“Not entirely. I don’t know anything about this guy.”
Beck finishes off the Toronto team, stealing the third strike. The outfielders start to make their way to the dugout for the swap while I find a patch of grass and refuse to look away from it.
“You can learn,” she offers.
“Since when are you Team Date? Have you grown a love for men over the last few months?”
She snorts a laugh. “Alright, I hear you, and we consider the topic dropped. The only man I love is mine.”
“That’s better.”
We don’t talk about this random Jack guy or my “random hookup” for the rest of the game, but Roman never leaves my mind.
My body is drained by the time I make it back to my hotel room. Aubrey’s out with Finn doing whatever it is they do when they’re together, while I sit cross-legged on the bed with my laptop open to After Hours.
It feels like months since the last time I spoke toQuiethours, and it hasn’t gotten any less frustrating to open my chats to no new messages from him. I’m certifiably insane, sure, but that’s something I can work through. What I can’t seem to get past is my inability to accept any new messages from anyone else.
The list of unopened ones has hit overwhelming status. Despite uploading two new videos in the last week—pathetically boring ones, might I add—I also haven’t responded to comments the way I used to. I’ve lost a handful of subscribers due to mylack of communication and activity, which isn’t bad, considering how shit I’ve been at it. It’s not anything to be proud of, either.
I’ve worked really, really hard for this, and while that isn’t something I’d brag about to my grandmother, it still counts. I can’t let some fixation on Roman ruin this for me.
Shit. What would he think if he knew that I do this? Is that a red zone for him? If it is, would I care?
This has never really been a topic of debate for me. The last time I dated someone, I didn’t even know what After Hours was, let alone was a member. Having to tell them that I was taking naked videos of myself on the days we weren’t together wasn’t a reality. Not that Roman and I are dating. Which I think it’s pretty obvious that we’re not.
Still, it makes me wonder.
Shaking my head, I grit my jaw and open the first of many new messages. It’s a request for a rating video. That’s easy enough, so I accept it.
I’m staring at the screen, waiting for a reply, when there’s a knock on the door. At first, I hesitate to get up to answer. It’s most likely Aubrey . . . but what if it’s someone else? A six-foot-three, MLB team manager with a butterfly hand tattoo and black rings on his fingers, perhaps.
I close the laptop and shove it under a pillow before going to answer. My braless tits flop around beneath my baggy shirt before I slow my quick pace. Peering through the peephole, disappointment rattles me.
Once I’ve pulled the chain free and tugged the door open, I stare at the plain black box sitting on the floor. There’s no note on it or tag of any kind, let alone a person waiting to join me for another night of hot sex.
Sighing, I gather it in my arms and turn back inside. The door shuts with a slam that I don’t care enough to quiet.
The contents of the box don’t rattle or make any sort of noise when I let it fall to the mattress. I plant my hands on my hips and stare at it like I’m waiting for a possessed doll to jump out and eat my face.
When nothing happens, I slowly exhale and lift the top off.
Inside the box lies a regular green-and-grey Havoc jersey. Confusion pulses between my brows as I take it out by the sleeves and examine it, searching for something different. Then, I turn it around.
There’s no name or number on it. No personalization at all, other than the team logo and colours.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and I dive for it, snagging it with an anxious breath caught in my throat.
The words on the screen make my heart explode into a million tiny flaming pieces.
R. Shore
No more Rourke.
27
ROMAN
One more pitchand a hit is all it takes for me to say the exact same sentence I’ve spoken twice already this game.
