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“We can set ground rules,” he assures me. “But let’s talk about that another time. For now, go home. Get some rest. I can handle the dishes.”
“Maxwell…” I try to argue, but I know it’s not worth it. “Fine.”
“See you tomorrow, Duckling.”
Once I’m back in my house, I kick off my shoes and make a beeline for my bathroom where I quickly take my migraine medication and avoid eye contact with myself in the mirror before stepping into the bedroom and falling into bed, not bothering to change my clothes, and trying really hard not to freak out about what just happened.
In the middle of the night, I find myself on the cool tile floor of the hall bathroom. After getting up in the night for some ginger ale in an attempt to quell the nausea that woke me up, I didn’t make it as far as my bedroom and ensuite bathroom before emptying the contents of my stomach. I fall asleep with my cheek pressed to the cool tile and wake up to the sound of my pulse pounding in my ears. As I roll onto my back, the volume of the pounding increases, and I realize it’s coming from somewhere in the house.
Dragging myself off of the floor, I follow the sound of the pounding to the door off my kitchen, where Maxwell stands with a scowl on his face. I open the door and wince, shielding my eyes from the sun as he pushes past me into the house.
“Why didn’t you answer your phone?” I shy away at the sound of his voice, and find my phone on the counter where I left it last night before going to Max’s for dinner.
“I didn’t plug it in when I got home.” My voice betrays my rough night and Maxwell finally gives me his full attention. Taking in, I’m sure, my disheveled hair, and, if I had to guess, the imprint of bathroom tile on my cheek. “I went right to bed.”
“Sutton,” Max lowers his voice and gently grips my chin and tilts my face to the side, one finger softly tracing the indents of the tile on my cheek. “Why didn’t you call me?”
“And say what, Maxwell?” I lean into his touch, as his arm comes around my waist, drawing me into him. “Can you come over and hold my hair back while I…”
“Yes.” His voice is gruff as he holds me close. “Yes. Always. How bad is it now?”
“Pretty bad.” There’s no use in sugar coating it for him.
“Bad enough that I could convince you to call out today?”
“Not a chance.”
“Fine.”
He lets me go, sending me down the hall to the bedroom where I quickly change into my baseball coach version of work clothes. I’ll run drills with the guys first thing this morning, and then we have a home game this evening, making for an extremely long day. Days like this Ialmostregret following my dream into baseball.Almost.I wouldn’t trade this job for an office or a cubicle, and I certainly wouldn’t trade it for a classroom. Sometimes though, I’d be willing to trade it for a few more sick days. Today would be one of those days.
After splashing cool water on my face and the back of my neck, I meet Max in the kitchen and he suggests breakfast in the cafeteria at the training facility. I nod, grabbing my sunglasses and putting them on, a modicum of relief coming almost instantly.
“I’ll drive.” He stands with a resolute nod and my feet root themselves to the floor.
“No. Absolutely not.” Crossing my arms over my chest, I do my best to stand my ground. “We haven’t had that ground rule discussion yet, but the first one is nothing at work. Nothing. No hand holding, no kissing, no carpooling. No asking me to breakfast, lunch, or dinner. And if Ieverhear the word duckling come out of your mouth…”
“What if a duckling happens to be walking across the baseball field and I say ‘Hey Davis, look, a duckling.’ What do you expect me to do?”
“In that unlikely scenario, fine.” I am notamused, and Maxwell knows it judging by the twitch of his lips. “Also, you can’t smile at me.”
“What?” He shouts before realizing he’s raised his voice. “Why can’t I smile at you?”
“Because, you’re Maxwell Harrison, baseball’s grumpiest pitcher.”
“I’m not grumpy,” he grouses at me, his smile slipping andalmostproving my point. “I’m…serious.”
“You’re grumpy. And if you smile at me, people are going to wonder what’s wrong with you.”
“We’ll negotiate this later. Over dinner,” he says. “For now, we have to get to work.”
“Separately,” I remind him, reaching for my keys.
“For now,” he mutters under his breath as he follows me out the door. “I’m adding that to my list of things to negotiate. Do I need to bring a union rep?”
I’m glad he’s behind me so he can’t see the laughter I try my best to hide.
After pulling into my usual parking spot, I sit for a minute as everything from the last few hours washes over me – from my confession to Maxwell, to that kiss and how I want to kiss him again. All the time – and my cheeks heat as I realize I have to walk in and face the team today as if nothing happened. As if Maxwell Harrison didn’t tug me down onto his lap and kiss me as if his life depended on it. As ifminedid.
