The Player

by K. Bromberg

  “Isn’t that how all fathers are?”

  There’s a surprising bite to his tone, and yet I’m too preoccupied with my own world to delve deeper into his. I clear my throat, push the emotion away, and turn around to face him.

  “How does your shoulder feel?” Time to change topics.

  His laugh rings out across the empty field and gets lost in the vastness of the stadium. “You really don’t like talking about yourself, do you?”

  His smile is genuine when I meet his eyes, and I hate that it pulls on me to say more. But I can’t. I won’t. “No.”

  Without another word, I begin his routine. I work in silence—my hands on his body, his heartbeat against my palm—feeling for the bunching of muscles as I pull and push and work through the tightness in his shoulder. The hiss of his breath is my only gauge to know when I’ve pushed him too far.

  “How does this feel?” I position myself behind him, our bodies pressed against each other’s, enabling me to manipulate his larger frame.

  “What’s bugging you?”

  I ignore his question. “Is it tight? Sore? Is that pinch still up in the top part of the cuff?”

  “You’re upset. That much is obvious.”

  “I’m fine. Can we get back to you and your shoulder? To my job.” My tone is clipped. “What’s hurting you?”

  “I don’t know. What’s hurting you?”

  I falter, trying to grasp that he’s really going to push the issue, and just when I realize I’ve stopped moving—one hand resting atop his shoulder, the other on his bicep—he turns to face me.

  Now we’re body to body, my breasts brushing against his chest while his eyes search mine for the secrets I keep. And we’re close, too close, but neither of us step away. It’s just him and me inside a sunlit stadium with thousands of empty seats as bystanders.

  His breath catches. My pulse races. I look away in a desperate attempt to avoid his question and ignore the sudden hum of desire snapping within me like a broken power line twisting in a storm.

  Not desperate enough, though, to step back.

  “Uh-uh.” Easton’s finger is on my chin, lifting my face so that my eyes scrape over the day-old growth on his chin, up to those lips, and on to the curiosity in his eyes. “What is it, Scout?”

  Our gazes lock. Hold. Question without speaking. Sympathize despite not knowing what the other needs.

  And it’s odd because we’ve stood like this dozens of times over the past week. When I’m stretching him in warm-up, midway through our exercises, after we throw the ball around for a bit, and again after our routine is completed—but for some reason, this time there’s an intimacy to it.

  It’s unnerving. It’s exciting. It can’t happen.

  Seconds pass before it hits me where we are, what might be happening—what I think I want to happen—and I push away from him as quickly as I can. The connection is broken.

  But the desire remains.

  “Sorry.” I shake my head, and without another word, I jog into the dugout toward the locker room, needing space from everything he makes me feel—and from making a huge mistake.

  Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. You’re in the freaking stadium, where anyone from the front office can see you, and you’re standing there like a teenager begging to be kissed. Are you actually going to risk this job for a guy who will be gone and done with you before the post-season begins?

  “Scout?”

  “You’re good for the day.” Keep walking. Keep moving.

  He curses behind me, and then his footsteps fall into pace with mine when I just want them to walk the other way.

  Or maybe I don’t want them to.

  Hell if I know, because that little moment was enough to mess up my head. Sure, Easton hits all my buttons: hot, athletic, funny, and a bit of a mystery. But in this job, those buttons are pushed all the time. There are plenty of players who fit that bill. It’s everything else that he just made me feel that’s confusing me.

  It’s the fact that I wanted him to lean in and kiss me.

  It’s the notion that I press up against hard, male bodies all the time—so much so that I’m rarely affected by it—but right now, my body is reacting and wanting and pissed off that it is reacting. Easton Wylder just affected me.

  It’s the acknowledgement that for some reason he can see the things I think I’m hiding from the world. He sees them, and has no problem calling me out on them, either.

  It’s that right now I feel exposed and raw, and I hate that I am, but at the same time I feel relieved that someone sees it. That I’m not invisible, when lately, that’s all I’ve felt as I’ve worked to secure this job. To succeed in getting the long-term contract. Anything to try and keep my dad holding on.

  My footsteps echo down the concrete corridor, the clubhouse all but vacant of players since the team is traveling. I need a minute to clear my head and push away the sudden vulnerability I feel because of everything going on with my dad.

  Clear mind, hard heart, Scouty.

  Maybe it’s the toll of my emotions, maybe not, but when I enter the empty locker room, my feet falter at the sight. It’s eerie and beautiful and bittersweet all at the same time.

  This is how I remember it from when I was a kid. Ford and I would tag along with my dad to work and we’d sit in the empty locker room while he got everything set up for whoever he was in charge of rehabilitating. When the team straggled in, we’d be relegated to the office with a vending machine full of candy we weren’t supposed to eat but would stuff our faces with anyway. We’d giggle at the Mad Libs made naughty with words we weren’t allowed to say in front of our dad—like hell and damn—and then grumble over our homework, which Ford would help me with when it was too hard. It was my dad’s way of keeping us with him—our fear he’d leave us was a constant in those early years after my mom left—but making sure we didn’t get in the way, or hear the cursing, or see the players as they changed.

  And every once in a while, depending on how long he worked with a club, the players would come in, kid with us, give us high-fives, and make us feel like we were part of the team.

  “What is it?” Easton pulls me from my thoughts. When I look his way I realize his hand is on my upper arm, his head dropped down so he can look into my eyes.

  “Isn’t it magical?” I whisper. Oh my god. Did I really just say that? I’m so lame.

  His laugh is amused, but the expression on his face as he looks around us—the empty lockers, the hanging jerseys, the nameplates on them—says he has a love/hate relationship with this room. And for a guy who probably grew up here more than anywhere else, the expression, and the curiosity it raises, surprises me.

  “Some days it is. Some days it isn’t,” he finally murmurs, confirming my assumption of his mixed feelings as his gaze lands back on mine.

  And we stand like this for a few seconds, his hand on my arm, his eyes asking me what’s wrong, and mine questioning why this room evokes the conflict I see hiding in his.

  The clearing of a throat has me jumping back like we’re two kids caught doing something we shouldn’t be doing.

  “Sir,” Easton says with a slow nod as I meet the eyes of the giant who is standing a few feet away from us, an indecipherable look on his unmistakable face.

  “Easton.” He looks down to his watch and then back up, with hazel eyes that are a mirror image of his son’s. “Cutting your rehab time a bit short, aren’t you?”

  The laugh that falls from Easton’s mouth is one I haven’t heard before. It’s void of any humor. “This is my second session today, so no, actually, I’m not.”

  The man’s gaze shifts from Easton’s to mine as he angles his head and studies me. “We haven’t officially met.”

  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.

  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 r
ow 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.