by Devney Perry
“And Drew is part of the club,” I explain, completely ignoring her remark. “What did you want me to do? Correct him? Tell him to shut up when normally I just laugh at all the guys’ ribbing over the women in bars? Then he’d really know there was something going on between us. And there is something going on between us,” I say, cutting her off before she can argue with me again. “So save yourself the argument.”
“You’re an arrogant asshole, you know that?” she spits out as she turns toward me, arms folded across her chest as if that will protect her from the truth she can’t seem to face.
“Maybe, but you’re fucking adorable when you’re angry at me.”
There’s a slight crack in her anger. A bit of a smile.
“And I kind of like that you were jealous.”
“I was not.”
“Ah, Kitty, but you were.” Another crack in her smile. “A woman only storms out when she’s jealous, and while the sight of your ass swaying as you stalked away was almost enough to let you keep being pissed, you needed to know the truth. There is no blonde in the bar waiting just for me, because she waits for anyone. There are no strings of women. There is no one else in another city.”
She stares at me. Searches to see if she believes me, and fuck . . . not only can the woman stand her ground, but she can take care of herself too. Tell me that’s not sexy as hell.
And frustrating all at the same time.
“Tell me what you’re thinking, Scout.” There’s too much silence. Too much time for her to doubt and poke holes in what I said and bend it to match whatever insecurities are banging around inside of her.
“I just . . . you’re just . . .”
“I think you’re thinking how much you want to kiss me right now.”
“Too much,” she says at the same time I speak, and we both smile softly as it feels like the explosive wave of her temper may have just blown over.
“So you want to kiss me too much?” I say, combining our comments and garnering a huff from her.
“I don’t know what to do about you,” she finally says, softly and full of trepidation.
“Nothing, Scout. There’s nothing to do. There’s just us going out to have a good time. There’s just us figuring out if there’s anything here. There are no commitments. There’s no need for anyone to know anything. It’s just us getting to know each other and enjoying each other’s company.”
“What if I don’t want that?”
There’s that doubt again. The insecurity I don’t understand.
“You want this.”
It takes everything I have not to lean in and taste those bee-stung lips that tempt me every single time I look at them. Not to lean in and remind her of how it felt earlier when we’d kissed.
There’s just something about her I can’t let go, and I don’t even know her that well yet.
Because there are women who are good for a quick fuck. There are women you would fuck, but are better in the friend zone. And then there are women like Scout. They make you wonder, make you crave them, and drive you absolutely fucking crazy because you want them when you shouldn’t. They’re an enigma. Confusing, alluring, tempting, and fucking perfection.
I stare at her, with her ponytail whipping around her face on the downtown sidewalk, and have never wanted so badly to pull a woman against me and soothe the trouble in her eyes as I wait to hear her response.
You want this.
“Easton. The contract. My dad. It’s just—”
I look around for space. For privacy. For what I need to prove a point that she needs to feel, not just hear.
“Complicated? Messy? Welcome to life, Scout. Mine’s all of those and then some, and you don’t even know the half of it.”
Her smile tugs at me. Makes me want to take care of her when I’ve never wanted to take care of anyone in my life other than my mom.
“Easton.”
“You keep saying my name like that and I’m going to think you like me.”
She laughs. The darkness clears from her eyes some, and I know I’ve made an inroad.
And at the same time, we pass a little alleyway behind the stadium, out of view of the public, and I push her backward into it. Before we even clear the sidewalk, I have my lips on hers.
God. Damn.
She’s fucking addictive.
I want her.
Her taste.
Must have her.
The scent of her perfume.
Say yes to this, Scout.
The softness of her lips.
Say yes to me.
The tentativeness of her tongue as she fights her will to dive right in.
Let me the fuck in.
Even her temper turns me on.
And so I take what I want from her. What I need from her. My dick hardens from the kiss. From the way her fingers twist in my shirt. From the feel of her tits rubbing against my chest. From the goddamn moan that sounds like the white flag waving as she surrenders herself to me.
I don’t want this to end. But my dick is hard and I still have my cup on, and fuck, that’s a miserable feeling. Plus, we’re on the street. Near the stadium. And while I’d love to relieve the ache in my balls by doing a variety of things with her—right here, right now—it pains me to have to end the kiss.
To pull back and try to hold tight to my control that’s hanging by a thread.
But I don’t release her from my grasp when I lean back and look in her eyes. I try to catch my breath, try to quiet the caveman side of me, and then she speaks.
“Well, I guess that’s getting to know each other as good as any other way.”
The smile is there, but it takes a few seconds before the cautious look in her eyes reflects the same confidence reflected in her voice.
But fuck. I’ll take it.
I’m putting myself out on a limb for a woman who wants to run, when for the life of me, I’ve never been one to stay.
But I’m not going anywhere.
Scout
Nerves rattle around within me when they shouldn’t.
“This is . . . unbelievable.” I look around the facility. There’s a state of the art batting cage with a multi-pitch batting machine set up on one end, and a sloped floor to collect the balls and refeed the machine. The turf beyond houses a complete infield. The walls are littered with sports memorabilia from some of the greats—signed jerseys, bats, and balls from Mickey Mantle, Babe Ruth, Jackie Robinson, Hank Aaron, Ted Williams . . . and a few from Cal Wylder.
I walk along the walls, stare at the living history lining them, and am in awe of the mini-museum of men I grew up hearing my father talk about.
“It’s my wall,” he muses quietly, allowing me to take it all in as I turn from the legends beside me to face one that I feel has equal potential.
“It’s a good wall,” I muse, heading over to the rack of bats all sized and weighted to match his preferences. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Yeah, well…” He shrugs and blushes and it’s rather adorable. “The machine is having issues, or else I’d tell you to hit a few.”
“I haven’t touched a bat in what feels like years.” I run my fingers over the butts of them and then continue to explore the space. We both fall silent, but I know he’s watching me, and I’m not quite sure what to do about it.
I asked to see the field because it was safer than going into his condo where I will be reminded of the other night when I need to still process the events of the day and how I feel about them. How I let him wear me down, kiss me senseless twice, and then manage to get me to admit that maybe I want to see where all of this leads us because me agreeing to come here means it is, in fact, going somewhere.
And that scares the hell out of me.
There’s a wall to the left of a bathroom. It’s lined with framed jerseys in different colors and sizes, and it takes me a minute to figure out what they are. “These are all of your Little League jerseys, aren’t they?”
I stare at th
e simple idea and can’t believe how touched I am by the sight of them. The history he has with each one. The memories from then that made the man he is now.
“Yes. My parents kept them all.” He says nothing more, and the silence prompts me to wonder more about him, his family, but I have a feeling it’s an off-limits topic.
“Have you always wanted to play baseball?” It’s a simple question, one I expected him to answer immediately, and his pause piques my curiosity.
I turn to look at him while he’s looking at his history on the wall. I take in his profile—the bill of the baseball hat shadowing his face, his thick lashes, straight nose, and full lips. His scruff is longer today than normal, and there’s something about it that’s incredibly sexy.
“It was what was expected of me.” The honesty in his voice is haunting. His exhale is uneven. “I mean, I’m Cal Wylder’s son.”
There’s an unreadable emotion in his tone, and I sense there is so much more beneath the surface, but I’m afraid to pry, even though I want to.
“Were you always good at it? You’re such a natural, but I’m sure it had to be hard living in the shadow of your dad.”
He chews the inside of his cheek as he continues to stare at the wall. He points to one of the smallest jerseys up there. It’s a faded dark green with the number ten on its back. “That was my first year playing. I remember I got in a fistfight with Joey Jones. He told me I had to have been adopted, because there was no way Cal Wylder’s son could be so horrible at playing baseball. I cried for days. My dad was on a road stretch and I dodged his phone calls, too embarrassed to tell him what had happened. I knew he was going to be so disappointed in me—not because of the fight, but because of how bad I was. I spent days sick to my stomach and worried about what he was going to say when he came home and saw for himself.”
I want to walk over to him and hold his hand. I want to tell him I’m sorry. Tell him I understand about living in shadows of giants and the weight those shadows bear. I want to do anything but hear the sadness in his voice. Yes, he has the last laugh now, being as successful as he is, but even success can’t erase the scars of childhood memories.
“That must have been hard.”
He nods, shifts his feet, and then points three jerseys down to a dark blue one with the same number on it. “That was the year everything clicked for me. I was eight. My hand-eye coordination suddenly matured, and I learned to read a ball out of a pitcher’s hand. All of a sudden I went from zero to hero. And, of course, that meant my dad came to more games when he could. Suddenly I was Mr. Popular. Kids who wouldn’t give me the time of day before now wanted to be my friend in the hope that they’d get some pointers from a major leaguer when he showed up.”
I close the distance between us and step up beside him, our arms touching, and let him get lost in his thoughts.
He points to the next frame over, a red and white jersey; this time the number on the back is eighteen. “That’s the year my parents divorced. I lived at the field that season. It was so much easier than being at home where my mom cried nonstop, or being with my dad when he was in town and feeling guilty for leaving my mom home alone. Baseball became my escape that year. I put everything I had into it. It was the first time I really fell in love with the game.”
“So, back then you played to escape. Why do you play now?”
He laughs. “Because I make a shit ton of money, and who wouldn’t want to play baseball for a living?”
“True.” I nod, but can sense the unspoken words and the underlying hint of sarcasm. “Do you still love it?”
“Some days.”
“If you have a shit ton of money, then why do you still play?” I know I’m pushing, but I’m intrigued how a man who is so incredibly talented and oozes respect for the game has misgivings about saying he loves it.
“For my dad.”
“For your dad?” His answer surprises me. “Not for you?”
“No.”
“Do you love it?” I ask the question again, forgetting that I already have, and before I can tell him to disregard it, he responds.
“Yes. No. Fuck, Scout, most days I don’t know.” He turns to face me for the first time, and I can see the conflict in his eyes, the uncertainty in his expression, and the tension in the set of his shoulders. “It’s all I’ve ever known. All that’s ever been expected of me. It’s hard to explain without sounding ungrateful because I’m extremely blessed in talent and luck when I know there are a million others who would kill to fill my shoes. It’s just complicated. I have a love-hate relationship with the game just like I guess I do with my father.”
Reaching out, I link my fingers with his. I don’t say a word. I try not to judge. All I do is just listen, because the pain in his expression says that’s exactly what he needs from me.
His laugh is unexpected and loaded with sarcasm. “Fuck,” he says as he lifts his hat, runs a hand through his hair, and then sets it back down. “When I said we needed to get to know more about each other, I sure as hell didn’t mean this. We’re a far way off from learning if the other likes sushi.”
I smile and squeeze his hand. For a man who seems pretty open, I can tell he’s a bit exposed and uncomfortable. “Sushi? It’s all right, if you count California Rolls as legitimate,” I say to try to get a laugh from him. “I’m not very adventurous with it. And this conversation is okay. This is real, Easton. I assure you, I have more real than I care to think about in my own life right now, so this is okay.”
“Yeah. Thanks.” He looks down at our joined hands and shakes his head as if he’s trying to convince himself of something I can’t understand.
“It’s admirable to play for your dad, but have you ever wanted to do anything else? For yourself?” I leave the unspoken question hanging out there. The one I think I know the answer to: do you think your dad won’t love you if you don’t play?
“I’m good at this, though.” He lets go of my hand and paces to the other side of the batting cage to stare at a picture of him and his dad on the wall. “I sound like such a pussy saying that. Like I don’t have a backbone, or I don’t like to play, but I assure you, I do . . . there’s just a history that . . . . My dad is fucking Cal Wylder. He’s perfect in every way. The Iron Giant of baseball who broke records and is still the public darling of the club. He’s never had a blemish on his career. In fact, the only mark he’s ever had against him in his perfect life has been his divorce from my mom.”
“Nobody’s that perfect, Easton.”
“He is.” There’s bitterness in his tone.
“We all look at our parents through rose-colored glasses. Those lenses make you miss their flaws, overlook their shortcomings . . . and still be able to love them unconditionally.” He turns to look at me and narrows his eyes in thought. “God knows my dad is far from perfect, and yet when I see him, I see the person I want to be when I’m his age. I overlook his grumpiness and stubbornness and his need to have opinions about everything, even when I don’t ask for them. So I’m sure your dad is not perfect.”
“He’s pretty damn close to it, Scout. And even if he’s not, he demands it from me.”
I have no comeback for him because I saw it for myself the other day in the locker room. I wonder if Cal Wylder has always been that hard on his only child.
And I hate that I think I already know the answer.
Scout
“I’m sorry I don’t have a place to invite you to,” I apologize as I take a seat at the large island and watch Easton move with ease around the kitchen.
“Did you just move here?”
“I’ve kind of been on the move since I graduated college, shifting from clubhouse to clubhouse with my dad over the past three years. Learning from him so I could finally make sense of the things I watched over and over as a kid but didn’t understand. So, I’m currently living a few blocks over, on the other side of the stadium, in a furnished apartment until I figure out what comes next.”
Easton looks at
me for a beat—something fleeting in his eyes I can’t quite pinpoint—before uncorking the bottle of wine and pouring two glasses in silence. He slides one across the counter to me and then meets my eyes. “What is next, Scout?”
“I get you rehabbed, get your arm to one hundred percent, and get you off the disabled list, for a start.”
“You think that’s going to happen?”
“Yes.” I nod my head for emphasis. “Today was a huge start. How does your shoulder feel? You really should have some ice on it.”
He laughs as he turns and grabs a medical ice pack from the freezer and presses it to his shoulder. Then, with a skill that tells me he’s done this more times than he can count in his career, he begins to expertly wrap an ACE bandage around the pack to hold it in place.
“So rehab me, and then what’s after that? Are you off to another club? Another city? Moving on?”
A part of me hates the lump that suddenly forms in my throat when I realize what he’s asking. The woman who’s afraid of getting too close to someone because everyone leaves her is now being asked if she’s going to leave. And the other part of me breathes in the feeling of having someone care enough to ask. Someone I want to care.
I take a sip of my wine and meet his eyes above the rim of the glass. I’m afraid to respond, uncertain of this next step between us. Downstairs was easy. We talked baseball, we talked about him, and we avoided the topics that had ruled our afternoon so far.
But now, the tables have turned. Now, the spotlight is on me, and I wish I could answer him, but I’m not sure what that answer is just yet. Or if I want to even have one, in case I get spooked again and need to leave.
“I’m not sure.” My voice is barely a whisper when I finally find it to speak.
“Rumor has it Doc is vying to get the permanent contract with the clubhouse for the team’s physical training. Is that true?”
I nod. “Yes. It is. It’s the only clubhouse he hasn’t held any sort of contract with over his career.”
“And so that’s why he wants it? Just because?”
