by K. Bromberg
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.
“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 again.”
“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.”
And there he goes, surprising me again.
“Who knew the man who’s got a wicked arm and swagger for days also has such a huge heart?” I murmur, more to myself than to him, but I am thoroughly impressed. Not just because he has a charity, because a
lot of players pay it forward somehow, but after watching him—his interaction with the organizers, the kids, the good mood it put him in—it is obvious this is more than just a tax write-off to him.
I love that his cheeks flush some and hate that he’s embarrassed at all by it.
“I meant that as a compliment, Easton. It’s nice to see someone paying the community back, and in such an important way. Don’t ever be embarrassed by it. Please.”
“Your turn,” he says after a beat, effectively shifting the focus back on me. “Spill it.”
I suck in a breath and debate how to be honest with him while keeping my promise to my father. “I have an uncle who is pretty sick. It’s just hitting me harder than usual today.”
“Scout.” The way he says my name—apology laced with compassion—causes a lump to form in my throat. “I thought I was being so smart, tricking you into telling me something, and now I feel like a complete asshole. I’m sorry. The only thing I can say is I hope he gets better soon.”
I don’t know why I chuckle, but I do. The tone of it is anxious and sarcastic, and I know it’s because I’m afraid if I say the words out loud, they’ll come true. “Yeah, well, thank you, but he’s not going to get better.” I focus on shredding my cocktail napkin—anything to avoid seeing the sympathy in his eyes. I can’t handle sympathy right now. I can deal with anger. I can handle disbelief. But I absolutely cannot deal with sympathy.
Sympathy will break me, when I can’t break.
It will make me confess the secret I’ve been keeping. The one that’s been eating me whole—bit by bit, day by day—because I’d give anything to talk about my dad’s diagnosis. It would be so much easier if someone else knew so I could let all this bundled emotion out instead of letting it implode.
But I can’t tell Easton. I promised my dad I wouldn’t, so I sit in the booth across from him, staring at where I’m pushing the tiny pieces of shredded napkin around with my finger instead of looking at him.
Somehow, though, he senses that I need a connection, a something, and he reaches across the table and links his fingers through mine. I look down at our hands entwined; I study the scars on his from a lifetime of playing, and hold on to the little bit of comfort he has no idea how much I need.
“Thank you,” I say after a moment to regain my composure. A huge part of me likes this—our fingers linked—but knows it’s a bad idea all around. And yet, when I lean back in the booth, try to create an opportunity for him to withdraw his hand, he doesn’t.
“I used to play ball,” I say, feeling the need to reciprocate with something else about me, considering I wasn’t completely honest with my first confession. Anything to change the topic and relieve the depressed atmosphere I unexpectedly created.
“You did?” he asks with a tone so full of warmth that it pulls on me to look up to him. There’s a surprised gratitude in his eyes that tells me he wasn’t expecting me to let him in any more than I did, and for that look alone, I’m glad I did.
“Yep. So, I may not have played in the majors, but I won a few collegiate championships.”
“You’re fucking with me now.”
I laugh. “Why is that so hard to believe?”
“Because you’re completely unpredictable. First a stripper and now a ball player.”
“Very funny.” I roll my eyes as he narrows his in thought.
“Let me guess . . . you were a second baseman.”
“Uh. Please,” I say in mock offense because I know he won’t guess in a million years what position I played.
“C’mon. With that compact little body of yours, I bet you would’ve been a kick-ass second baseman.”
“I like to get a little more action than second base,” I say, fully knowing the innuendo that goes with it, but with the first drink down, I’m feeling a bit more daring than I normally would.
His eyes hold mine for a prolonged moment, and I know he wants to say more, but he doesn’t. Instead he begins to name every position on the field while I reject them until there are only two left.
“What’s left?” he asks, knowing damn well the answer.
“Pitcher and catcher.”
“No fucking way,” he murmurs.
“Yep.” I quirk an eyebrow, and the smug smile on my lips tells him I’m enjoying the fact he’s underestimated me.
“And twice in a matter of minutes you make me feel like a complete heel.” He releases my fingers and drops his head into his hands, his laugh ringing out as he scrubs them through his hair. The simple mannerism makes me smile, even more so when he looks at me again, eyes intense, smile bewildered. “Seriously?”
“If I was gonna play, I wanted to play the best position on the field. The one that holds all the control.”
“Control freak.”
“Ditto.” I murmur back, my smile soft, the alcohol warming me from the inside out.
“Incredible.” His voice is part awe, part surprise, and it makes every part of me stand tall with pride.
“My dad used to say the best place in the park to sit was behind home plate. And so when I was about ten, I figured if I was going to play, I wanted to make sure I had the best seat in the house.”
I can hear my dad’s voice saying it now, the memory bittersweet.
“And my dad told me to play first base instead,” he says with a shake of his head, “because catching caused too much wear and tear on your body and could shorten your career.”
“So you’ve always rebelled against him, then?”
His laughter is quick and his smile arrogant. “That noticeable, huh?”
“There was just a touch of tension in the locker room.”
“A touch? Was that all?”
Relieved he can laugh now at what upset him earlier, I put my thumb and index finger half an inch apart. “Just a smidgen.”
The soft smile on his lips does nothing to ease the conflict in his eyes as he lowers his gaze to watch the condensation run down the side of his beer bottle. He collects his thoughts before he looks back up at me to explain. “He means well. He’s just very particular and extremely determined that I live up to the Wylder name. He doesn’t want me to disgrace the legacy he left behind, especially since I play for the club he spent his entire career playing for.”
“That’s a lot of pressure.” I can’t imagine.
“I’m sure the situation you’re in is no different, living up to the legendary Doc Dalton.”
I twist my lips and consider his statement. “Pressure, yes. But it’s something I want to do, love to do . . . to make him proud.” But I get the feeling that while Easton feels similarly about his situation, at least I had the choice whether I wanted to follow in my father’s footsteps. For some reason, I don’t think he did.
“Every kid wants to make their parents proud,” he muses as he angles his head to the side. “But every parent holds a different standard for what exactly it is that will achieve that.”
And that comment confirms my assumption that Easton feels like he’s never been good enough to live up to his father, the legend. My heart hurts for him, working as hard as he does, playing a game he is more than gifted at, but living a life to earn someone’s approval.
“True. That must be hard for you.”
He shrugs again. Averts his eyes. Takes a swig of his beer. “When I’m playing good, it’s not.” He laughs, and I can tell he’s uneasy with the topic of conversation.
“Tell me something else about yourself,” I say, more than curious to find another piece to complete this puzzle of a man.
“You sure are full of questions,” he teases.
“Please,” I say drolly. “I’m sure you’d prefer to talk baseball or stats or something scintillating like that.”
“Scintillating?” He laughs.
“It’s a good word.”
“It is,” he says with a nod, “but I don’t talk stats.”
What? “I thought all players liked to talk about the game.”
�
�I’m not all players, though.”
“So it seems.”
“First off, I’m the player.” He quirks an eyebrow, and all I can do is smile at the reference.
“And second?”
“Second,” he mimics, “I may be wrong, but I think it takes a helluva lot more to impress you than a list of above-par stats.”
“True.” I draw the word out while my mind is a flurry of thoughts. Is he flirting with me? He wants to impress me? Or am I reading into the comment when he means nothing by it?
“Stats are boring. They’re my work. And while most days I live and breathe baseball, on and off the field, they’re the last thing that comes to mind when I’m in the company of a beautiful woman.”
That’s twice. He is flirting with me.
“What does come to mind, then?”
Oh, crap. I’m flirting right back.
He flashes me a megawatt smile that lightens his dark features and brightens his eyes. And if I doubted whether we should continue this exchange or not, that smile right there pulls me in hook, line, and sinker.
“Right here? Right now?”
“Mm-hmm.”
Our eyes lock as we gauge each other and try to figure out the next step in this unfamiliar dance we’re moving to.
“Dance with me.”
I stifle a laugh. Is he reading my mind now?
But my laugh is short-lived when he rises from the booth and extends his hand to me. He can’t be serious.
“No way!” I laugh, batting his hand away. “I’m not letting the King of Pranks make a fool of me.”
“I do love a good prank but dancing with me isn’t one of them.” He puts his hand out for me to take again.
“I don’t know how to dance, let alone to country music.”
“Neither do I. We’re quite the pair, aren’t we?” he asks, that boyish smile on his lips winning me over. “A pair of Texans who can’t dance to country music.”
“We should be ashamed of ourselves and hide in this dark corner here.”
His laugh tells me he’s not buying it. “No time like the present to learn.”
“We’ll be the only ones on the dance floor.” I scramble to think of any other excuse to avoid this situation—not avoiding the limelight part of it but the dancing body-to-body with Easton part—because he’s already lowered my defenses, and dancing with him might be too temptingly disastrous for me—in more ways than one. “Everyone will be staring at us.”
