Every moment of that day is etched in my memory.
As a player on the Commanders’ farm team, he was allowed to spend the entire afternoon watching batting practice, warm-ups, and listening to Coach’s pregame talk.
He was so giddy at the prospect of being called up and playing on the same team that he couldn’t wipe the smile off his face. And he was so close to achieving that dream. A week later, he was gone.
Blinking away the stinging sensation behind my eyes. I have to force myself to refocus on the diamond in front of me as I fire a ball across the outfield to the right fielder, warming up my arm. The New York Knights come at us hot-out-of-the-gates and have me working hard to keep up with the deep balls to the outfield.
After getting the third out, we head to the plate for our turn to hit. I pull my batting helmet down tight over my head and lean against the railing, looking out over the field as I wait for my turn in the lineup. Against my better judgment, my eyes are drawn to the section of seats where Delilah would be sitting if she’d shown up.
When my gaze sweeps across the section, they catch on a head of blonde hair decked out in a Bandit’s shirt. I stare in disbelief as she sips from her beer, watching the game. The seat next to her is empty. I can’t fight the grin that takes over my face. She came, and she’s alone. That fact shouldn’t make me happy, but it’s typical with her. There are so many things that I feel about Delilah that I have no right feeling—like the possessive urge to see her sitting there in my jersey for example.
She’s here for me, and fuck if I don’t want everyone to know it.
“Cruz, you’re on deck.” Our team captain, Lincoln, nudges me with his elbow bringing my focus back to the game.
I step up to the plate, looking at the stands one last time before I etch a ‘J’ into the dirt in front of the plate with my bat and step into the box. It’s a reminder to play this game and live my life to the fullest—the way Jarrett did. Like I promised him I would the day I held his hand and said goodbye. Playing with my whole heart is the easier part of that deal. It’s life outside the walls of this stadium that I haven’t figured out how to do without him.
When the ball leaves the pitcher’s hand, I know it’s mine. Time slows to a stand-still as I watch it until it’s right where I want it. My grip tightens on the end of the bat and I swing with everything I have. The crack of the bat reverberates through my hands and up my arms as I watch it fly over the outfield wall. Jarret would be proud of that one. For a pitcher, he had one hell of a swing.
When I round second base, heading toward third, I see Delilah jumping up and down with her hands in the air as she goes nuts over my home run. We make eye contact and I point at her, letting her know I see her cheering for me.
When I rejoin the team in the dugout, Lincoln slaps the mangy teal and black zebra print cowboy hat down on my head—a Bandits tradition—as the team claps me on the back. But once the fanfare has died down, I grab the usher’s attention and point out Delilah with instructions to make sure she can find me after the game and request an extra jersey be sent to the locker room for me.
I’ve barely cleared the threshold of the locker room door when Delilah launches herself at me, wrapping her arms around my neck and grinning up at me with pride shining in her cobalt blue eyes.
“That home run was unbelievable and that catch in the seventh? Do you need a getaway driver? You robbed that guy,” she rambles wildly as players and staff weave their way around us. Her attention is only on me and there’s no better feeling. “Who knew you were so good at baseball?”
“You had doubts?” I raise my eyebrow at her as she drops her hands from my neck and steps back.
“Men have a reputation for embellishing their attributes.”
“I can’t speak for all men, but I can tell you I always live up to the hype.”
Shit. Fuck. Damn.
I mentally chastise myself for letting the flirting slip out. It tends to happen when your best friend is also one of the most stunning women you’ve ever met. But I’ve been trying to curb it and keep our friendship rock-solid, without crossing any boundaries. She and I are firmly in the friendzone for a multitude of reasons.
The main reason being I’m a train wreck, and she is in a relationship with someone else. Someone she plans to marry, I remind myself, regardless of the fact that I think Brad is an entire bag of tools.
Delilah raises her eyebrow and laughs. Every time I hear that sweet sound some of the darkness clouding me clears. I’ve come to crave it over the last month and I’ll do just about anything to hear it.
“Good to know, Slugger.” She loops her arm through mine as we walk toward the player’s entrance. “So, how do you usually celebrate a big win?”
“Dinner to-go from Sabor, and a documentary on Netflix. Lame, right? I haven’t gone out with the team much since the trade.” It’s not that I don’t like my teammates, the appeal of going out just isn’t there right now. Jarrett definitely wouldn’t approve. I’m surprised his spirit hasn’t shown up to drag me out of my self-imposed isolation. This is the part I haven’t figured out yet, how to move on and keep my promise to him.
“Remember who you’re talking to? I’m usually in bed by 9 p.m. so I can make sure everyone gets their sticky bun fix. Your nights sound wild to me.”
Guilt gnaws at me. She stuck around to see me when she probably should have gone home to sleep right after the game.
“We should get you home so you can bake with those beautiful blue eyesopentomorrow. I would hate for you to mix up your savory and sweet because of me.” I hold the door for her as she steps into the players’ parking lot. “Did Brad come with you? I didn’t see him in the stands.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling like it’s just another day in her life, which makes me want to punch him in the face. “Dinner with a client. It came up at the last minute.”
I let it go, since she doesn’t seem overly annoyed. As close as we’ve grown over the last month, I’m not sure she would tolerate me speaking my mind about the way Brad treats her. Even if it’s because I can’t imagine a situation where I wouldn’t put her first if she were mine.
She bounces on her toes, rubbing her hands together, excitement rolling off her. “I actually don’t have to bake in the morning. I got enough prepped tonight before I walked over for the game. So this girl gets to sleep in tomorrow. Lucky, right?” Her lips tilt up as she looks at me through her lashes. “What do you say we get you out of your comfort zone and let the documentaries rest for a night?”
“Did you have something specific in mind? The guys go to Draft after the games. Or we can go somewhere a little more low-key if you don’t feel like hanging with the team,” I tell her, setting my backpack—containing the jersey I made the usher fetch—in the backseat of my car. “I’ll even drive you.”
