Make Me Yours (Top Shelf Romance Book 4)

by Devney Perry

  I take a few steps, as if the conversation is over, but Easton doesn’t move out of my way. He just stands there, eyes still searching, continuing to pull at parts of me that need to stay put.

  I lick my lips. I shift my feet.

  “I know the drill,” he finally says.

  But we still don’t move.

  “Same time tomorrow.”

  “Okay.”

  Quit looking at me like that.

  “And depending on how the week goes, we might bump up our sessions to twice a day.”

  “Okay.”

  You’ve run out of things to say, Scout. Time to go now.

  “Well, I’ll see you then. Tomorrow, I mean.” I roll my eyes at myself.

  “Obviously. Tomorrow, I mean.” A half-cocked smile turns up one corner of his mouth.

  Move. Go. Walk.

  “You’re nothing like I expected.” I cringe once I realize I’ve just blurted my thoughts out and hate myself the minute I do. My cheeks flush with heat, but my embarrassment gives me the motivation I need to take the first step away from him.

  “I’m never what anyone expects. It’s a blessing and a curse.”

  His comment begs me to ask more, but I don’t. Can’t. This space is too small for us—it feels like there’s not enough air when he looks at me that way.

  “Good night.”

  “’Night, Scout,” he says as I reach the doorway. “Hey…”

  “Yeah?” I turn around, one hand on the doorjamb, my eyes falling back on him.

  “For the record, how is it you know that I know how to please a woman in bed?”

  Crap. I walked right into that one.

  The cocky grin he flashes me is the lasting image burned into my mind as I walk away without a word.

  Because I know.

  Scout

  “Hi. How are you doing?”

  “What’s the assessment?”

  I fight back the tears that burn at hearing his voice again and knowing, even now, he’s still putting the business between us. I take a deep breath to control the emotions spiraling out of control, because I know he’ll get upset if he hears a waver in my voice when I answer.

  “Scouty?”

  “Yeah, Dad. I’m here.” He may only be a two-hour drive away, but right now it feels like a million.

  “And?” he presses.

  How are you?

  I miss you?

  Are you in pain?

  Are you getting worse?

  I’d rather be there with you than here.

  “Clear mind. Hard heart.”

  I clench my jaw when he repeats the mantra he expects me to live by, and I sense the rebuke is because he knows I’m about to fall apart. Of course he knows. He knows me better than anyone.

  I clear my throat, compose myself, and then try my best to be what he needs me to be right now. “Easton Wylder. Four months post-op from a torn labrum. The onset of injury was due to a questionable play by the opposing team when the patient was sliding into home plate. He was tagged unnecessarily, arm hooked by the opponent and yanked backward with force. The injury presented immediately and surgery commenced within twenty-four hours. Easton completed his initial three-plus months of post-op rehab, but was not cleared for play by the previous physical therapist. Upon initial observation, he seems to have good mobility. I’d say he’s at eighty-five percent. The joint seems stiff, as is to be expected after restricted use, but during stretching would allow me to push its limits, which indicates that full mobility is within reach. The patient has indicated that in previous attempts to bat and throw he has felt pain. I plan on getting a ball back into his hand as quickly as possible to work on the mental aspect, because I feel he is holding back for fear of re-injury. Prognosis is good, but I need more time with him to know if my assessment is accurate or not.” Confident I’ve covered the bases, I wait for my dad’s feedback.

  His rattle of breath reaches through the line and draws out my need for approval.

  “You mean the player, right?” It’s all he says, and I die a little inside.

  “What?”

  “You said Easton.”

  “I did?”

  “Yes. Twice.”

  “Yes. Once for the patient introduction and the other was a simple mistake.”

  “Scout. How many times do I have to tell you that you’re to remain impartial?”

  “I am. I was. His name’s in my notes. I was looking at them and accidentally repeated what I saw.”

  “Don’t let it happen again.”

  “Yes. I won’t.”

  “And questionable play. Why add that in? It’s not your job to decide what’s questionable or dirty or accidental. It’s your job to get your player back to optimum performance, not to pass judgment.”

  “I know, but the play was dirty, Dad. You can’t argue that.”

  “Do you like him, Scout?”

  The question catches me off guard, and I’m uncertain what exactly he means by it. “I’ve only just met him.” It’s a safe answer.

  “But do you like him? Is he going to work hard? Does he want to return? Or is he a prima donna riding his dad’s coattails with no respect for the sport?”

  “You’re kidding me, right?” I stutter. “The man plays with more heart than anyone I’ve seen in a long time. He’s a throwback. A real gamer. The guy you want at bat when you’re bottom of the ninth, full count, with the World Series on the line.”

  “You’re too close, Scout.” It’s all he says, but it’s enough to make me realize how ardently I just defended a man who, seconds before, I said I barely knew. Did I just prove my dad’s point that maybe I’m already too close, because Easton’s just another player and it’s my job to get him ready.

  But he isn’t just another player.

  He’s the player who can give me what I need to fulfill my dad’s wishes.

  And he’s the man who has invaded my thoughts and taken residence there.

  “That’s the player you’re talking about. What about the man?”

  It’s the oddest of questions for my dad to ask, and yet I feel like there is more to this conversation that I’m not quite getting the gist of. I take my time to respond. “Like I said, I’ve only assessed him twice, so I don’t know him that well. First impression is that he’s a good guy. I mean, he stood up for me when the guys were doing their usual bullshit about me being in the clubhouse.”

  “Really?” It’s a leading question, but I don’t buy into it. If he wants to ask me something, then he needs to ask it.

  “Dad, what are you—”

  “What’s your plan of action with him moving forward?” he asks, as if I never even spoke. And while I hate being disregarded, this razor-sharp focus of his on a player has been gone more days than not, and so I acquiesce.

  I sort through my thoughts, explain them point by point, and then outline what I plan to do with the player. My dad makes suggestions, and I take notes, heeding his advice on possible drills.

  But I catch myself holding the phone to my ear with two hands and just listening. Memorizing the sound of his voice. The timbre of it. The little inflections only he has. I lose myself in the presence of the only person who has ever been a constant in my life.

  “Sounds like a good plan, Scouty. You’ll need to adjust as he does, though. Nothing good ever comes from setting your plans in stone.”

  “I know,” I whisper, thinking of all the plans we’d made over the years for when he retired. And now that he unofficially has, we’ll never get to fulfill them.

  “Scout.” It’s a warning. A reprimand. A plea for me to toughen up.

  I clear my throat. “He seems eager to return,” I say to save face, in the hope that he’ll see I’m unaffected by Easton. But before I can finish my thought, he erupts into a fit of coughing.

  It sounds worse than last week. That’s all I can think as that rattle makes chills race across my skin and dread sink in my stomach. The questions I want to pepper him with, but know
he won’t allow, are getting harder to bite back. The need to jump in the car and drop my foot like a lead weight on the gas until I’m beside him is getting tougher to resist.

  “Daddy?” The word slips out in a whisper just like the lone tear that escapes and slides down my cheek.

  “I’m fine, Scouty. Just fine. It’s just the damn cough,” he finally says when he catches his breath.

  But it’s so much more than that.

  “What did the doctor say yesterday?” I ask, prepared for the rebuke.

  “Did Sally tell you I had an appointment?” he barks.

  “Someone has to.” Please. Talk to me.

  “Everything’s the same. Nothing’s going to change, so it’s ridiculous to be worrying about me when you need to be worried about getting the player back up and behind the plate. It’s a rarity to have a cuff tear when it’s not a pitcher, so make sure you heed caution. And make sure to learn from it.”

  “Okay,” I agree, but my mind is lost searching his voice for what he’s not telling me. Did the doctor tell him he has less time left than he thought? Is that why he won’t talk about it?

  The notion stuns me when I’ve already been stunned enough over the past few months. And I’m so lost in my fear that I almost miss his soft words when he speaks them.

  “I’m counting on you. I know it’s a lot to ask . . . and I’d do it if I could . . .”

  Words escape me as the tears slide freely down my cheeks, and my heart twists inside my chest. “Dad.” It’s all I can say through the onslaught of emotion I’m trying to hold back.

  “We’ll talk soon. Clear mind, hard heart, Scouty. Remember that and you’ll be fine.”

  But I won’t.

  I’ll be far from it.

  And that’s why I’m more determined than ever.

  Easton

  I nod my head and lift the neck of my beer in thanks to the knockout blonde across the bar who just sent it over.

  “You need to jump all over that,” Tino says with a little hum of appreciation to follow.

  I smile at her—doe-eyed, legs for days, with a skirt pulled up and a shirt plunging down—and fuck, I could use a good lay right now. “Nah,” I murmur, my mouth contradicting what my dick is agreeing to as I raise the bottle to my lips and look back to the guys at my table.

  “Nah?” Drew sputters. “Since when do you say nah to a betty like that?”

  Images flash through my mind. Challenging gray eyes. Muscular little body. Brown hair pulled up in a messy ponytail. A woman who isn’t trying hard at all and is still sexier than the blonde baseball betty trying to add a notch to her how many Austin Aces have I fucked tally she most likely displays prominently on her bedpost.

  “She’s all yours, D. I’m sure she’d take you as a consolation,” I tease as J.P. barks out in laughter at the fuck-you look Drew is trying to kill me with.

  “Second is better than third,” Drew replies with a direct dig at J.P., since he plays third base and Drew plays second.

  “Fuck off.” J.P. laughs but flips us off.

  “Gladly. But I want to know why East here is passing up parting her sweet thighs when he obviously needs to get good and laid,” Drew says with a lift of his chin to the blonde again.

  “How do you know I need to get good and laid?”

  “You’ve been on a permanent home stretch, which means your forearms are getting a workout, but not in the baseball sense.” He demonstrates making a jacking-off motion.

  “Fuck off.” I roll my eyes.

  “Dude, a homestretch like yours is enough to make anyone itch for some action, and since you can’t get any on the field, you might as well get some between the sheets,” Drew explains with perfect sense.

  “Boredom makes your dick need action,” Tino affirms, and I can’t help but laugh at their fucked-up logic.

  Fucked-up, but pretty damn accurate.

  I catch Blondie’s eye again, consider her, but know any chick buying me beers in Sluggers, our team’s local hangout, is looking for more than a thank-you.

  Could be fun.

  “Ah, it all makes sense now.”

  J.P.’s murmur pulls me from making a mistake that I suddenly want to make . . .

  “It’s that fuck-hot trainer of yours that’s grabbing you by the balls, isn’t it?”

  And knocks it out of the park, putting the image of Scout into my mind.

  Not like it was very far to begin with.

  “Nah,” I murmur. Hell if I’ll give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s right.

  “Bullshit. Dude, I’d let her rub me down in a second. Add in some oil . . . and we could have our own slip and Drew-slide,” Drew chimes in.

  “You’re fucked in the head,” I laugh.

  “That’s the hope,” he muses as he raises his eyebrows, “just a different kind of head.”

  Over my dead body.

  My own thought knocks me back a step. Forces me to suck down my free beer and reconsider Blondie’s unspoken, no-strings-attached offer, but now I can’t. Not when Scout is in my head, and my dick’s reacting to the thought of her more than the thought of the woman down the bar.

  “For some reason I don’t think Scout’s into screwing the starting line-up,” I say with an arch of my brow. “So hands to yourself, you grabby fucker.” I hope my thinly veiled threat is heard, and at the same time not heard. Them knowing I have the hots for Scout will only make life in the clubhouse worse for her.

  “I agree. If she was into that, she’d be out in the locker room flirting with everyone. Sucks for you, though.” J.P. taps his beer against mine.

  “Depends who’s doing the sucking,” I say, getting a laugh for the distraction.

  “Well, rumor is you’re her ticket to getting the Aces’ contract,” Drew says.

  “Really?” He has my attention now.

  “I heard that Doc’s worked in every clubhouse in the majors except for ours. Supposedly by fulfilling this contract and getting you back on the field, he’s angling for the club to sign him to run the team’s PT program. Word is, he’s never had a long-term contract with a club, but after a lifetime on the road, travelling from team to team to rehab their stars . . . a la you,” he says with a nod, “he wants to end his career this way. Getting to stay in one place for a while.”

  “The perfect game to close out a pennant-winning career,” I muse. Makes sense.

  “Exactly.”

  “And how does his daughter play into all of this?”

  “Not sure.” Drew shrugs. “But if she’s half as good as he is, it’d be more than good enough. Plus, dude, are you going to complain that you get that hot little body pressing up against you every day?”

  My smile is automatic. “Not at all.” I laugh.

  “That’s what I thought,” he says as he motions to our waitress for another round. “Lucky for you, our lovely GM has given Sumo Sam his written notice. He’s got ninety days and his contract is void.”

  “Thank Christ,” I murmur, recalling the last time I let the team’s lead physical therapist, Sam, touch my shoulder. At about three months post-op, my shoulder was nowhere close to where it should have been. Frustrated and feeling like I was spinning my wheels, I demanded to know why we were doing the same shit every day rather than try the new methodologies other clubhouses were using and having success with. I think back to how pissed he was that I questioned him. How he told me I wasn’t healing because I wasn’t putting in the time when in fact I was putting in so much time I was overdoing it. Such fucking bullshit.

  “Sam doesn’t know an elbow from an asshole,” J.P. says.

  “You’re telling me.”

  “Yeah, Miller told me he overheard Cory tell Sam that the Aces are a forward-thinking organization and that from here on out he expects every member to subscribe to the idea or some bullshit like that. And how since Sam refused to educate himself on the newest trends—your shoulder rehab—then he was in breach of the fine print of his contract and would no longer ha
ve a position with the Aces.”

  “Asshole,” I mutter.

  “Which one? Sam or Cory?” Tino asks.

  “Take your pick.” I roll my eyes. “Look, I get bringing a new GM in to restructure the Aces’ organization. It’s always good to switch things up and trim costs after having the same people running the club for so many years. What I don’t get is Cory. There’s something about him I can’t quite put my finger on.”

  “He’s a bean counter.” Drew shrugs. “He’s a live by the contract, die by the contract, even when the words in the contract don’t make any fucking sense, kind of guy. I get his job is all about dollars and cents, but this is baseball we’re talking about here.” He takes a long swig of his beer. “Then again I’m buzzed so what the fuck do I know?”

  “A lot.”

  “I’m with you, East,” Tino says. “The jury is still out on Cory. I mean… take Doc Dalton. The man has a legendary record of success. How fucked up is it that Cory is making him vet himself for the new long-term contract by getting an ugly fucker like Easton here back on the field?”

  “Vet himself? Doc Dalton?” J.P. laughs in disbelief. “That’s kind of funny.”

  “The man with the golden hands,” I murmur, thinking of all the times I’d be on the road with my dad and watched Doc work his magic on opposing players.

  “No doubt his daughter’s hands . . . and thighs, are just as magical.”

  I hear the comment but my thoughts are on what Drew just said. On the fact that the club’s new general manager is thinking of bringing Doc’s team on board to run the club’s physical therapy regimen. It’s fucking great news, since I’ll need the continued rehab.

  But it’s also daunting to have the final piece to this man’s renowned career rely on whether I return to the roster within the mandated timeframe.

  Nothing like adding a little more pressure or anything.

  “If that’s the case,” I interject into the conversation that’s moved on to the questionable call from the game earlier, “wouldn’t Doc be here rehabbing me instead of Scout?”