew this question would be asked. That it’s probably the reason she started scratching her neck when she entered the house.

  “Brax.”

  The sound of my shortened name shouldn’t ignite a rush of flutters in my stomach. That shit is for chicks, and I’m no chick.

  “Answer the question,” I say, completely turning my shoulders her way now.

  Fuck this.

  I’m here.

  She’s here.

  We’re finishing this shit, whether it’s good or bad.

  “We agreed. Summer fun.”

  Yeah, we agreed, after summer, our fling would be over. I can’t dispute the fact that we were on the same page, but things developed.

  “Summer.” The word leaves my lips like an unpleasant memory.

  Her eyes turn to her pizza, and I’m certain her reaction is from my tone.

  Summer was fun. If I’m honest, those were the best months of my college life. And I don’t want to brag, but that’s a hell of a compliment to a girl who disappeared on me, never answering phone calls or the doorbell come the first day of classes.

  “I was clear. After summer, I needed to concentrate. I have a year and a half before med school.” Her two fingers pick at the pepperoni, disposing each piece onto her plate. Her eyes never reach mine. “Not to mention, you have things of your own during the year.”

  “And I was willing to make room for you.”

  “Room?” she huffs, her eyes narrowing to mine for the first time. “Thanks for the gesture to pencil me in.”

  “Fuck, Ainsley, you know what I mean.”

  She stands, her chair scraping along the floor. “Yeah, I get what you mean. That I could be your Friday night girl? Maybe I’d be blessed, and you’d rock my world after partying with your friends. Well, no, thanks, Braxton Brentwood.”

  I look down at myself and then to her. “What am I missing? I spent every free minute I had with you last summer.”

  “Yeah, in the summer, this town is dead. Not much to choose from.” She swings open the fridge door, grabbing a beer and twisting the top open with her hand.

  Since when does she drink beer?

  “And I fucking chose you. If you hadn’t done some voodoo vanishing act, my dick would be inside you right now.” I pull open the fridge and grab one of her beers.

  She shoots me a disgusted look, but I turn the top with my palm and down a hefty gulp.

  “And then at the end of the year? When you enter the draft?” she questions, propping herself up onto the counter, the bottle to her lips.

  The damn draft. Like I want to think about that shit right now.

  “What about it? Did I propose to you in my sleep or something?”

  “This is pointless.” She hops down, taking her beer with her. “It was a summer fling, Braxton. Casual could be your middle name. I’m not sure why you even care.”

  I stalk toward her, nudging her body until she’s backed into the corner of her counters. “Why are you fighting this?” I peer down at her.

  Her chest heaves, and her eyes are zoomed in on her feet. I take my fingers and rest them under her chin, urging her head up to look at me. I’m not prepared for her dead eyes. I would bet my MLB career that she wants my lips on her in this second, but she’s able to hide it under the disguise of indifference.

  “Stop.”

  “So, me being this close does nothing for you?” I ask.

  Her breasts rise and fall.

  “You aren’t remembering this exact position, months ago, when I lifted my T-shirt off your body, laid you spread-eagle on the counter, and had you for dinner?”

  A dim light appears in her eyes.

  “Or the time I stripped you naked, and we couldn’t make it to the bedroom before I bent you over the couch?”

  The dimness flicks with a flame.

  “How about we go back to memory lane in my truck when you unzipped my pants on the highway? Let’s talk about those times.”

  I cross my arms, blocking her from escaping.

  That fire that I thought for sure would be roaring to life is nothing more than embers now.

  “It was sex, Braxton. That’s all.” No hesitancy in her voice.

  Boy, doesn’t that feel like an uppercut to the jaw?

  “Okay.” I step away from her, but she stays in the corner. “I guess I was wrong then.”

  I swing my keys around my finger and head to the back door.

  Go. Walk out the door.

  But my hand won’t turn the knob.

  “I’ll make sure to keep my distance from now on,” I say, facing the back door.

  “Brax,” she sighs.

  I turn around one last time.

  “Let me pay you for the pizza.” She walks over to their cash container.

  “That’s okay. I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you any more with my presence.” I open the door before slamming it shut behind me.

  I’m in my truck and backing out of her driveway before she has time to follow.

  Fuck her and her damn smoking body.

  6

  Ainsley

  As Braxton backs up his truck, the memory of the first time I witnessed him driving down my driveway rushes to mind. When he showed me he was so much more than just a ballplayer.

  I roll to my side, a small stream of light pouring through the blinds. I squint and sit up, glancing over at the clock.

  “Eight o’clock,” I murmur as I swing my legs over the bed. “Oh, shit.” My head feels like someone drilled a hole in it.

  I blink my eyes a zillion times. Then, I open my side drawer to grab my pain meds to hopefully stop the migraine from setting in. I shake the container, and two small pills sit in my palm as I reach for the water bottle.

  Why is it cold?

  I shrug, open the bottle, and shove the pills into my mouth. My mouth is unusually dry this morning, so I proceed to chug the entire water bottle.

  “Impressive,” a deep voice says from the corner.

  The water bottle drops from my hand, and I scurry on my bed and grab my pillow, preparing to feather the person to death.

  “Whoa!” he says, raising his hands and standing up.

  “Braxton Brentwood?” I ask, narrowing my eyes, as though he’s a mirage.

  “The one and only.” His cocky voice is so fucking full of himself.

  “Why are you in my bedroom? And shirtless?”

  Not that I want him to put one on. The look works for him. His pecs and biceps are perfect. Every muscle is so perfectly defined that you’d think he was actually sculpted out of clay. I mean, what deals were made with the devil for this man to look like Adonis?

  “Look down.” He’s casual with a smirk as big as the state of Texas on his mouth.

  His eyes dip down to my shirt, so I follow.

  Please say I have clothes on.

  I look down to find I am covered.

  Thank God.

  But I’m in his T-shirt.

  “Why?” I pull it from my skin to investigate. It has to be his because I don’t own a Ridgemont baseball T-shirt that says, Keep Swinging. I like the cool breeze.

  “You stripped off yours.” That cocky grin goes up another level.

  I swallow down the cotton ball in my throat. “Oh.” I slyly move my hand up my thigh hoping to f
eel my underwear at the very least.

  No pants, no feel of a skirt.

  Phew, panties in place.

  “Yeah, you finally passed out after the skirt.”

  A heat rushes up my body, each limb warming, like I just walked in front of a fireplace.

  “Let me change, and you can have your shirt back.” I step off the bed and dig some yoga pants and a T-shirt out of my drawer.

  “It’s okay. I don’t need the shirt.”

  No. No, you don’t.

  I turn around, finding him approaching closer. I rack my brain for any remembrance of last night. I concentrate down south to feel if we had sex. Something tells me that Braxton Brentwood leaves a mark after he’s been inside of you.

  Nothing.

  “We didn’t screw,” he says.

  My shoulders must fall because he chuckles at the relief I must be showing.

  “You did give me a lap dance though.”

  All my movements stop, and I stare at him. His blue eyes glimmer, his lips still torturing me with that smirk.

  I swallow again, realizing I need another bottle of water.

  “I did?” I question, my voice low.

  “No, just a striptease.”

  I inhale a breath. “Excuse me while I go hide out in the bathroom.”

  I turn and step toward my bathroom, but his hand clasps my elbow.

  “Hey, you’re the first girl who has stripped for me that I didn’t sleep with,” he says.

  “Great. That’s an ego booster. Thanks for that piece of info.” I slap on a fake smile.

  His hand drops, and then he tucks it into his pocket. “I meant it as a good thing. That you didn’t have to worry. We didn’t do anything. I mean, all those nightmare stories of athletes, and I just…” He takes a deep breath, and his chest rises and falls. Then, his eyes glue to mine. “I didn’t want you to think I’d do that. You know, take advantage.”

  My heart pitters, seeing this side of him. I’ve seen Braxton Brentwood around campus, usually surrounded by a group of girls. I’ve never had a class with him, but rumor is, he flirts with the professors—women and men—to pull up his grades. So, the fact that he’s standing in front of me, almost stuttering to make his point, makes my heart react in a way it shouldn’t.

  “Okay,” I mumble. “Thanks.”

  He nods as our eyes fix on one another. His eyes are like the blue sky on a summer day, where there aren’t any clouds for miles and families venture to the park for picnics and to fly kites.

  “I should get going,” he says. “I left your key on the kitchen table. I left your folded clothes on the chair.” He glances back.

  I follow his vision to my skirt and tank top from last night.

  “Oh my God.” I cup my hand over my mouth. “Last night.”

  This entire conversation, I didn’t really bother to wonder why Braxton Brentwood was in my room. I mean, I got the whole part that he must have been with me last night, but now, the walk by him, the way he pulled me onto his lap, baseball on the television, and the taste of cinnamon ring a bell.

  “You were stuck taking care of me?” I ask. “Where’s Ariana?”

  “Um…” He pauses. “She stayed back at the bar with Derek. She gave me your key and told me where you lived.”

  I can tell from his tone that he’s as confused as I am as to why she did that.

  “Oh.”

  I shouldn’t be surprised. Ariana has always been out for one person—herself. But I guess I thought, the first time I lost control and wasn’t able to get home, she’d maybe feel like paying me back once for the fifty times I’d saved her. Instead, she gave the captain of the baseball team the key to my house and asked him to take me home. I can’t even think about it right now.

  “I’ll just get out of your way.” Braxton moves to slide by me since I’m blocking his path

  “Was I…”

  He stops and turns at the door. The look in his eyes is one of apology and sympathy. I hate that look.

  “How bad was I?” I ask.

  His lips don’t dip up, and he has no snappy comeback.

  “You were passed out, but, Ainsley…” His hand reaches for me. It is softer than I expected and warm. “You have no worries. I promise you, I would never.”

  “Then, I’m lucky that it was you she stranded me with.” The bitterness in my tone can’t be masked.

  “Yes, you are.”

  I’m not sure if it’s his clarification to the fact that my closest friend is a selfish person who threw me to the wolves, but suddenly I feel alone in this world.

  I nod, gripping my yoga pants and T-shirt to my chest. “Thank you,” I say.

  “You’re welcome.” The corners of his mouth tip up, and we share a smile. “I should go.”

  I shake my head, clearing the thought that there was a moment between us.

  “Hold on. I’ll get you your shirt.” I walk toward the bathroom.

  “Nah, I have plenty. Keep it.”

  I turn once more, finding his hands in his pockets now, his head tipped down a little, but he’s looking at me through his eyelashes.

  “I’ll wash it and drop it off?”

  He chuckles. “Man, what do I have to do for you to keep it? I mean, usually, chicks steal my shit.”

  I giggle, way too much like a schoolgirl than I should. “Why do you want me to keep it?” I fist my hair back and then swing it to the side of one shoulder.

  His eyes heat, staring at my exposed neck. “Since you’re so eager to give it back, I feel like it’s a challenge to get you to keep it.”

  I shake my head. “Well, if it makes you feel better, I’ll keep it. I’m sure it’d make a great dust rag.”

  His eyes widen until he sees my face, and I’m about a second away from bursting out in laughter.

  “Well, I doubt it’s ever been used as one, so good luck with that.”

  He winks, and my stomach flips a little.

  “Hold on. I’ll walk you out.” I run into the bathroom, securing myself inside. I throw on my yoga pants and pour some mouthwash into my mouth before gargling and spitting. Fingering my hair, I end up grabbing a ponytail holder to secure it back.

  When I leave the confines of the bathroom, Braxton is perusing my bookshelf. He turns my way before he starts walking toward the bedroom door.

  “I really appreciate you taking care of me last night. I’m not usually like that. Ariana asked me to go out, and I normally decline, but I said yes, thinking I’d have one drink and then go home.”

  “You had about half of a bottle,” he says dryly.

  I’m not sure if he’s joking or not. But my lack of memory says that he could be telling the truth.

  “Like I said, that’s not me. Really.”

  I walk down the stairs, and he follows me. I swear, I feel his eyes on me. He can’t be staring at my ass since his T-shirt hangs too far down. Still, Braxton Brentwood isn’t the guy I thought he was.

  “You know, you aren’t the first college girl to drink too much. It doesn’t make you a bad person.” He stays on my heels as we round the corner into my family room.

  I spot my house key on the kitchen table, remembering I tucked it into my bra last night. Quickly, my face heats.

  “Um, how did you find the key?” I ask.

  He laughs. “I had to get in somehow.” He shrugs, and a boulder drops in my stomach. “Relax.” He steps closer, dipping his head to find my eyes. “Ariana at least did that for me.”

  “Thank God,” I whisper.

  He laughs another deep rumble that turns the boulder to butterflies.

  “Well, Ainsley with no last name, last night was a pleasure.” He digs his keys out of his pocket and walks to the back door.

  There sits his big black truck, parked in my driveway. Everyone on this campus knows Braxton Brentwood’s truck, and if anyone saw it in my driveway, I know what they’d assume. Then, I remind myself that it’s summer, so campus is sparse.

  “Thank you again
. If I can ever repay you, let me know.”

  He glances over his shoulder with a look that says, You don’t need to repay me, and I doubt I’ll ever need you to.

  “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind. Actually”—he pulls his phone out—“I don’t have your phone number.” His fingers are poised and ready.

  I’ll probably be one on a list of hundreds, maybe thousands. Hell, Ainsley isn’t that popular of a name, but he could still have more than one listed.

  “You want my number?” I ask, wishing my voice didn’t sound so surprised.

  You’re gorgeous, Ainsley. He’d be lucky to have your phone number.

  Then, my other side says, He’s Braxton Brentwood. And we swore off men, remember?

  “How else are you going to repay me the favor?” He laughs, as though he’s not truly asking for my number for that reason.

  I rattle off my number, and then I hear my phone ding on the kitchen table.

  “You have mine, too. Call me the next time your friend deserts you. And I think you might want to make a new friend.” He waggles his eyebrows a few times.

  I nod. Isn’t that the truth?

  He opens up my back door. With one foot on the cement, he looks back to me, and I step closer to the door.

  “See you, Ainsley.” He walks down the cement stoop and to his truck.

  My heart wreaks havoc with me as I watch him climb into his truck, shirtless with only his shorts on from last night. He rolls down the window, his arm hanging out, as he glances at the mirrors to back out of my driveway.

  He doesn’t wave, and he never looks back at me.

  Damn, he’s so hot, and I find myself wishing that he’ll actually use my number.

  7

  Ainsley

  Anatomy class might actually be my demise. Doctor? Puh, whatever. Don’t get me wrong. I got the whole femur and skull lingo. It’s all the little bones that I can’t keep straight. Ethan Birkwood knows his shit and loves to shoot me that condescending look each time I say the wrong one. He can take his doctor father and mother and head on over to Harvard. I don’t give a shit.