I roll over to plug in my phone and switch off the lamp. Once I’m settled into bed, I stare at the ceiling and think over that conversation.
I think I might actually let him be my friend.
I shouldn’t, but he brings a brightness out in me that I don’t usually have.
And it’s with those thoughts rolling around in my head that I close my eyes and try to find sleep. Sleep that won’t come.
With a frustrated groan, I let my hand slowly trail down my stomach. I shouldn’t do this. I shouldn’t be slipping my hand into the waistband of my panties to images of his damp, post-game hair. I shouldn’t be dancing my fingertips over my pubicbone to the sound of his raspy, tired voice. Shouldn’t be running my fingers through the slickness between my thighs to draw quick, small circles over my clit to thoughts of him laid up in bed getting himself off. Shouldn’t be doing any of these things to relieve the pulsing ache he created. But I do. I do each and every one of them.
The orgasm that crashes over me is sudden and intense as I come with his name a gasp from my lips. Panting as I come down from the high of my release, I can’t help but realize I’m so incredibly fucked.
TWELVE
WHAT’S A CHUMBAWAMBA?
RYAN
I’ve never been soantsy to get out on the field than I am right now. I don’t even think I was this on edge for my debut MLB game. And that one was a pretty big fucking deal. I check the clock for what must be the hundredth time and see that—thank god—it’s nearly time to head out to the field for warmups.
And it has everything to do with the five-foot-something feisty brunette that still refuses to acknowledge we’re becoming friends. A fact I’m almost positive she’s blatantly ignoring, considering she endured my texting for the entirety of our nine-day away stretch. We won every single series we played. I’m not sayingshe’sthe reason we’ve been doing so well, but I mean, I’m also notnotsaying that.
Somehow, all my texting didn’t scare her off. She actually kept up the conversations and played along as I continued to bombard her with the whole twenty questions game we’ve got going. I did learn a lot more about her in the last week and a half, and there’s not a single thing I haven’t liked.
I asked her if she could find out how she died, would she want to know. And her answer was a resounding ‘fuck no.’Her reasoning was that she would always be looking over her shoulder and wouldn’t actually get to enjoy life if she knew how she’d leave it. And I agree.
She asked me if I could be ‘besties’ with any celebrity who would it be and I obviously had to whip out Jackson West again. He’s the ultimate man crush. I mean, A-list Hollywood actor from two of the biggest action box office hits? How could henotbe everyone’s man crush? She offered to set me up on a date with him as a joke and I almost took her up on it. That man’s a legend. He’s done full-on military training to get into shape for his superhero film. I know I’m an athlete and all, but I think the intensity of that training regimen might actually kill me. Not him, though. The tangent I took the conversation down as I expressed my love for Jackson had Isa laughing until she was breathless. It made me want to find ways to keep her laughing like that.
We went back and forth a bit more. If you could live in another era, which would it be? Her: the ’70s or ’80s. Me: Medieval, obviously. Night owl or early bird? Night owl for us both, even though she’s always in bed by 10 p.m.
The more I’ve learned only makes me like her more. Which is dangerous if I do finally convince her to be my friend, but that’ll be future Ryan’s problem.
My leg won’t stop bouncing with the anticipation of finally seeing her in person after a week and a half. I haven’t seen her face since that one FaceTime call we had. And don’t think I haven’t tried another. I have. She ignores them and defers to either texting or a normal, boring phone call. It’s not the same without seeing her face while she’s giving me shit. I enjoy it more. There’s only so much I can take away from her voice. I want to watch her brows furrow when I say something ridiculous. I want to see her eyes narrow when I slip in the smallest flirty line and she tries to skewer me. Is her voice softbecause she’s tired? Is she over my shit and wants me to stop bothering her? Like I said, only so much I can get from her voice without seeing her face. Reading her.
I shake my head to clear my rampant running thoughts. “Let’s go boys! Let’s get this done!” I call out to the team before we all jog through the locker room and out through the dugout.
The second I set foot on the field, I see her and it nearly knocks the wind out of me. It’s like she’s a magnet and my eyes can’t help but find her no matter where she is. But it also helps that she’s in her usual pre-game position. I drink up these fleeting moments like she’s water in a desert. Once the game starts, she’ll be up in the studio and I won’t see her again until the end when the TV crew are back down to the field for the post-game show.
I make a slight detour on my jog to the outfield so I can pass close enough to speak to her without anyone else hearing, but not close enough to draw attention.
“Miss me, firecracker?”
She startles and her head whips around to watch me jog past, but she collects herself quickly and dons her standard mask of indifference she wears when we’re together on the field. She scoffs. “You wish.”
“You’re right, I do. I really,reallydo,” I say with a wink as I jog backwards to where the guys are already beginning to warmup.
I slow my steps and narrow my eyes when I think I spot a hint of a pink blush climbing her cheeks.Well, that’s an interesting reaction.
I’m about to walk back in her direction to confirm when Cooper calls out to me, “Fletcher, get your ass over here and throw the fucking ball!”
I stare at her for a beat more before she breaks eye contact and turns her body the slightest bit, closing me off. For a second,I thought I was imagining things, but her trying to hide from me like this? There was definitely something.
Turns out she’s not as unaffected as she likes to pretend she is.
Interesting indeed.
Headinginto the bottom of the first, I’m finally up at bat, and I’msolooking forward to this moment. I’ve been plotting this out since our last home game when I changed my walk-up song. I have the best one for today, and I already know she’s going to hate me for it. Or hopefully love me. They do say it’s a fine line between love and hate. Or at least, I think that’s what they say, whoevertheyare.
I jog out toward home plate while the in-stadium announcer introduces me, and my latest song choice kicks in over the stadium’s PA system.
