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The small creature twitched in the grass as a handful of players moved around it.
I swallowed past the lump that had lodged itself in my throat. “I don’t think so.”
But with the speed at which Chris could throw a ball, the best-case scenario would be a broken wing. I winced again at the thought of what that poor bird would have to go through to rehab that wing.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, making me jump. I pulled it out and found a new text from my dad.
“Should you do something?” Jana asked before I could even open the message.
“I—” I looked out at the field again; multiple players surrounded the now screeching bird.
Beckett appeared at the railing separating our box from his. “You.” He pointed at me. “Go do your bird doctor stuff.”
I blinked at him.
“There isn’t anyone more qualified to deal with this than Boston Zoo’s head of avian medicine.” He was practically growling. “The Revs just got past hating kids and running over dogs. We can’t hate birds now.”
My phone buzzed in my hand, and I finally unlocked the screen.
Dad: Avy, this is a you thing
Dad: I’m sending security up to get you.
Just as I was opening my mouth to assure Beckett that I’d handle it, a knock sounded on the door. I glanced down at the field again, and my stomach twisted into a painful knot. I guess my days of avoiding Christian Damiano had come to an end.
“Should we touch it?”Cortney Miller was on his knees next to the small black and white bird I’d hit with my slider. He looked up at me, his catcher’s mask resting on his head, like I was even remotely qualified to answer his question.
I didn’t know the first thing about injured birds. The poor thing’s wing was bent at a weird angle, and its screeching made me feel like a monster. I hadn’t seen the little guy until I’d released the ball, and by then, it was too late. Thank fuck I hadn’t thrown a fastball.
“Should we?” He held a huge hand out. The little thing was barely bigger than his palm.
But when he got close, it snapped its colorful beak at his fingers, and Cortney yanked his arm back and clutched it to his chest protector, almost falling on his ass in the process.
“Maybe you try, Dragon.” He hopped up, towering over my six-foot-two frame, and pressed on my shoulder like he wanted me to bend down and fix it.
“I’m not touching it.” The bird might look like a fluffy little clown, but with the number of germs birds carry? Hell would freeze over before I took even another step closer to that germ-infested creature. I felt bad for it, and I had no doubt I’d feel shitty about hurting him for weeks, but regardless of all that, I wasn’ttouchingit.
“Something has to be done.” The umpire crossed his arms over his padded chest and surveyed Cortney, then Vance Craig, the first baseman who had been at bat for the Braves when this fiasco happened. “We can’t play the game this way.”
Slowly, more of my teammates had moved our way, and we were surrounded by a small crowd, though they all stood a few feet back. Apparently, no one but Cortney, Vance, and I were willing to get too close.
“I’ve always been told not to touch a hurt animal. If you do, it’s a good way to lose a finger.” Vance shook his head and stepped back, leaving us to deal with the little guy.
“Vet’s on the way,” Coach called from the dugout.
The small bird squeaked and flopped around like it was trying to stand. It only succeeded in toppling over again, and as it did, it let out a heart-wrenching yelp of pain.
“Aw, the poor thing. Let me through.”
My heart stuttered at the voice coming from behind the wall of onlookers. I’d recognize it anywhere. I snapped straight and scanned the people nearby until I found the source. A small blond wearing an out-of-date royal-blue Revs jersey was making her way through the crowd.
Blondie. My heart kept up its uneven rhythm as she moved closer. I had to fight the urge to smile at the sight of her. I refused to be the asshole who was caught smiling about a wounded animal. But I had spent two months visiting every place on her map over and over again in hopes of finding her. And now here she was, headed my way with a wet towel in her hands.
The moment our eyes locked, my skin tingled in anticipation. This time, I was getting her name, her number, her address, and all her social media handles. I wanted it all. Every possible way to contact this woman who I hadn’t stopped thinking about, fantasizing about. The sheer number of times I’d jerked off to thoughts of her was embarrassing.
My heart started to race in my chest. I was beginning to worry that I might need to see a cardiologist. I wanted to touch her, take off that stupid jersey—the one emblazoned with the retired number thatbelonged to the man I couldn’t stand—and replace it with my name on her back. Mark her as mine.
She held eye contact for only a moment, her expression impossible to read, before looking down at the bird.
