by Devney Perry
I snap to attention, suddenly cognizant of what the situation looks like— Easton and I alone in the locker room, with his hand on my arm—and stride toward him with my hand outstretched. “Scout Dalton. So nice to meet you, Mr. Wylder.”
“The pleasure’s mine,” he says, brows drawing together as he looks me in the eye. “So you’re the one charged with getting my boy back up to speed.”
“Yes, sir,” I say as resolutely as possible, a little star struck and a lot aware that Cal Wylder has a ton of pull in the front office of the Austin Aces organization. “We’re making good headway.”
“What seems to be holding him back?”
The question throws me. Why wouldn’t he just ask his son, who is standing right beside me? He’s searching, when he knows I can’t tell him. Discussing Easton’s status with anyone other than the GM is off-limits for me, not to mention completely unprofessional.
I glance over to Easton, who gives me no indication that he wants me to answer, and then back to Cal. Is this some kind of set-up? See if the new girl can handle both confrontation and keeping her mouth shut at the same time?
“Nothing that I can tell,” I say with caution, trying to feel out the situation. “Just creating a routine for stretching and strengthening, and giving Easton the time to learn what his repaired shoulder should feel like. It’ll most likely have a completely different feel for him, so he needs to learn what each pinch or pain is telling him now.”
“Good. Good.” Cal finally looks back to Easton again. “From where I was watching in the press box, you seemed to have lost some time on your run to first. Don’t let him fool you. He’s faster than that, Ms. Dalton. He just has a habit of slacking a bit if no one is pushing him.”
“Most players wish they had his time.” I laugh, thinking Cal’s joking until I notice the look on his face, eyebrows pinched as his eyes shift back toward mine. And now I’m under the impenetrable stare.
“Hmm.” He doesn’t say anything else, but rather lets the sound hang in the air as if he doesn’t believe me.
“The stopwatch never lies.”
“Well, he can do better,” he says with a disapproving shake of his head quickly followed by the flash of a dazzling smile almost as if he remembers he has an audience. “But I’m glad to hear you think the shoulder hasn’t slowed him down too much.”
And even though the words sound sincere, I’m not sure there isn’t the hard edge beneath them of a father pushing his son beyond his limits.
“Not at all, sir,” I say to keep the peace and my respect in place. I glance over to Easton, noticing the strong set of his jaw, the visible tension in his shoulders, and his eyes locked on his father’s, despite the tight smile on his lips.
There is suddenly a palpable tension between the two of them that grows with each passing second. I try to deflect.
“It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Wylder.”
“Cal,” he says, finally drawing his eyes away from Easton.
“Cal,” I repeat. “I’ll get him back on the field, but only because he’s busting his ass to get there himself.”
He gives me that look again, hazel eyes searching, just like his son’s. “Good to know,” he murmurs. “Keep up the good work.”
And with that, a man I watched break every record in the book when I was a kid, turns on his heel and heads out of the locker room.
Cal may have shut the door in his departure, but the tension he brought with him still lingers.
“We need to get the fuck out of here,” Easton mutters as he turns to face me. “Get changed if you want, and grab your shit. We’re going for a drive.”
I stand there, mouth agape. Easton takes a few steps and turns back to look at me like I’ve misheard him. The look in his eyes is just as demanding as his words. I want to tell him to go to hell, that I don’t take orders from anyone, and yet for some reason, I do just as he asked.
This time.
Scout
We drive in silence as Easton maneuvers through the streets of downtown Austin. He’s still pissed, that much I can tell, but it seems to lessen with each mile we put between us and the ball field.
Curiosity over the exchange between him and his father owns my thoughts. The picture-perfect father and son. Both uber-talented. Both a rarity in this game because they spent their careers playing for only one ball club. Both obscenely handsome.
But after the meeting in the locker room, I’m left to wonder how everyone else has failed to see what I glimpsed. The smooth and personable Cal Wylder is not so easy-going, and not so complimentary of his protégé of a son.
“Sorry about that,” Easton says after some time, his voice resigned.
“’Bout what?” I turn to look at him from my seat in the front of his truck, asking my question but not really meaning it.
“My old man can be . . . a little overbearing at times. I’m sorry if it made you uncomfortable.”
“I’m good. My choice of career has taught me how to handle even the most overbearing of people.” I eye him up and down to let him know I’m including him in the generality. “Thanks, though.”
“I’ve noticed.” He chuckles with a glance my way before turning his attention back to the road, smile fading, and lips twisting as he loses himself back to his thoughts.
I use the time to study him. The line of his profile, the flex of his biceps as he turns the wheel, the pulse of the muscle in his jaw. He knows I’m watching, and yet he just carries on, checking his side mirror, his rearview mirror, and using his turn signals.
There are so many questions I want to ask him but don’t. About the relationship with his dad and the obvious tension between them. About whatever it was that happened between us on the field earlier. If I put a voice to my curiosity, I’m only inviting his questions about my personal life in return. And while we’ve developed a pseudo-friendship the past two weeks, there are secrets I need to keep.
So I bite my tongue and try to quiet my head so I can enjoy the comfortable silence we’ve slipped into. And no sooner than I do, it hits me: I like Easton. And not just that lusty kind of indifferent attraction I feel occasionally with players I’ve worked with. The kind where, hell yes, they’re hot and probably would be a willing candidate if I wanted a temporary good-time, but not good enough for me to cross that fine line of mixing my professional life with my personal life.
I’ve never crossed it. I have no intention to.
My studies, my softball team, graduating at the top of my class had always come first. Then I threw everything I had into working my way up the ranks to prove I’m worthy to help run Doc Dalton’s business. Sure he was my dad, but I wanted to earn the position. And thankfully I did, because there’s no way I could have known what the future would hold for us.
Did I have fun with men? Of course, but since I started working for my dad, no player has ever tempted me to cross that professional line like the mysterious and attractive man beside me does.
And that’s a major problem.
But then again, it’s not. I’m a big girl. I can handle my lusty urges. He’s charming and attractive and funny and so much more than I’d assumed. Even with all of that, I think I’ve barely caught a glimpse of the real him. I’m intrigued, to say the least.
Wait. The truck has stopped. And I’m still staring at Easton. And he’s staring back at me, smirk growing wider by the second as he waits for me to realize it.
“I’m sorry.” I shake my head with a laugh, embarrassed and flustered.
“Don’t be. I sure hope it’s me you’re thinking about that intensely.” His grin is lightning quick as I try not to die a thousand deaths.
“Of course I was. Just trying to think about what to do with you next,” I say with pursed lips and a shrug, and then realize that it sounds exactly like how I didn’t want it to sound. I stammer to correct myself. “I mean, your rehab. On the field. For training. About your arm.”
“Uh-huh.” I’m certain I turn every shade of pink,
all the way to red, as he just stares, and that huge grin morphs into a lopsided smile.
“Where are we?” Smooth, Scout. Real smooth. You’re a master at changing the subject. To reinforce my attempt, I glance around to our surroundings. We’re on a residential street with a park on the passenger side and a row of houses on Easton’s side.
“Sorry to drag you along, but I have to do something real quick. I hope you don’t mind, but feel free to turn on the radio if you want. I’ll leave the keys here.”
“Okay. Sure.”
He turns to face me, hand pushing open the door, smile and sunglasses in place. “Hey, Scout?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m leaving now.”
“Okay?” I draw the word out to let him know what he’s doing is pretty self-explanatory.
“That means you can carry on thinking about whatever you were thinking about me and not get embarrassed, since I won’t be sitting two feet from you.”
Dear God. “I was thinking of your arm. Your arm,” I emphasize.
He darts his tongue out to wet his bottom lip. “That’s not all you were thinking about.”
His laugh fills the truck before he shuts the door and leaves me with the echo of it through the open window.
I follow his very fine backside as he jogs across the grass field toward a small crowd of people. There are tables dotting the playground, with bunches of green balloons at every other one. There looks to be a group of kids seated in rows on the grass and some kind of costumed character in front of them holding up an oversize book.
I’m more than fascinated with what is going on and just what Easton is doing here. Especially after he reaches the crowd of people and shakes hands with several of them, while hugging a few of the others.
After observing for a few minutes, I conclude that this is some kind of school function, and somehow Easton is a part of it. I’m distracted momentarily from watching him when the teddy bear character throws his hands (or is it paws?) up in the air. Despite the distance, I can hear the roar as the kids shout out loud in response.
Their enthusiasm brings a smile to my lips. And when I see Easton walk up before the rows of kids, their cheers grow even wilder. Some of them jump from their seats and run to give him a hug. Despite the distance, I can see the wide smile on his face and the sincerity in his expression as he hugs them back, ruffles their hair, and then does some kind of silly routine with the bear.
The kids shift to the next activity, the next station, and yet I’m left staring into space once again, acknowledging that Easton Wylder is getting to me. That hard heart my father taught me was a necessity to get through life is slowly softening.
And I’m not quite sure how to feel or what to even do about it.
My thoughts are too loud in the confines of this truck when all I crave is some peace and quiet. I don’t want to think about my dad, the stress of the contract, or how I’ll be letting both Easton and my dad down if I don’t succeed. Instead I just want to sit parked on the side of the road in the hometown I feel like I barely know. As a kid we were always moving on to the next city, the next injured ball player, so much so that tutors became our teachers and our beds at home felt unfamiliar.
I’ve missed Austin—the sights and sounds and beauty that I haven’t really gotten to enjoy as an adult—and being back for this short amount of time has only reinforced the thought.
The desire to make a life here is suddenly strong. To win the contract, find a place of my own, and grow roots. I need something of my own, somewhere I can belong.
Because pretty soon . . . I’ll be all alone.
The pang of grief is crippling, the swell of emotions inescapable.
Desperate to stop thinking, to stop feeling, I turn the key in the ignition and push the radio on. Music is what I need. Music will let me close my eyes, lean my head back, and get lost in the beat.
Except when the radio comes on, I’m startled when a man’s voice starts talking to me. Or not me, rather, but the reader, because it sounds like he is narrating an audio book.
An audio book?
I know it’s shallow, but an audio book is the last thing I ever expected to hear coming through Easton’s speakers. The man keeps throwing me for loops every time I think I have him pegged.
I should turn it off so he doesn’t lose his place, but there is something so soothing about the narrator’s voice that I snuggle into the seat with a soft smile on my face and just lose myself in the words he speaks.
A little more than a chapter later, I’m jolted from the story when the truck door opens. Feeling like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar, I look over to Easton with wide eyes and cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
He doesn’t say a word but just stares at me from behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses for a moment before climbing into the truck, turning the radio off, and then pulling away from the curb.
We drive in the silence that has seemed to plague us today, and I’m left to wonder why he seems embarrassed when there’s nothing to be embarrassed about.
He listens to books. How can he think I’d judge him poorly for that?
And yet I sense his discomfort, so I try to ease it the only way I know how. “Stephen King, huh? I kind of figured you more for a romance novel kind of guy.”
“Bullshit.” His laughter breaks the awkward silence in the cab.
“What’s wrong with romance?”
“You seriously have to ask me that?”
“What?” I mirror the posture that got me into trouble earlier: body shifted, knees angled, eyes on him. “You don’t like a feel-good story? Or is it that you don’t believe in true love? Maybe you just haven’t found a good baseball romance to pull you in and steal your heart.”
“See! That’s just it. Those books give women unrealistic expectations about what a relationship is supposed to be like.”
It’s my laugh that fills the truck now. “Maybe our expectations are spot on, and it’s the men who are unreliable.” I purse my lips as he looks at me from over the frames of his sunglasses.
“That’s such a crock.”
“No, it’s not. What are you afraid of? That you might actually like the story and maybe get a few pointers to help better your game?” My tone is coy, smile playful as he looks over at me.
“Are you telling me you don’t think I have game?” he asks, mock offended.
“On the field? Yes. Off the field? I couldn’t tell you.”
“I’ve got game all right. No worries there, Kitty. Just you wait and see.” His voice may sound irritated but the smile on his lips says different.
I roll my eyes while trying not to read into his comment. Just you wait and see. Was he saying it off the cuff? Or is he interested in me? And more importantly, do I want him to be?
“No game,” he mutters under his breath and then laughs. “That’s hilarious.”
Twenty bucks says he’s listening to a romance sooner rather than later.
A man’s ego can’t handle being called into question.
He’ll have to find out the truth for himself.
Scout
“So what was that all about back at the park?”
I glance around the hole-in-the-wall bar where we’ve ended up. It’s downtown, somewhat near the ballpark but outside the area of the city’s revitalization efforts. Texan memorabilia lines the walls, and country music plays softly on the speakers.
“It was nothing. Just an obligation I had to fulfill.” He’s nonchalant in his response and makes a point to avert his eyes from mine.
“Whatever, Wylder.” I roll my eyes. “You don’t get to act like that was nothing, because whatever it was, those kids loved that you were there, and that’s pretty freaking awesome. So, ‘fess up. What was that all about?”
“Why were you so upset earlier?” His eyes meet mine, searching and questioning, as he lifts the bottle of beer to his lips and takes a sip.
I shake my head. “We’re not going there aga
in.”
“Then I guess you’re not going to know what I was doing at the park, now, are you?”
“You’re a pain in my ass, you know that?”
“It’s a mighty fine pain you’ve got there, too, then.” The words come out of a mouth turned up in a smile, but with eyes loaded with suggestion.
“Flattery doesn’t make me spill my secrets.”
“It wasn’t flattery. It’s the truth.”
“Well, in that case, flattery will get you everywhere,” I respond, our smiles wide but the unanswered questions still lingering between us. “You’re really not going to tell me what was going on?”
He shrugs. “Seems that way, doesn’t it.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever played show-me-yours-and-I’ll-show-you-mine, and I doubt I’m going to start at the age of twenty-five,” I say dryly.
His laugh carries over the noise of the bar. “That’s a pity. You should definitely play it once in your lifetime. You never know, it might be fun.” That gleam is back in his eye, highlighted by a lift of his eyebrows, and once again I’m aware of how he captivates me without even trying.
“Tell me something about you.” He changes the topic, his expression daring me to refuse him.
“I never played in the major leagues.”
He narrows his eyes and purses his lips. “That’s the best you can do?”
I shrug and mimic his posture. “How about this,” I murmur as I lean in a little closer, “you tell me what you were doing earlier, and I’ll tell you something about me.”
His laugh is quick but telling. “I see I’ve been outmaneuvered. You’re a tricky one, turning that back on me, Scout Dalton, but I’ll bite. God knows if I don’t, your stubborn ass will have us volleying the same question back and forth all night.”
“I’m so glad you have me all figured out.”
“Not hardly.” He shifts in his seat and looks down at the label on his beer he’s playing with. “I run a literacy charity,” he says softly, lifting his eyes to meet mine. “We run programs at all of the local schools to encourage reading and to make sure any kid struggling with reading, or who has dyslexia, or just needs extra help or tutoring gets it.”
