by Devney Perry
“He’s kicking around the idea of retiring,” I lie, repeating the story he’s asked me to tell.
“Retiring? I don’t see him as one who’d want to retire.”
“Yeah, well . . . there are a lot of things about my dad that I don’t understand, so your guess is as good as mine.”
“What I don’t understand is . . . hasn’t he already fulfilled that goal then? I mean, technically he already has a contract with the Aces, since you’re here for me. So, once you’re done with me, you can move on to the next clubhouse? The next team? The next injured player?”
He doesn’t relent. Not the intensity in his eyes . . . or the searching questions . . . or the unspoken ones. The ones that say: tell me if you’re leaving.
“That’s the typical MO, but this time around, he’s looking for a term contract for the season and beyond. A multi-year agreement.”
“Hmm.”
“What does that mean?” I wish he’d just come out and ask me what he wants, because I feel like he’s leading me somewhere.
“Well, if Doc has done things one way for all these years . . . why change now?”
“Because of me.” The answer is automatic, and I realize that I’ve given him the truth, but can’t give him the reasons why.
“You?”
“Yeah. He lived this life. He knows how hard it is to feel settled when you aren’t anywhere long enough to let roots grow, let alone have a family . . . and he doesn’t want that life for me, so he figured if he got a contract for a team as a whole, then that would give me a place to settle for the first time since I graduated from college.”
And because he knows I’d rather quit than not be near him in these last months.
“So you’d be the one to stay then?” He leans a hip on the kitchen island and digs deeper. I nod slowly and concentrate on tracing the lines in the granite on the countertop.
“You wouldn’t move on to another team?”
“Not if I get the contract.”
He’s quiet for a beat. “Is that what you want, or are you just doing what your Dad wants?”
The irony in his words is not lost on me. He’s turning my questions back on me. I lift my gaze to meet his, suddenly very aware of how similar our situations are.
“It’s what I want,” I say softly.
“And it’s dependent on me, right?”
I stare at him, see the curiosity in his eyes, and wonder if, when it comes to why I want to stay in town, we are speaking about my career, or about whatever this is between us.
“In a sense.” I chew on the words, not wanting to put pressure on him to heal quicker to get me the job when I’ve already seen the amount of pressure his dad puts on him.
He nods and then swallows the rest of his glass of wine without saying a word, leaving me wondering what he’s thinking. The mood between us suddenly turns uneasy, both of us with questions to ask but unsure how to ask them.
If I were to stay, how would this change the dynamic between us when I’m no longer just in town for a few months?
“What does your mom think about all of this?” he asks, throwing me for a loop.
I stutter to answer as a part of me hides in shame over my own mother not wanting me. Then again, he’s shared so much with me tonight, been so open, how can I not be honest about the one thing I can?
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen her since I was five.”
“Scout . . .” His voice trails off like most people’s do when they hear that news, uncertain what to say.
“Hey, it’s not sushi, but that’s my bet-you-didn’t-know-about-Scout fact of the day,” I joke, trying to quell my immediate defense to shut down after letting someone in.
It’s my thing. It’s what I do. And every part of me revolts at my need to avert my eyes and change the topic.
And so, when I lift my gaze and meet his, I see compassion there. Understanding. Acceptance. All of them cause a flutter of anxiety to fly in my belly, and yet the feeling is a far cry from the all-out panic that usually consumes me.
Once again, Easton is making me feel instead of shutting down, and I’m not quite sure what to say now.
“Did you say sushi? I think that’s exactly what we need.” He smiles softly, giving me the reprieve he somehow knows I need. “I’m starving. Want to order some takeout? I know a great place that delivers.”
Saved by sushi.
“Perfect.”
“Can you grab that?” Easton calls from his bedroom when the buzzer on the elevator rings.
“Sure.” My stomach rumbles at the thought of food being on the other side of the sliding doors.
I hit the button to open the elevator and am startled when I’m met with the hazel eyes and curious expression of Cal Wylder.
“Ms. Dalton?” He says, as calm as can be, all the while subtly looking me over—for what, I don’t know. Probably wondering why Easton’s trainer is making house calls.
“You’re not sushi.” The words fall from my mouth as the panic I had averted earlier comes full circle and slams back into me. And then I realize what I just said to him. To Easton’s dad. To the club’s liaison. The man who now is probably putting two and two together when he can’t. That I’m here. Off the clock. What if he tells Cory? Fuck. “I mean food. You’re not food. Chinese food. I mean Japanese food. You were . . . it was supposed to be delivery.”
Someone please kill me now before I make an even bigger ass of myself.
“Dad?” Easton walks out to the foyer, and the sound of his voice helps to calm my rioting nerves. But when I turn to look his way, I want to die. He’s wet from a shower I didn’t even know he was taking, wearing gym pants slung low on his hips, and he’s running a towel through his dripping hair.
“Well, now that I know your shoulder’s feeling good and iced, I should get going,” I say and scurry from the room like the petrified mouse I am.
“Scout,” Easton calls after me, resignation and agitation mixed in his voice.
“Typical, Easton.” Cal’s voice, followed by a heavy sigh, stops me dead in my tracks just as I step into the kitchen area and out of their line of sight. “I should’ve known.”
“Should have known what, Dad?”
“Always playing the women, getting distracted by a piece of ass, instead of playing the field like you should be.”
I straighten my spine where I stand, needing to leave but knowing damn well that would mean having to walk right past them. Every part of me bucks the idea of giving Cal Wylder the satisfaction of my running away, tail tucked between my legs.
“A piece of ass? Really, Dad? What I do off the field is none of your business or the club’s. Not if I have a friend over for some dinner and a movie. Not if I have a woman over and she’s more than a friend. Not if my fucking trainer stops by to check my shoulder and make sure I’ve iced it, since I was throwing down to bases today for the first time since my surgery and she was concerned about how it was doing. So, don’t you fucking dare walk into my house and judge a situation when you have no clue which of the three it is.”
There’s a tense silence I can feel all the way in the kitchen, and I realize I’m holding my breath.
“You have a habit of getting distracted.”
“Distracted? Really? I put in six hours today between the gym, conditioning, and rehab. And I put another two in first thing this morning at Children’s Hospital visiting sick kids . . . so please, tell me what else I was supposed to be doing when I’m on the damn DL?”
“Easton.” There’s a pause, and my mind runs through the image of them standing face to face, mirror images separated by twenty-five years. There’s a sigh, and I can imagine Cal looking just like Easton does when he runs a hand through his hair and tries to figure out what he’s going to say next. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I just want the best for you, son. I want you back on the field showing everyone you’re good as new and one hundred percent.”
“Fucking Santiago,” Easton mutters with vitriol.
�
��There’s always going to be a Santiago in your career, son. Always.” There’s a sadness to his voice that pulls on me and makes me wish I could see his expression. “Another player who’s jealous of your success or pissed at a pitch you called against him and is going to try to bring you down.”
I wish I could hear Easton’s response, but he speaks it quietly.
“So you threw today? How’d it feel? What did Scout say about it?”
“It felt so damn good to be back in my gear.” I can hear the smile in his voice, and, silly or not, I love knowing that I helped to put it there. “And it feels good. A little stiff, and I’m sure it will be sore tomorrow, but right now, I can’t complain.”
“And Scout?”
Even though there has been a mood shift in the conversation, I sense a hesitation in Easton to respond. I can’t deny that I breathe a little easier knowing he’s just as cautious about others knowing I’m here—that there is, in fact, something going on between us—as I am.
And it takes this moment to hit me square in the solar plexus and knock the wind out of me. I want to stay in town. I want to get to know Easton better. I want to know what it feels like to wake up next to someone in the morning without freaking out that I’m too close, too attached, and I need to create some space to protect myself for when he leaves.
I reach for the glass of wine I left on the counter and finish it off, stunned by the realization but liking the good kind of flutter it puts in my belly. The same kind of flutter I get when Easton cocks his head and stares at me with that knowing smile on his lips.
And now cue the fear. The worry that we both work in a volatile business where there are no guarantees where you’ll be from one year to the next, and that means he could still leave me. He could still move on.
I could still be left behind.
Take it day by day, Scout. Enjoy the time; don’t think about tomorrow. But, I want tomorrows with someone. I want yesterdays, tomorrows, and next years with someone because I’ve never gotten that chance before.
And that’s why I can enjoy Easton, but can’t get attached to him.
“Why are you pushing me so hard to get back on the field?” Easton’s irritation breaks through my thoughts, pulls my attention away from my fear and back to his conversation.
“Because nothing is guaranteed,” Cal says and unknowingly confirms my resolve. “Contracts are contracts, son. When you sign on their dotted line, you become a commodity.”
“Meaning?” Frustration resurfaces in Easton’s voice.
“Meaning this is a business. While you may play for the love of the game, the team is in it to make a profit. And you not on the field is not helping their bottom line.”
“Do you know something I don’t know, Dad?” His voice escalates, disbelief vibrating in its timbre.
“No. Not at all. I just know how clubs operate. Four months is a long time to be out.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not like I’m a pitcher, coming in for one game, and then getting five days off. I play every day. My arm returns almost every pitch, so I’m not being a pussy here. I’ve played through the pain before. A cortisone shot and some oxy and I’m good to go for a big game . . . but this isn’t just a strain, and for some reason I don’t think you get that.”
The physical therapist in me wants to give him a standing ovation for understanding the seriousness of his injury, while the child in me understands Easton’s plight in wanting his father to comprehend where he’s coming from.
“I know you’re not. It’s just . . . I can’t quite get a read on Cory yet. And while I may be the face of the club, first and foremost I worry about you as my son.”
“I know you do.”
The elevator dings and the forgotten Chinese food delivery arrives. When Easton walks into the kitchen with the bags in his hand, his father is not behind him.
He doesn’t say anything at first—just sets the food on the island as he gathers plates and silverware from drawers I’m not familiar with. I watch him, wondering if I should leave and let him have time alone with his thoughts, when he surprises the hell out of me by grabbing my waist and pulling me against him.
Strong arms wrap around me, and his chin finds its way onto the top of my head. My arms snake under his and around his torso, unsure what else to do other than be here for whatever it is he needs right now.
I can feel him breathe in deeply, can feel him clench and unclench his jaw, can hear his heart beneath my ear where it rests against his chest. The stirring of desire that is always a constant when he’s around smolders to life, but I know this is so much more than that, so I hang on and let the moment be.
“It’s been a day,” I murmur, drawing a rumble of a laugh from him.
“Yes, it has,” he sighs. “Let’s eat.”
Scout
“You will be hungry again in one hour.” Easton laughs when I read my fortune. “Very cheeky, but probably true. What does yours say?”
I glance over at him reading his, and he hands the little strip with his fortune to me. “Here.”
“The fortune you seek is in another cookie.” I roll my eyes. “These are funny. Someone was definitely in a mood when they made these.”
“Seems like it.”
I’m sitting in the corner of the couch, my back against the armrest and my arm propped up on the back. He’s beside me, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, turning the uneaten fortune cookie over in his hand. He’s here, but still a million miles away. My eyes wander over the definition of his torso, admiring the obvious work he’s put into his physique, and my fingers itch to reach out and touch him.
“You’ve been quiet. You okay?”
“Yeah, just thinking,” he says with a sigh as he tosses the cookie onto its bag and leans back beside me. He rests his head against the couch pillows, then turns it to the side so he can meet my eyes.
“Care to share?”
“A lot of things.”
“Mr. Forthcoming,” I tease.
“You want a rundown, then?” His smile is wide, and I can sense his playful side emerging.
“A rundown?”
“Yep,” he says with a nod.
“I’m a ‘list girl’ so you’re talking to my heart right now.”
He shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “You want a list?”
“Only if you want.”
“She wants a list,” he teases as he reaches out and squeezes my knee like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The casualness of it causes a welcome discord. “Let’s see. The first thing is how you definitely like more than California rolls, but I have to lie and tell you it’s shrimp in order to get you to try it.”
“Oh, God. What did I eat?” His smile is contagious, and even though I’m suddenly alarmed that I ate something off-the-charts odd, I can’t help but smile with him.
“Just a little of this and a little of that.”
“I’m not liking the sound of this.”
“Sometimes the less you know the better,” he muses, and I try not to read into the comment too much. “What else? Hmm. I wondered what you used to be like as a catcher. If you were the quiet but commanding type or the smack talker who annoyed the hell out of the batters.”
“A little of both.” I blush but allow a smirk to play on my lips.
“Ah, so you were a smack talker. That’s good to know. I’m taking notes here on my list.”
“You should. I can be troublesome if you get on my bad side.” His laugh is rich and calls to every part of me. “What else was on that intriguing mind of yours?”
“You’re a damn good runner. I was winded today trying to keep up with you.”
“Oh, please. You could probably run circles around me.”
“Perhaps . . . but if I did that I’d miss the spectacular view of your ass from behind you.”
I swat at his arm while my insides melt a little . . . and my insides don’t melt. Ever.
“Nice. You get to run in front next time so I c
an watch your ass, then.” I laugh.
“Mine?”
“In baseball pants. That’s a requirement,” I murmur, knowing damn well how fine his ass looks in his pants because I was more than checking him out when he was behind the plate today.
“Oh really? Making demands, now, are we?”
“I can be very demanding. I mean, you said you want to get to know me better. So now you know.” I purse my lips and lift my eyebrows at him. “And I’m stubborn . . . also a stickler for rules. I can’t cook at all. And I have a slight obsession with wintergreen Life Savers, biceps, and romance novels. Oh, and I’ve been known to snore. Horribly.”
“I love that you have no shame.” He throws his head back and laughs before narrowing his eyes as he takes in my smirk. “But why do I get the sense that you’re trying to make me not like you?”
He shifts on the couch and leans toward me, framing my thighs by putting his hands on each side of them. And holy biceps. Right there is exactly why I like them. Firm, sculpted, and so damn hot.
“Who, me?” I feign. “I’d never do something like that.”
“Let’s add manipulative, too.” He quirks an eyebrow and doesn’t relent with his stare, despite his smile disarming me in every way imaginable.
“Only the good kind of manipulative.”
“The good kind? There’s such a thing? Well, I think it’s time we get a few things straight,” he murmurs, his lips so damn close I can smell the wine on his breath and see the flecks of green in his eyes. “I like demanding and stubborn. It means you don’t stop until you get what you want how you want it. You’re a rules girl, huh? I’m good with that. Rules are fun because I like to break them, so keep telling me things I shouldn’t be doing, Kitty . . . like wanting to date you . . . and I’ll keep doing them. And cooking? I’m a bachelor, so I’ve got every damn take-out menu in town in the top right-hand drawer in the kitchen, and I can make a mean grilled cheese, if need be, so nice try with that one. Wintergreen Life Savers? I prefer the taste of cherry, but as long as I can put it in my mouth and work my tongue into its center, then I’m pretty sure I can compromise.” His lips quirk and his eyes bore into mine as every single drop of blood in my body ignites from his insinuation.
