Keeping Score

by Alyssa Kale

  “Want to watch a movie?” he asks, clearly wanting to get away from the subject.

  “Braxton, what are we doing?” I need to know what he’s thinking. I’m pregnant with another man’s baby. It’s his story all over again, and I don’t want to drag him further into my drama.

  “We’ve been friends. I heard you when you said that’s what you wanted.”

  Laughing, I sit up and cock my head to the side, a smirk on my face. With a small grin and raised brows, he shrugs one shoulder.

  “I have friends, Brax. They don’t buy me expensive televisions, bring me homemade soup, and I sure as hell don’t cuddle with them on the sofa.”

  Proving my point, he wraps his arms around me, pulling me to his lap, resting his chin on my head. “Do we have to label it? You’re important to me, Sophie. I know my life is hard; there’s so much publicity, and some of it is negative.” I giggle. “Fine. It’s a lot of negative. That’s why I worry about bringing you into my world. Soph, you’re too special and good for this life. The chaos it brings will upend your entire world.”

  His words are a direct hit to my heart. How do I tell him my life is about to be its own form of crazy?

  “No life is perfect, Brax.”

  It’s not an answer to his question but it’s the best I can muster. My feelings are all over the place. I like him. A lot. More than I should and far more than I’m prepared to address. How will I tell him about this baby? How will I bring him into my chaos, when he’s worked so hard to rise from the same scenario? I can’t. Once he knows, he’ll end whatever it is we’re building, and I’m not ready for that yet.

  The next few weeks are riddled with more bouts of all-day sickness and pure exhaustion. When I’m not at work or booking a few freelance projects, I’m napping and making lists. Pros and cons of telling Jared and Braxton about the baby. They each have their own lists, and neither are helping. Kendall has her opinions, which she voices regularly, and while I listen to them, I haven’t taken them to heart. Except that I also need to tell my dad. He’ll be excited to be a grandfather, but he may also kill Jared if he’s a dick when I tell him.

  I haven’t seen Braxton since the night we talked on my couch. The movie never happened. Instead, we talked for hours, getting to know each other better. I think it was an unspoken agreement that we both want more than friendship but have been burned bad enough to take it slow. The Aces are on a long road schedule, and while we’ve talked or texted daily, I miss his hugs and having him around. I also miss his mom’s homemade soup.

  As expected, the issue in Clarence Monthly blew up. Braxton’s reputation is on the mend, and finally, people aren’t making him the brunt of the joke and instead commending him on persevering after the scandal.

  Unfortunately, the Aces aren’t having the same positive trajectory. Braxton has said I’m the team’s good luck charm. Not even my commitment to watching all games has helped them on the road. It doesn’t look like they’ll make it to the playoffs this year.

  The realization that Braxton will be back in town for months overwhelms me. I need to put distance between us before it hurts too much. Lies. It’s already going to hurt. My feelings for Braxton are more than friendship. More than like. Which is exactly why I have to end things before they really start. I’m now well into my second trimester, and it’s only a matter of time before I’m showing. Baggy shirts and flowy skirts aren’t going to work much longer in hiding my secret.

  I’m sitting at my desk, thinking about all the things that need to get done in the next few months, when my phone lights up, signaling a call. Braxton’s name flashes across my screen, and I’m struck with a feeling of happiness, but also dread. I’m going to have to break my own heart.

  I answer before it slips over to voicemail. “Hey.”

  “Hey, beautiful. How are you?”

  “Good, I was just thinking about you,” I answer.

  “Oh really?” The flirtatious tone of his voice isn’t lost on me. Nor are the flutters low in my belly. I wish I could blame hormones for the way his deep voice affects me, but it’s all him. “Thinking about me how?”

  I laugh with him. “Just wondering how you’re feeling after today’s game.”

  “Fantastic. It was nice to pull out a win after…”

  While I listen to him as he goes on about the game, I doodle on my notepad. His voice is comforting, as are his chuckles. I’m so distracted by the smooth tone that I don’t realize when he stops.

  “That’s great, Brax. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks. Still not going to be enough to make it into the playoffs, but if we keep this up next season, we’ll go far.”

  Next season. My heart aches. Next season, I’ll have a newborn. Next season, I won’t be able to celebrate wins with Braxton. He’ll probably have moved on. He’s a good guy. The best actually. I shake off the thoughts and reply, “I know you guys will make the playoffs next season. I can’t wait to watch it happen.”

  “Sorry to go on about the game. It just feels good to chat with you after a few shitty games. But that’s not why I called.”

  “No?”

  He barks out a laugh. “I mean, I do like that I can talk about that part of my life with you, but no. We’re flying back tonight then we have an early game tomorrow morning. I’d love to take you out on a date tomorrow night.”

  “Braxton. I don’t—”

  Before I can protest, he cuts me off, “Before you turn me down, I’ve already made all the arrangements. Please don’t say no.”

  “A date, in public?” I ask, knowing how the paparazzi are still following him around. Always looking for a story that sells.

  “Just trust me, okay?” he pleads.

  “Fine. I’ll go on a date with you.” Like I could ever turn him down.

  “Good. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  We say our goodbyes, and I rest my forehead on my desk. Why can’t I be stronger and say no to him? This is a bad idea.

  22

  * * *

  BRAXTON

  At seven sharp, I knock three times on the door and step back, waiting for my date to open the door. This time, there is no question we’re going on a date. Not a friend date or some other made-up designation.

  When Sophie opens the door, she takes my breath away. Her long hair is in loose waves over her shoulders, which are exposed, and my fingers twitch at the idea of touching her smooth skin. The flowy top she’s wearing stops mid-hip level, which only accentuates the way her tight jeans show off her legs.

  My perusal over, I smirk as I notice she’s doing the same to me. Only instead of settling on my face, she’s focused on my forearms. Upside to being a baseball player, my arms are tan as fuck.

  “Ahem,” I say, mock-clearing my throat. Busted. Her blush starts on her chest and quickly covers her entire face. “Like what you see?”

  “What? Oh.” Tugging her bottom lip between her teeth, Sophie scrunches her nose and rolls her eyes.

  “It’s okay, babe. You can look all you want. Should I do a spin for you?”

  Smacking my arm, she groans as she turns on her heel and stomps away. Barking out a laugh, I don’t bother entering her apartment as she gathers her things. When she’s back at the door, her blush is gone but she’s still mumbling.

  “All set?” I ask, stepping aside for her to close the door.

  “Yep. Where are we going?”

  “It’s a surprise.”

  She rolls her beautiful eyes again but doesn’t push more as we take the short walk to my truck.

  Once she’s secure inside, I round the tailgate and exhale while slowing my pace. I play professional baseball before thousands of people, with the games broadcasted to millions. Yet, I’m more nervous for tonight than I am at any game.

  Our conversation is light and easy as I drive us the short fifteen minutes to our destination. Sophie enjoys teasing me that teenage girls all over the world have us on their walls. By “us,” she means the photos she took of me fo
r the article in her magazine. That’s the part of being a professional athlete they don’t tell you. While the celebrity status gets me better upgrades without asking and free tickets to concerts, the weird part is someone I don’t know may have my face on their wall. It’s something I like to pretend doesn’t exist.

  Sophie claps her hands when I pull into the parking lot of the bowling alley. My goal was to have a regular date like any other couple. I didn’t think to call ahead to secure a lane, and now I have regrets. Since it’s a weeknight, I didn’t expect it to be busy, and while it could be worse, there are still more cars than I’m comfortable with.

  Reaching into the back seat, I grab an Aces baseball cap, pulling it low on my forehead.

  “If it’s too busy, we should go somewhere else.”

  Shaking my head, I say, “No one will recognize me.”

  Trying and failing to muffle a laugh, she smacks my arm playfully. “You’re an Aces player wearing an Aces ball cap. People will recognize you.”

  “Nah, I do this all the time, and since we’re in Aces territory, tons of people wear Aces hats. People pay no mind.”

  “Oookay, whatever you say.”

  When Sophie reaches for the door handle, I place my hand on her knee. “Let me.”

  One of my favorite things about Sophie is her independence and can-do attitude. I don’t doubt waiting for me to open her door has her squirming in her seat, but this small gesture is important to me. It’s how I was raised and one of the things I’ve always admired about my dad. I can’t recall a time my mom has opened a door, whether a car or restaurant. Dad has always been there to do the task.

  Spotting the kid at the desk as the same guy who was here when I met my sister for a little sibling bonding a few months back, relief washes over me that I won’t be outed. Once I’ve checked us in and Sophie and I both have our shoes, I see a different side of her.

  I watch my date as she carefully selects not one but two balls to use, and it makes me laugh. Not out loud but to myself. She’s so serious I’m too afraid to let her hear my chuckle. While she’s searching for a ball, I set up our names on the screen and walk over to grab a fourteen-pound ball in a bright yellow.

  Sitting back against the bench, I watch Sophie as she dries her hand on the blowing air. Once her hands are sufficiently free of any moisture, she picks up a pink ball before standing in front of the lane, the ball close to her chest. Three steps and she releases the ball.

  Directly into the gutter.

  There’s no way to hide the humor in this moment.

  It lands in the freaking gutter.

  Hands on her hips, Sophie scowls at me. “What’s so funny?”

  “This should be an easy game.”

  “Watch it, cowboy. I’m just warming up.”

  “Whatever you say, darlin’.”

  Try as she might, Sophie can’t hide the smile on her face nor the blush on her cheeks. I remember how she reacted the last time I pulled out my drawl. I admit, I like the look on her.

  For the next hour, we tease, toss balls, and flirt like it’s our job. Neither of us are drinking tonight, and it makes the night seem more real. Tonight, it’s just us as two people who like each other and have fun together. For just one night, I’m not a professional athlete, and she isn’t the woman I intended to make mine.

  Sophie isn’t much of a bowler, but she celebrates like each frame is a strike. Her happiness is infectious, and I’m having the time of my life. Despite the fun we’re having, I’m distracted. Her jeans are doing marvelous things for her ass, and each time she passes by me, I have to tap into all my self-control to keep from grabbing her and tasting her lips again.

  Tossing a wink her way as I pass, I grip my ball and send it down the lane for a strike. The sound is loud and almost fake-sounding. When I turn to face her, a huge victorious smile on my face, I catch her glare.

  “I thought you were supposed to let a lady win.”

  Her words are teasing but do nothing but remind me of our night together. She wasn’t a lady that night. Damn, I’m horny.

  Stomping past me, she picks up her pink ball again, standing in front of the lane, feet together. I should go sit down. I shouldn’t walk up behind her.

  “Stand here. You’re hooking left on release. When you step forward, keep your eye on the arrows, not the pins.” My voice is quiet as I whisper in her ear. The way she sighs is hard to ignore. We’re close, almost touching. I could wrap my hand around her waist, pull her flush against me. Shadow her as she takes her turn. I don’t. Instead, I take a step back and smack her ass. She yelps, looks at me, and growls.

  “Show me what ya got, Soph.”

  With a hip wiggle, she repeats the words I whispered and releases the ball.

  “Oh my gosh! I did it.”

  Sophie runs to me, and I scoop her in my arms. “You did it. Now pick up those two pins and get yourself a spare.”

  With renewed energy, she does as instructed. Only picking up one, but it’s still her best frame of the night. The flirting doesn’t stop, and I’ve caught her looking at my ass when it’s my turn. I guess it’s tit for tat.

  While we’re at the counter, returning our rented shoes, I say, “I knew I’d kick your ass.”

  “Wow. You really know how to woo a woman, don’t you?”

  Laughing, I lead her out of the building, my hand on her lower back. When we get to my truck, I open the door and help her inside.

  “Is it working?” I ask.

  “Maybe.”

  “Good, ’cause it’s not over.”

  Sophie isn’t a good surprise recipient. Maybe it’s because she works at a magazine, but the entire drive to my house, she’s full of questions. Mostly, if there will be food where we’re going. I’m happy to hear she’s over whatever that awful flu was. I didn’t tell her how worried I was, not wanting to add to her stress. But there was a point that if she didn’t get better, I was going to have a private doctor make a house call.

  When we arrive at the gates to the complex, she looks at me curiously but doesn’t say anything. A brow quirk is all I get, to which I respond with a one-shoulder shrug. Look at us having conversations without words. Opening the door to my home, the aroma of our dinner wafts through the air, greeting us.

  Laura promised me she’d sneak out the door when we pulled in, making sure all signs of the caterer were gone. My sister has been encouraging me to talk to Sophie about my feelings. About wanting more with her than just friendship. When I told Laura I was planning a date, she demanded I let her help in some way. She liked Sophie a lot at the game and felt awful for what happened with the jersey chaser. In some ways, this is her way to apologize for something she had no control over.

  Sophie’s eyes go wide as she takes in the set table that is much fancier than ever before. “You did all of this? How?”

  “I have my ways,” I reply with a wink.

  I walk over to the table, pull out her chair, and motion for her to be seated. I offer to pour her a glass of wine, but she declines. I’ve not been much of a wine drinker, so I push it aside and get us both water before taking my seat.

  Sophie moans as I pass her the basket of bread. Her mouth is full of salad, but she smiles and takes the offering. We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, both of us making our way through the salad. When it’s time to scoop the pasta onto our plates, she puts her hand on mine.

  “Thank you for this, Braxton. It’s delicious and quite possibly the sweetest gesture anyone has ever made for me.”

  “Darlin’, if this is the sweetest gesture, you’ve been with the wrong guys. It’s just some pasta.”

  “You aren’t wrong there,” she retorts with a snort.

  Like always, we never run out of things to talk about. The topic of family has been one we’ve skirted around. I know the loss of her mother is a significant part of her life, and while I want to know everything about her, I don’t want to push the topic. Sophie surprises me when she turns the convers
ation to her parents.

  “I was raised in a very loving home. My dad owned a lawn care business, and my mom was a nurse. My mom…” She pauses and takes a deep breath. “My mom passed away when I was seventeen.”

  “I’m so sorry, Soph.” I grab her hand. “That must’ve been so hard.”

  She sniffs, but continues, “Anyway, growing up, my dad took me to as many Aces games as he could. We would try to go to two or three every year. Until…” She takes another deep breath, and my heart breaks for her. “Until she was killed in an accident. We hadn’t been to a game since, until you gave me those tickets.”

  I smile at her. I’m thankful I was able to gift her something so meaningful, even if they were just a sorry excuse for an apology. “I’m so glad you and your dad got to relive some of those memories.”

  “We were at a game when she died. While we were cheering on the Aces and sharing a bag of peanuts, my mom was hit by a drunk driver. By the time my dad got the message and we arrived at the hospital, it was too late. She was all alone. The amount of guilt my father held over that consumed him. It took a long time before he could even watch a game on television. That’s why sharing that day with him, watching you play, it was incredibly special.”

  A single tear falls from her eye. I lean forward, swiping the drop from her cheek, my hand cupping her neck.

  She shakes off the sadness with a smile. “The seats weren’t too bad either.”

  Her comment lightens the mood as we finish our meal and go about cleaning the table off. When everything is cleaned up, we move into the living room and settle on the couch.

  “I assume you loved baseball since you were in the womb,” she teases as she kicks off her shoes and burrows into the corner, her legs splayed out in front of her.

  “Nah. I think I at least waited until I was two days old before I held my first baseball. What about you? What did little Sophie love?”

  Picking up her feet, I lift them onto my lap and begin to massage the arches. This seems to be our thing, and by the small moans escaping her mouth, she loves it.