by Meghan Quinn
She swings and hits the ball right back at me. I catch it with one hand and say, “One out.”
Huffing, she taps the plate again. “You don’t have to be so cocky about it, you know.”
“How is calling the outs cocky?”
“It’s not what you’re saying, it’s how you’re saying it.”
“This is how I normally talk.”
She whacks “home plate” hard and says, “Just pitch the ball.”
I toss it at her, and this time, she pops it up in the air. I take a few steps forward and catch it. She doesn’t even bother to run to first base because she knows there’s no point.
Irritated, she says, “Two outs, I know.”
“Last chance to score a run.” I hold up the ball, maybe finding a tiny amount of joy in our game.
“Yeah, you better watch out.” Instead of getting in her batter’s stance where her cute ass sticks out in the air, she walks up toward me and reaches up on her tiptoes to turn my hat backwards.
“What are you doing?” I ask, feeling caught off guard from the way the smell of her perfume invades my space.
Was not expecting that.
Nor was I expecting to like how she feels so close to me.
“It’s rally hat time.”
Fuck, she’s adorable.
Regaining my composure, trying not to show her how much she just rocked me, I say, “You have to flip the hat inside out as well in order for it to be a rally hat.”
“Well, then flip it.”
“Never. I respect my hat. I don’t treat it like shit.”
She stands back, a smile on her face. “Oddly, I respect that. The backwards rally hat will have to do.” She struts back to the plate, a little sway to her hips before she gets into position. “Okay, this is it, watch out, Rockwell.” She points the bat at me. “I’m coming for you.”
“Let’s see what you’ve got, Chapman.”
A huge smile crosses her face as she hunkers down and wiggles her butt.
Christ, that’s one hell of a distraction.
Zeroing in on the strike zone, I toss the ball, only for her to connect with it at just the right time for the ball to come back and hit me square in the head.
Boof.
“Oh my God. Are you . . .” She laughs and covers her mouth as I stare her down. “Are you okay?” More laughter.
Instead of answering, I chase after the ball, which causes her to squeal and start running toward first, laughing the whole way.
I pick up the ball and chuck it at her back, getting the last out to end this ridiculous game.
Bending over, hands on her knees, she laughs . . . hard, before lifting up and bringing her hand to her chest, humor taking over her body. “Oh God, I got you right between the eyes.” She waves her hand over her face as tears start to stream down. “You should’ve seen the look you gave me.” She does a horrible impression of someone getting hit and walking backwards, unbalanced. “Oh, that was priceless.”
I let her laugh a little longer, all the while mocking me, until finally I say, “You lost.”
“Big time, but the bet wasn’t about who won, it was about having fun.” Calmed down from her laughter fit, she walks toward me and wiggles her finger in my direction. “Admit it, you had fun.”
I turn away from her and head to the counter to stuff my wallet in my pocket and pick up my phone and keys. “I’m out. Make sure you email Audrey about Build-a-Bear.”
“What?” She runs up to me as I head for the door. “Wait, you can’t tell me you didn’t have fun.” She stands in front of me now, blocking my exit. “We joked, we teased, we played a very rousing round of baseball.”
“You joked, you teased, you lost. I’m getting a pizza and going home.” I move past her, not wanting to see the look of disappointment that I know is about to cross her features.
As I make my way out the door, I hear her quietly say, “Well, I had fun.” And that right there almost does me in.
I squeeze my hands into fists and continue walking. Keep moving, Rockwell.
Fuck . . . I had fun too, Kate. For the first time in . . . a decade—since my life went to shit—I had fun, too.
Chapter Eighteen
KATE
Feeling a little deflated.
No, that’s a lie.
I’m feeling VERY deflated and maybe slightly embarrassed.
Okay, I’m feeling very deflated and very embarrassed.
I thought yesterday was going to be so much fun and maybe get Walker to relax, loosen the stiffness in his shoulders that he carries every day, but the entire game, he was a stone wall. A very agile and athletic stone wall.
He didn’t crack a smile.
He didn’t laugh.
He didn’t look amused at all.
Instead, he went through the motions of playing the game I set up and, in the end, walked out. To say I was disappointed is an understatement. I thought that maybe at least I’d get something from him, anything, but instead, he grabbed his things and left. Oh, it was such a punch to the gut.
I don’t know why I expected more from him, though. After our conversation by the fire where it felt as if he was willing to open up and make a change, I had a feeling that I could really help turn around his career. But you can’t help someone change if they’re not willing to change themselves.
Walker isn’t willing.
Which is sad, because he’s truly loved by some of the fans—for some reason—and he’s become a Bobbies staple. I would hate to see him leave because he’s a stubborn mule.
“Hey, there you are,” Vivian says, running into me in the hallway. “Audrey wanted me to hand you the layout for today’s ceremonies. The wife of Staff Sergeant Conwell is throwing out the first pitch in honor of her husband tonight, who’s overseas.”
I take the paper and read it over. “Okay, anything special I need to tell Walker since he’ll be catching the ball?”
“Yeah, he’s not catching.”
“What? Did Hopkins pull him from the lineup?”
Vivian shakes her head as a big smile plays over her entire face. She leans forward and says, “Her husband is here, got here last night. He’s on leave and wanted to surprise his wife. He’s going to catch the pitch and then reveal himself after.”
I press my hand to my chest. “Oh God, really? That will make me cry. Damn it.” I snap my fingers. “I didn’t wear waterproof mascara today. Why didn’t Audrey give me the heads-up?”
“She wasn’t sure if he was going to make it or not, but when she got the call this morning that he arrived, we started spreading the word. Just make sure Mrs. Conwell doesn’t find out. We’re going to keep them in separate spaces. Staff Sergeant Conwell is going to meet some of the guys and then come out on the field.”
“Okay, great. Do I need to do anything?”
“I have it under control. Can you just let Walker know about the switch?”
Of course I have to go talk to him. I’ve been working with quite a few guys, helping Ryot with hospital visits, and Knox and Carson have been teaming up with local high schools and helping them with basic skills, but my interactions with them are email, over the phone, sometimes in person. For some reason, Walker is the only player I have to keep interacting with face to face.
I plaster on a smile. “Sure. Anything else?”
“That’s it.” Vivian makes an excited noise. “Oh, this is going to be so great. Hopefully it goes viral on YouTube. Everyone loves a good coming home story.”
“It’s true. Okay, I’ll go let Walker know. Thanks for keeping me in the loop.” We give each other a corny high five and then part.
The last thing I want to do is talk to Walker after yesterday’s “fun,” but it looks as though I don’t have a choice.
Steeling my shoulders back and trying to look as confident as possible, I make my way to the cafeteria. Walker, Ryot, and Gerry Fowler—the first baseman—all like to have a quick snack before the game. It’s tradition, and they never ch
ange it up, so I know exactly where to find Walker.
As I approach, I hear their voices trail through the hallway. See? Creatures of habit.
Before walking in, I adjust my shirt and pants, wanting to make sure everything is in place. This morning when I woke up and looked in the mirror, I had to do some heavy-duty primping before coming into work. I had dark circles under my eyes from tossing and turning all night. My hair was an absolute disaster and I looked dead tired.
I spent two hours trying to wake myself up and make myself presentable. Thank the good Lord for concealer, hydrogel under-eye recovery pads, and hot showers. I felt like a new woman when I walked out of my apartment. Now if I can only muster some of that confidence at the moment.
“Eavesdropping?” a voice says from behind, startling me. I turn around and see Penn leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.
“You startled me.” I chuckle.
He smiles that charming smile of his and says, “Then I did my job.”
Taking a small step away, I ask, “Are you ready for the game?”
“Never been more ready.”
I don’t believe him. His eyes are bloodshot and he has the faintest smell of alcohol on his breath. I give him a quick smile and move toward the cafeteria door. “Are you sure? Looks as though you had a bit of a rough night.”
He chuckles and pulls on the back of his neck. “Yeah, maybe I went a little hard, but I feel okay. Just need to drink some more electrolytes. I have a bottle in my locker waiting for me.”
“You have to pitch today and you kind of look like death.”
He wiggles his eyebrows. “Worried about me, Kate?”
Rolling my eyes, I start to walk away, but I call over my shoulder, “Good luck today.”
He pushes off the wall. “Don’t need luck, just talent.”
And boy does he have talent. So much talent that it almost feels unfair. He walks back toward the locker room without another word. So cocky.
I turn the corner into the cafeteria, where Walker, Gerry, and Ryot are dressed in their uniforms and eating apples and pretzels. The sight of them makes me inwardly laugh. Here are three grown-ass men, all hunched over a small table, delighting themselves in a preschool snack.
“Oh, good, Kate is here. She’ll have my back,” Ryot says when he spots me.
Head tilted down, Walker slowly lifts his eyes, his intense gaze shooting a wave of nerves up my spine.
Clearing my throat, I ask, “What’s going on?”
“These two jackasses are telling me that sending flowers to a girl every day of the week is creepy, not romantic.”
“That’s not creepy at all, it’s sweet.”
“They went out once, two weeks ago, and it was just for drinks,” Gerry points out.
Well . . . when it’s put that way . . .
I can’t hide the cringe. “Um, that might be a little desperate.”
“Told you,” Gerry says while laughing and standing from the table. He chugs the rest of his water and throws out his cup. “Come on, boys. Time to warm up.”
Ryot follows closely behind, and just as he starts to pass me, he asks, “You really think it looks desperate?”
Sadly, I nod. “Sorry, but maybe just call her instead. You might scare her away with all the flowers.”
“He already scared her away when he put his hand on her thigh within the first five minutes of the date,” Gerry shouts from the hallway.
Ryot chases after him. “She had a piece of lint on her pants. It was distracting.”
They’re absurd. Smiling, I turn back around to find Walker still sitting at the table, but now leaning back in his chair, his arm draped behind the back of his seat. His jersey stretches across his broad chest, the top few buttons undone, revealing his Under Armour shirt clinging tightly to his skin.
He tugs on the brim of his hat and asks, “Is there something you need?”
“Uh, yeah.” I clear my throat. “The first pitch today is going to be caught by someone else.”
“What?” he asks, shifting in his chair, his hand falling to the table and his forearm rippling with anger. “Who the fuck told you that?”
Yikes. His temper really does skyrocket, doesn’t it?
Fumbling over my words, I say, “It’s a soldier coming home, not a position player or anything, just a soldier.”
His face softens immediately as understanding passes over him. “Oh, shit.” He looks away. “Sorry. I . . . uh, I thought you meant something else.”
“No, it’s okay. I should’ve started that sentence differently. We have a soldier surprising his wife and he’s dressing up in a spare set of catcher’s gear. After she throws the first pitch, he’s going to reveal who he is to her.”
Walker pulls on the back of his neck. “Makes sense.” He’s silent for a second before standing. “Better get going.”
When he pushes out of his chair and rounds the table, my mouth nearly hits the floor from what I see.
Socks.
I see socks.
Long, blue socks.
He’s yanked the legs of his pants up to his knees, wearing his socks high.
Oh my God, I might cry. I know it’s ridiculous that I’m getting emotional over socks, but this means . . . this means he had fun. At least, that’s what I’m hoping. My head snaps up and I search his face, but I’m met with a man who’s completely avoiding me, looking anywhere else but at me.
“Your socks,” I say, emotion clogging my throat. For the love of God, Kate, don’t cry. Not over socks.
And pants.
Oh Jesus, socks and pants are going to make me lose it.
But it’s so much more than just a pair of socks and pants, it’s the meaning behind the way he’s wearing them. He’s telling me he had fun without actually having to say it.
Oh God, my heart.
It pounds rapidly, my pulse picking up as I think about the statement he’s making, of what I was able to do yesterday. That stone wall I thought was impenetrable . . . it cracked.
It’s a small crack, but it’s the first step.
“You’re wearing them high.”
“Well . . .” He clears his throat. “A deal is a deal.” He rights his hat, walks toward me, and stops right before he passes. Head tilted down, barely leaning toward me, he quietly asks, “Did you cancel that Build-a-Bear bullshit?”
A rush of lust shoots through my veins, pulling and tugging on my body, igniting a wave of need through my muscles. It’s terrifying and thrilling at the same time, wanting to touch this man, but knowing I can’t. Wanting to hug him, tell him “thank you,” cry into his chest from the relief that’s taking over me.
He did have fun . . .
Why does that realization make me want to crumble to the ground and cry? I’ve had many incredible breakthroughs with tough men and women over the years. Hundreds. And yet, this man, knowing that he rarely gives anyone outside of his circle the time of day, let alone shows them something more than his cold façade . . . I’m breathless.
“Working on Build-a-Bear,” I say, my breath catching in my chest, his proximity turning every muscle into mush.
“Good.” He glances at his legs. “I’m holding up my end of the bargain.” Playfully he nudges me with his shoulder. “Now it’s your turn.” Oh God, he touched me.
WALKER. ROCKWELL. JUST. TOUCHED. ME.
But not just touched me—playfully touched me. As if we’re friends. As if he actually wants to be near me.
Mark it on your calendars. Today is the magical day when Walker Rockwell nudged me.
“Ha, okay. Yeah, sure. Uh-huh. Yup, will get right on that. Ha. Okay. Sure,” I answer like a lunatic as my stomach performs somersaults. And then the most monumental thing happens.
More monumental than the nudge.
I mean, I thought DAY MADE with the nudge, but guard your loins because just as he starts to move away, he grins at me.
GRINS!
Oh, be still my heart. I don’t thi
nk I can handle all of this attention. What did I do to deserve a nudge and a grin? My little round of baseball wasn’t that good, was it? I mean, I did allow him to peg me with a foam ball on multiple occasions. Maybe he appreciates my will to not let him go easy on me? Or he just appreciated getting out some pent-up tension. Who knows, but whatever it is . . . I AM HERE FOR IT.
Lord Almighty, am I here for it.
“Catch you later, Kate.”
Tongue-tied, unsure where this change came from, I quickly say, “Good luck today. Picture me pitching.”
He pauses and keeps his carved back toward me as he looks over his shoulder. “If I did that, I’d be too damn distracted.”
Boom . . . rattle . . . rattle.
Did you feel that?
That was my jaw smacking into the ground.
Umm . . . say what?
Too distracted?
As in . . . I’m a distraction?
Where’s a fan when you need one?
He doesn’t give me a chance to respond before he’s halfway down the hall, headed to the locker room. And even if someone gave me a million dollars to look away, I wouldn’t be able to. My eyes are fixed on his backside, completely and utterly stunned.
Oh, sweet Jesus.
Was he just flirting?
No, he couldn’t be.
Could he?
I bite my bottom lip and squeeze the tablet I’m holding to my chest, a thrill of excitement beating through me.
Oh hell, this is bad.
This is really, really bad.
But Walker Rockwell nudged me and grinned at me today.
Chapter Nineteen
WALKER
“Are you fucking hungover?” I ask Penn, who’s drenched in sweat, beads tumbling down his face. It’s a night game and it’s not that goddamn hot out.
“No,” he says, his eyes glassed over, his face pale.
It’s the bottom of the sixth inning. We just squeezed out of the inning with only one run scored against us, tying up the score. Penn has pitched like shit all night and if it weren’t for some key plays from Knox, Carson, and Gerry, the scoreboard would be reading like a different story.
