The Perfect Catch

by Meghan Quinn

  Staring at the fire, he takes a sip of his water, keeping his eyes trained on anything but me. “What do you want to know?”

  Always straight to the point.

  “How about your favorite place to eat in Chicago?”

  Slowly he twists his head and raises his eyebrow. “How is that getting to know me?”

  “How is it not? Did you expect me to ask about all the deepest and darkest secrets of your childhood first?” I shake my head. “We have to build trust between each other first before we can move forward, and you build trust by slowly getting to know someone. So, let’s start easy. Where do you like to eat in Chicago?”

  His jaw slowly works back and forth as he mulls over his answer. Finally, ending the silence that painfully stretches between us, he says, “Eleven City Diner.”

  “A diner? That’s actually a little surprising.”

  He twists his cup on the armrest of his chair. “I don’t do fancy. I like simple things.”

  “I can agree with you on that. Fancy scares me and the portions are tiny with outrageous prices. Thank you for my pea that’s apparently worth two hundred dollars.” I laugh. He doesn’t. Ohh-kay. “What’s your favorite thing to order there?”

  “Depends,” he answers, his voice so deep that it almost feels as though it rattles my bones. “Breakfast, I always order the French toast. Any other meal is a pastrami sandwich with Matza ball soup and red velvet cake.”

  God, I should not find that answer adorable, but I do.

  Matza ball soup?

  Red velvet cake?

  His answer softens the jagged edges that surround him, sanding them down, if only slightly.

  “Oh, a sweets man. I would never have expected that.”

  “Only at Eleven.” He turns back to the fire and sips his water.

  How . . . cute.

  That this big, strong, intimidating man likes to sit down in a diner and eat cake. The thought warms my heart when it really shouldn’t.

  “I’m a carrot cake kind of girl myself.”

  His brow raises. “Really?”

  I nod. “There’s something about having a vegetable in my cake that makes me feel much better about eating it. Plus, cream cheese frosting is my jam.”

  “Red velvet cake has cream cheese frosting.”

  “But no carrots. That’s a very important factor, and if you really want to get crazy, some of the best carrot cake I’ve ever had has also contained nuts and coconut. A total delicacy.”

  He slowly nods but doesn’t say anything, just stares at the fire in front of us.

  “Have you ever had carrot cake?” I ask lamely. Of course he has. Any grown human would probably have had carrot cake by now.

  “I have.”

  “Did you like it?”

  His eyes connect with mine. “Eleven has carrot cake. Sometimes I get that instead of red velvet.”

  I gasp dramatically and press my hand to my heart. “Oh dear, Walker, did we just become cake pals?”

  He turns away and says, “No.”

  “Of course we did.” I reach out and poke his arm, his very muscular and stiff arm. His eyes land on the spot where I touched him and then lift up to me. Good God, don’t touch him, Kate. “Or maybe we can hold off on the whole ‘cake pals’ thing. Might be too much, too fast.”

  “Good call,” he says.

  “Have you ever made a cake?” I ask, desperately reaching for any topic of conversation.

  He studies me for a few breaths and then asks, “Is that what you really want to ask me? If I’ve ever made a cake?”

  God, he must think I’m so stupid. But since I’m already here, I might as well keep digging that hole of stupidity. “Yeah, it’s a simple question you should be able to answer.”

  “Why is it a question that needs to be answered?”

  “Shows me what your domestic capacity is, you know, in case something ever comes along where we need a Bobbie player to bake a cake.”

  “When has that situation ever come up?”

  I shrug, keeping up with this idiotic rabbit trail. “You never know. With today’s social media and the attempt to go viral with everything you post, baking a cake could bring us the kind of viewership we’re looking for.”

  His sharp eyes look away and he lifts his glass of water. He takes a sip, swallows, and then says, “Yes, I’ve baked a cake before.”

  I rub my hands together. “Oh yeah, this is good stuff. Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  He turns to me, his eyes serious when he says, “Don’t even think about having me set up shop behind home plate to teach people how to bake a goddamn cake.”

  I snort and quickly cover my nose from how dead serious he is. “I would never.”

  “Yeah . . . sure.”

  Chapter Eleven

  WALKER

  I wish I could read that smirk of hers better. Is she laughing at me or is my answer entertaining?

  And why the fuck did I mention the red velvet cake?

  Maybe because the minute I thought of Eleven, my mouth began to salivate. I wasn’t lying when I said I wasn’t a sweets man, but for some reason, their cakes get me every goddamn time.

  Things Kate Chapman doesn’t need to know.

  Or maybe she does.

  Who fucking knows at this point? I’m still lost as to why I’m sitting in front of a fireplace with her, eating burgers and fries and talking about random crap rather than business.

  But being the recluse that I am, the company is nice. In fact, when was the last conversation I had with a woman not baseball related?

  The waitress dropped off our food a few seconds ago so I pop a fry in my mouth. I’m not completely inept when it comes to social interactions. I know how to hold a conversation, pretty good at it, actually, but when I’m around Bobbies staff, I feel awkward. Uncomfortable. Angry. I don’t want these people to get to know me. I don’t want to be their friends. Only a few choice people actually know who I truly am, what I’ve been through.

  Kate is putting off the vibe of wanting to be one of those choice people. Which—sorry, babe, not going to happen. But from the eagerness in her eyes and the lean of her body language, I know I’m not going to get out of here without engaging in conversation, so I try to ease the tension building up inside of me and ask, “What about you? Where’s your favorite place to eat in Chicago?” I’ll pretty much ask anything to steer away from the ideas I know are forming in her head over the damn cake baking.

  “I thought you’d never ask,” she replies with a dreamy look in her eyes. “The Meaty Legend deep dish from Gino’s.” She fans her face. “Lord Almighty, I could take down an entire pie by myself.”

  “So, not a vegetarian,” I say, making her laugh, even though a second ago I watched her bite into her burger.

  But that laugh . . . throaty and sexy. So sexy.

  She nudges my foot with hers. “You can joke, imagine that.” I roll my eyes. “Totally not a vegetarian. I love meat way too much.”

  “Gino’s is good. The ratatouille deep dish is my favorite.”

  “Really? I would’ve pegged you as a Meaty Legend kind of guy.”

  “A legend in the meat department for sure,” I answer, taking a bite out of my burger.

  Kate’s mouth falls open. “Wow,” she says, blinking a few times. Hell, I don’t blame her. I’m surprised the comment flew past my lips too. Weirdly, Kate is making me feel comfortable, something I need to be acutely aware of. “And here I thought you weren’t as conceited as the other guys on the team, just a dick.”

  Starting to feel more at ease, I say, “If you’re not a little conceited as a baseball player, then you’re never going to make it.”

  “So, you’re saying it’s your job to be full of yourself?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then how come you’ve been hanging your head in the dugout lately?”

  Insightful. Not sure I like it.

  “What happened to skimming the surface?”

  “You
’re right,” she answers and clears her throat. “That’s too deep of a question. We’ll get back to that question at a later date.”

  Or we won’t.

  “How often do you go on vacation?” she asks casually.

  “Not enough.”

  “Do you leave Chicago during the off-season? Your social media presence is lacking.”

  “Because I couldn’t care less about posting shit about my life.”

  “I could tell when you sent me that screenshot of you at the nursing home. After I got the email, I looked over your profile and saw your last post was from three months ago and it was a leaf you found on the ground that, in your words, had a striking resemblance to Ed Sheeran.” She scoffs. “I didn’t see it.”

  I internally chuckle. That fucking leaf had Ed Sheeran written all over it. It was a popular fucking post.

  “Clearly you didn’t look hard enough.”

  “It was an absurd post that weirdly made me laugh.”

  “Then why are you hating on my leaf?”

  “Because you need to post more things like that. Like when you’re on vacation, post seashells you find that look like Ryan Reynolds.”

  “Fans don’t need to know where I am every waking hour of the day.”

  “No, but a small post or story here and there will humanize you a lot more than you think.”

  “There were a lot of likes on my Ed Sheeran leaf.”

  “More than I expected.” She laughs. “It was good.” She leans forward and takes a bite of her burger. Not an ounce of shyness as ketchup clings to the side of her mouth. That’s refreshing. “But back on topic—where do you like to go on vacation?”

  I pick up a napkin and reach across to snag the drop of ketchup off her face. Surprised, she shyly takes the napkin I hand her, her eyes trained on me.

  I look away.

  Clear my throat.

  “When I go on vacation—which is rare—I like to go up to my cabin on Fox Lake.”

  “Oh, it’s gorgeous up there. I’ve been a few times with friends. You know, a wino weekend with the girls. You familiar?”

  “Yup.” I down the rest of my water. “Always going on those wino trips with the girls.”

  She wags her finger at me. “I knew you were. Seriously, though, do you drink wine?”

  “Not much of a drinker at all,” I answer.

  She doesn’t respond right away; instead, she tilts her head to the side and studies me. “Let me guess—the decision not to drink comes from something deep-rooted in the marrow of your bones that has shaped your soul over time, something you’re not interested in talking about over burgers and fries with your community events coordinator.”

  I tip my drink toward her. “Perceptive.”

  She dusts her shoulders off like a geek. “You know, I do tend to pick up on things pretty quickly. But, you know, if you ever want to dive deep into that conversation, I’m always here.”

  “Never going to happen.”

  She holds her hands up. “Now, now, now, never say never. We’re cake pals, after all. We could very well become confidantes.”

  “We are not cake pals.”

  “That’s what you say now, but after all of this is said and done and you’re upstairs in your hotel room recollecting our conversation, the smallest of smirks will tilt up your lips, and in your head—because you’ll never mutter the words out loud—you’ll admit that you are in fact cake pals with Kate Chapman.”

  “Are you always this hyper?”

  “You think I’m hyper right now?” She shakes her head. “This is me relaxed.”

  “Jesus,” I mutter. “Then you’re a lot to handle.”

  “I would actually say I’m an optimistic, positive, glass-half-full kind of girl. You know, the empathetic person you always cling to in your life because their heart is warm and you find comfort in that. Do you have someone like that in your life?”

  “Can’t say that I do,” I answer, knowing damn well that I used to—my sister, Dawn.

  “Well, see, now you can say that you do. This dinner might be the best thing that ever happens to you. Cake pal, warm-soul friend, convenient conversationalist, that’s me. I’m your girl. And since I know that you’re a glass-half-empty kind of guy—don’t even deny it, it’s written in the scowl on your forehead—I know that I can be quite an attribute to your arsenal. You’re going to want me on your side, Walker Rockwell.”

  “You’re awfully confident.”

  “So, it’s okay for you as a baseball player to be overly confident and cocky, but a measly community events coordinator like myself can’t have an ounce of confidence? Hmm?” She folds her arms over her chest and playfully stares me down.

  “Where the hell did the Bobbies find you?” I ask, taking another sip of my water.

  She smiles brightly. “I take that as a compliment.” She leans forward. “And I found them, they didn’t find me.”

  Chapter Twelve

  KATE

  Color me shocked.

  SHOCKED!

  Walker Rockwell, Mr. Cranky Pants himself, has a sense of humor.

  And a good one.

  Why doesn’t he ever show this off? If marketing knew Walker was actually a good time, they would be eating that up. They always do. It’s why Cutler constantly has a lot of the spotlight on him. He’s personable and the type of guy everyone wants to be friends with.

  If only the front office saw this side of Walker, they wouldn’t be thinking twice about trading him, as they’d be busy capitalizing on his personality in the best way possible.

  The grumpy good-time guy.

  I chuckle to myself, imagining Walker wearing a shirt with that slogan on it. He’d hate it, which would make it even funnier.

  “Do you fish?” he asks, breaking me out of my thoughts.

  “I do, and I’m absolutely terrible at it. I think I’ve caught five fish in all my years of trying. Fly-fishing is the hardest. I always end up tripping and filling my waders up with water, rendering them useless.”

  “I might have tripped a time or two.”

  “Not the almighty Walker Rockwell?” I feign shock.

  He lightly shakes his head and says, “When I was a teenager, not now.”

  “Of course not now. There’s no way you’d experience an ounce of humiliation at this time in your life.”

  He lifts his brow, a get real look on his face. “I went zero for four today, striking out like a sorry motherfucker, and horribly shoving my foot in my mouth in front of a respected soldier. Humiliation runs through my veins on a daily basis.”

  “Well . . . when you put it like that, that is humiliating.”

  “Not going to sugarcoat it for me?”

  “Not my job. I tell it like it is, and you sucked today.”

  He leans back in his chair, eyes trained on me. “Can’t argue with you on that.” The side of his jaw ticks and I can’t tell if he’s content or if he’s angry at my admission. If he’s angry, it wouldn’t be the first time. “One of the worst things about playing baseball is everyone is a critic when it comes to your job.”

  “But the millions in your bank account make up for that criticism.”

  He chuckles and, oh my God, it’s one of the best sounds I’ve ever heard.

  “The stacked bank account does help.” He shifts his large body, the chair squeaking beneath him.

  “And you know criticism only makes us stronger.”

  “Or it gets in your head and eats you alive,” he counters, head lowered. Oh. That’s . . . that’s very real.

  “Don’t let it,” I answer in a matter-of-fact tone.

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “It can be. You just overcomplicate things.”

  His brow raises in question. “Giving baseball advice now?”

  I pretend to examine my nails and say, “I’m all kinds of helpful.”

  “And you thought baseball players are cocky,” he scoffs.

  “Looks as if you guys are rubbing o
ff on me.” I wipe my hands on my napkin and turn toward Walker, bringing my feet up on my seat, a position the goliath of a man next to me would never be able to sit in. “If you could have dinner with three baseball players, past or present, who would they be?”

  The smallest of smiles peeks past his lips as he rubs his palm along his cheek.

  “Easy. Mickey Mantle, Derek Jeter, and Lou Gehrig.”

  “Bit of a Yankees fan growing up?”

  “Grew up in Indiana but fell in love with the Yankees. I was that kid.”

  “Any particular reason why those three? Mickey Mantle was known for drinking too much and womanizing, while Derek Jeter was one of the hardest working, clean-cut players of his generation. Quite a contrast.”

  “All Hall of Famers.”

  “So, have you always admired Mickey Mantle?”

  He shakes his head, surprising me. “He was magic on the baseball field, but that’s not why I want to have dinner with him. I want to ask him why.”

  “Why what?”

  The intensity in Walker’s eyes is electric, addicting, as he talks. He’s a man of few words, but when he does command the conversation, it’s like he commands your soul.

  He shifts in his seat. The usual pent-up tension in his shoulders has eased and he actually looks as if he’s relaxing a little. Finally.

  “I want to know why he spent his nights wasting away his talent. Why he didn’t stay healthy. Why he didn’t make the most of his talent.”

  “Oh . . .” I scan the room around us and then lean forward. “Do you think he’d tell you?”

  The lightest of chuckles pops out of Walker’s mouth as he shakes his head. “No, I don’t.”

  “Wasted dinner invite, then.”

  “Guess so.” He twists his water glass again, a tendency I’ve noticed. “What about you—who would you invite to dinner?”

  “Honestly?”

  He nods.

  Unapologetically, I say, “Giancarlo Stanton, Bryce Harper, and Kris Bryant.”

  Silence.

  He blinks.

  His brows pinch together.