Oh, how I wish I could tell Denver everything. We’ve talked so much over the past few days. It’s like we were never apart. I almost told him. I almost told him about a dozen times. I was so close that I had to call Bass so he could talk me down. But talking to Bass about Sawyer isn’t really something I can do anymore. Not since he admitted his feelings for me. And I really need to talk to someone about Sawyer. But I can’t. And it’s becoming harder every day.
Sawyer hits the next pitch and the ball goes foul, but the first-baseman runs over and makes a diving catch and the ump calls Sawyer out. He’s not having a particularly good game. That happens a lot lately when I come to his games. It worries me that the stress of his situation, of possibly being traded, is getting to him.
“I have to hit the bathroom,” I tell Denver, excusing myself around him. “Can I bring you anything?”
“I’m good,” he says, not taking his eyes off the game.
I locate the ladies room only to find I have to stand behind a dozen women to wait my turn. Someone brushes me from behind and I turn around to see a tall redhead staring me down.
“Sorry,” I say, as if it was my fault that she ran into me.
“You should be,” she bites back at me.
I turn around and try to mind my own business, when she bumps into me a second time. I scoot up, closer to the woman in front of me, but the redhead crowds me again.
I turn around. “Would you mind backing up a bit, it’s too hot in here to stand so close.”
“My, my, isn’t she bitchy?” she says to those around us.
I look around, wondering if I’m the only one who sees what’s wrong here. Nobody else seems to care.
When she bumps into me again, I give her a death stare and then step out of line so I can find another bathroom.
“What?” the redhead yells after me. “Are you going to get your famous boyfriend to stick up for you? He won’t, you know. He’ll toss you to the curb soon enough.”
I stop walking and turn around, appraising her. “Do I know you?” I ask, wondering if I went to high school with her and maybe now she’s jealous of seeing me in the news.
“No, but your boyfriend does.”
I roll my eyes at her and walk away.
“He knows me very well!” she shouts for everyone to hear. “What makes you think you’re so special, you pretentious bitch?”
I walk quickly over to the next set of bathrooms and wait in line there, looking behind me to make sure I’ve not been followed.
It’s nothing new, being bothered by Sawyer’s past conquests. It’s happened a few times before in New York. And like the redhead, they pretty much just like to tell me they’ve slept with him. I guess they try to rile me up or something. Get me to fight with him, perhaps, so they can watch our relationship crumble.
What they don’t know is that next season, they will have their beloved Sawyer back. I’m sure he’ll be more discreet about it, but they’ll have him back nonetheless. And the thought of it – the thought of him with the redhead – with anyone – makes me sick to my stomach.
When I finally return to my seat, Denver asks why I’ve been gone so long.
“Big line,” I say. “Did I miss anything?”
“Caden hit a double. Benham scored. They have two outs now.”
I have a hard time concentrating on the rest of the game. I look around the stands at all the pretty women and wonder just how many of them have been with Sawyer. How many of them will be waiting for him to come out of the clubhouse so they can have a shot with him? How many of them hate me?
The Nighthawks win, but just barely. I know Sawyer will be upset with himself, but it would be worse if they’d lost.
“Come on,” I say to Denver, pulling him by the arm. “Let’s go get a drink and do some people-watching. It will be a while before they come out.”
His face splits in two with a smile. “I can’t believe—”
“Yeah, yeah, you can’t believe you’re going to meet him. I know. Get over it.”
Thirty minutes later, we’re waiting by the clubhouse for the guys to emerge. As usual, fans scream as the players come out. When Sawyer comes through the door, the crowd becomes uncharacteristically boisterous.
“Is it true, you’re off the market?” a reporter shouts over the female shrieks.
Sawyer spots me and waves me over. I pull Denver behind me.
“It’s true,” he says, pulling me close to him.
He gives Denver a lift of his chin. We all know now is not the time for introductions.
“Sawyer!” a fan yells. “Can I have a picture?”
He kisses me on the top of my head before he walks over to pose for pictures and sign autographs. A while later, Sawyer re-joins Denver and me as the crowd starts to thin. But several people linger to get one last look.
A man and a woman approach the three of us and I stiffen. “That’s the lady who called me a bitch earlier.”
Denver and Sawyer both look surprised. “Someone called you a bitch?” Sawyer asks defensively.
“Yeah, when I was in line for the bathroom. She’s a fan of yours, apparently. And according to her, she’s seen you do a lot more than play baseball.”
“Shit,” he says, looking perturbed.
The man and woman come closer, the guy looking pissed as hell. “Is this him?” he asks her. “Is this the asshole you slept with last season?”
She nods.
The man lunges forward and pushes Sawyer in the chest. “You fucked my wife?”
Sawyer backs up and puts his hands up in surrender. “If you’re going to be mad at anyone, man, it should be her. I always ask if they’re married. I’m not inclined to have meatheads like you coming after me.”
“Well she is,” the tall, muscular guy says, grabbing her left hand and showing him her ring. “And maybe you should check the ring finger for telltale signs next time, you mother fucker. Or better yet, keep your dick in your pants.”
Sawyer pushes me protectively to the side. “It’s really not my problem if they lie to me to get into my bed, now is it? And it sure as shit isn’t my fault if you can’t keep your own wife satisfied.”
What happens next, happens in slow motion. The guy takes a swing at Sawyer, but Sawyer ducks and the punch lands right on Denver’s jaw. Denver’s head snaps back and blood spatters across the wall behind us.
I look at Sawyer, who looks guilty as hell that Denver took the punch meant for him. The guy cocks his arm back, looking like he’s going to take another shot at him.
“Stop it!” I yell, putting myself between the two of them.
Denver pulls on my arms, yanking me out of harm’s way. “Get out of the way, Aspen.”
The guy laughs. “Does your slut always stand up for you, you pussy?” he says to Sawyer.
Sawyer’s hands ball into fists and his face turns red. The vein at his temple is throbbing.
“Hit me!” the guy yells at Sawyer. “Hit me, you pussy. Then we’ll see who the real man is.”
I can tell Sawyer is about to jump the guy. Hell, he’s about to kill him. Just before I think he’s going to blow, he turns and hits the door he’s standing next to. I hear a crack and hope to God it’s the door and not his hand.
Then security walks up. “Is there a problem here?” a beefy guy with no neck asks.
“Yes, there’s a problem,” I say. “This jerk just hit my brother.”
The security guard looks at Denver to see his bloody mouth and swollen jaw. “Would you like me to call the police so you can press charges?”
Denver looks at Sawyer and then back at me before answering the man. He shakes his head. “No. I’m fine. It’s all good.”
“Just get them the hell out of here,” Sawyer says, motioning to the couple.
“With pleasure, Mr. Mills,” the guard says.
We all watch the guy and his wife being escorted away. Then my brother holds out his hand to Sawyer. “Denver Andrews. Nice to meet you,” he says la
ughing.
“You, too.” Sawyer shakes his hand, cringing. “I’m sorry about that.”
“Shit, did you hurt your hand?” Denver asks.
“I’ll be fine. It’s my catching hand, not my throwing one. Plus, the door was wood. It had some give. But it looks like we both might need some ice.” He nods to Denver’s jaw. “And then maybe some shots. Come on, I know a good place. Some of the other players will be there.”
On our way to the club, Denver and Sawyer talk while I study them. Neither of them hit the jerk at the ballpark and I wonder why. It’s not like my brother to back down from a fight. And why would Sawyer hit the wall instead of the guy’s face after the jerk said such terrible things about him?
Once we find where the other players are sitting, I ask the waitress for a couple baggies of ice.
“I know why I didn’t hit the guy,” Denver says to Sawyer. “I’m on probation. I could end up in jail. But why didn’t you? You had every right. You would have been defending me after that sucker-punch. Defending Aspen.”
Sawyer shakes his head. “I’m a lover, not a fighter,” he says, disingenuously.
“No, come on, really,” Denver says, prodding him. “I mean, I’d get it if you said you didn’t want to risk hurting your hands, but you did anyway by hitting the door. So what gives?”
Sawyer looks like he’s trying to come up with a reason when Denver says, “Oh, I get it. You don’t want a lawsuit. I’ll bet people could get millions out of you if you hit them.”
“Yeah, that’s it,” Sawyer says, throwing back a shot the waitress brought. Then he puts a bag of ice on his hand.
That’s not it. And it’s written all over his face.
“Are you okay?” I ask him, reaching out to touch his arm.
“I’m fine. Nothing a kiss from my girlfriend can’t cure,” he says. Then he nods to all the people watching. “What do you say?”
I lean forward and meet him halfway. Our lips touch and I realize just how much I’ve missed this. We haven’t kissed in a while. Haven’t touched in nearly a week. Not since he almost kissed me on his couch that night. The night no one was watching.
After our kiss – the one that leaves me disoriented – I sit back and watch Sawyer and my brother become fast friends. Denver knows a lot about baseball, so they have much to talk about. Denver is deliriously happy, despite the split lip and swollen jaw. Halfway through the night, he declares his acceptance of Sawyer, giving us his official blessing and saying our parents would have loved him.
I don’t agree. It’s Denver who loves him. My parents would have hated Sawyer. I can almost hear them say that he’s arrogant and crass and not nearly good enough for their daughter.
We sit and drink, the shots going down far too easily; the touches Sawyer and I share feeling far too customary, almost like an old habit.
By midnight, he’s got me melting into him on the dance floor. I’ve shed my Hawks shirt, and the tank top underneath is wet with perspiration. My hair is piled on top of my head in a messy bun. And it’s now that I realize I’ll be going home with Sawyer, not Denver. People will expect it. He’s my boyfriend, after all.
Sawyer looks at me as he’s grinding himself into me. His dark hair is matted with sweat. His eyes burn into mine. I know he’s putting on a show for everyone else here. But deep down, I think nobody is that good an actor.
He leans down and kisses my neck, licking the beads of sweat that have settled there. “You taste good. Salty and sweet.”
Maybe it’s the alcohol, but I swear every time he looks at me, he’s telling me he wants me. And every time I look at him, I answer him with my own heated stare. One that tells him I want him, too. That I’m tired of resisting. That I’m done using the contract as my shield.
“Fire me,” I say, before my brain can filter the spontaneous command.
“What?”
He stares at me, trying to gauge the sincerity in my words. We stop dancing but keep swaying, our bodies pressed together. I can feel his erection. He can see my pebbled nipples through my thin tank top.
I see my brother over Sawyer’s shoulder, sitting at a table, laughing with a few of the Nighthawks players.
Nighthawks players.
And suddenly, I’m reminded of who Sawyer is. Who I am. What we’re doing. And what I’d be if I let him have me.
I start to pull away. “Forget it. I don’t know what I’m saying.”
He pulls me back. “Fuck that, Aspen. You said it. I heard it. It’s out there. You can’t take it back.”
“Yes, I can. And I am. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get some water.”
I walk across the room, aware that he’s following me. I keep going past our table and down the hallway until I find the bathroom, knowing he can’t follow me in. I take much longer than I need to, hoping he’s gotten bored by the time I emerge.
I peek out and see the coast is clear, then I go up to the bar and get myself a bottle of water.
“Aspen Andrews?” I hear from behind.
I spin around and see Trent Dugan. Trent Dugan, my high school boyfriend. Trent Dugan, the guy with an ear-to-ear smile on his handsome, chiseled face.
“Trent,” I say, grabbing my water off the bar and reaching into my pocket to fish out some money.
He throws a five-dollar bill on the bar before he pulls me into a hug. “I thought it was you. I’ve been watching you all night. You look fantastic.”
I look down at my sweaty top and think of how my hair must look and I laugh. “I do not.”
He nods. “You do, Aspen. You always did.”
“You look great, too,” I say.
He does. He hasn’t aged much in the four years since I’ve seen him. Except that maybe his baby face is not so babyish anymore. And as I crane my neck to look at him, I could swear he’s gotten even taller.
He pulls me off to the side of the bar, where it’s quieter. “I guess I don’t have to ask you what you’ve been doing these days,” he says, nodding over to where the guys are sitting. “It’s pretty much all over the news.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“You’ve done well for yourself. I’m happy for you.”
I stare at him. I think he’s serious. I believe he is truly happy for me. I’ve wondered about him over the years. We dated during sophomore and junior year. Then, senior year, he broke up with me when I told him I was going to Juilliard. He didn’t want me to go and was mad that I’d go so far away from him. He’s one of the few guys I’ve slept with. And the only one who’s broken my heart.
Until now, my inner voice says.
I look over to where the guys are sitting and try to find Sawyer but he’s not there.
“What have you been doing since high school?” I ask Trent. “Did you get your engineering degree?”
He nods proudly. “Three weeks ago. I’m back here to pack up my things. I got a job in Austin, Texas.”
“That’s wonderful. Did you go to school here in Missouri?”
“I went to Cal Tech,” he says.
I raise my eyebrows at him, accusingly. “And you thought New York was too far away?”
He laughs. “It was only too far away if you were there and I was here. Once I accepted we weren’t meant to be, I broadened my horizons.”
“I’m glad to hear that. And I’m happy for you.”
“I’m glad you found the guy you were meant to be with,” he says.
I try to paste a genuine smile on my face, but I know I’m failing miserably.
“What is it?” Trent asks.
“Nothing.”
I feel an arm come around my waist. Then hot breath rolls across my neck before Sawyer kisses my bare shoulder. “I lost you for a minute, babe.”
I try not to show my displeasure at his use of the endearment. He only calls me babe when he’s putting on a show.
“Who’s this?” he asks, nodding to Trent.
“Trent Dugan, meet Sawyer Mills,” I say.
Tr
ent holds out his hand, but Sawyer doesn’t shake it. “Sorry,” Sawyer says. “I can’t risk injuring the hand.”
Put off, Trent wipes his hand on his jeans and puts it back by his side.
I try to take a step away from Sawyer and his asshole remark, but he pulls me even closer. “And how do you two know each other?” he asks.
“Aspen and I dated in high school,” Trent says. “For over two years.”
Sawyer’s grip on me tightens. “Is that so? Well, what happened to the happy couple?”
“She wanted Juilliard,” Trent says.
“And he wanted Jenna Kinney,” I say, joking.
“That’s not true,” Trent says. “I only dated her after you made it clear that you wanted Juilliard more than you wanted me.”
Sawyer’s brows shoot up and he looks back and forth from Trent to me.
I shrug. “Doesn’t matter now. Everything worked out for the best, didn’t it?”
“It did,” Trent says. “Well, it’s nice to see you again, Aspen. I won’t keep you any longer. My number hasn’t changed. Look me up sometime if you ever get to Austin, Texas.”
“We don’t ever go to Austin, so that would be highly unlikely,” Sawyer says arrogantly.
I elbow Sawyer hard and give him a scolding look.
“Houston isn’t all that far,” Trent says.
“We’re usually very busy when we travel,” Sawyer says. “We don’t have any time for socializing.”
Trent shakes his head, knowing Sawyer is full of shit. “Yet here you are, hanging out at a bar.”
I give Trent an apologetic smile. “I’ll look you up if we can find the time. Nice to see you, Trent.”
Trent walks away and Sawyer pulls me into the hallway leading to the club offices. “Did you sleep with him?” he asks.
“We dated for more than two years, Sawyer. What do you think?”
If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Sawyer is almost as mad now as he was when that guy confronted him after the game. I reach up and run my finger across his throbbing temple. “You’re not jealous, are you? There’s really no need to be. After all, you’re paying me. Trent wasn’t. Two totally different things.”
The Perfect Game: A Complete Sports Romance Series (3-Book Box Set) Page 78
