Page 34 of Under Pressure

It isn’t a surprise that he still has a good relationship with his parents. I remember his mom sitting front row at every home baseball game that I ever attended in high school. She used to make these signs that would have mortified me if I’d been Beck. He couldn’t have been any more opposite than me. Now or then.

Even though I never stayed past the fifth inning most games, the few times I did, I’d catch him forcing her into taking pictures with him afterward with her signs held in front of him. The grin he’d flash at the camera has only grown bigger and ten times as handsome.

Tapping a nail against the back of my phone, I contemplate liking the post. Then again, I know what message that’ll send, and after ignoring his texts today, I feel bad showing any sort of interest.

There’s just something about this guy that makes me feel like I need to keep my walls up. Maybe it’s our past—or lack of one. It’s not fair to be holding a grudge from so many years ago. I’m nowhere close to the girl I was in junior and high school, yet that reminder hasn’t been enough for me to disconnect the younger him from the much older one. Not that I should have to.

He’s up to something here, and now, because of Ruthie, so am I.

A groan scrapes up my throat. With a quick swipe of my finger, I close the app and open my messages. The unopened ones clogging my inbox all come from the That Guy contact. I scoff at the reminder of his King Of My Heart suggestion and press on the conversation.

Beck

You’re ignoring me. That’s cold, Quinny.

Do you like beer? I hate it.

Opinion on beer pong? I’m pretty good. Want to be my partner next time?

The last text comes with a photo of an oversized ping-pong table decked out with more cups than I’ve ever seen used during a game of beer pong before. Though my experience is limited. The yellow liquid in the cups is frothy at the rim, making my nose crinkle.

I read the next set of messages with a bone-deep sigh.

Beck

You have some explaining to do. I’m not particularly skilled at letting things that interest me go.

I lost the game btw. I blame you. Wes is a terrible partner.

What time are you open tomorrow? JK I always know when

There’s an hour gap between that text and the next. Discomfort rolls my stomach. I wonder what was so distracting when he seemed so interested in spamming me. Then, just as quickly as it came, I shove that emotion into a hole and kill it.

Beck

I could really use a muffin right about now, gorgeous.

My fingers move on their own, typing a message back.

What kind?

It’s well past midnight by now. I should be asleep. I’ve got to open at six tomorrow, and I’m already overtired. The groan of the bathroom pipes hasn’t quieted at all, and calling a plumber keeps slipping further and further down my list of to-dos. Every day, I can only seem to make it through half of my list before I’ve run out of hours.

My phone buzzes, forcing me to blink.

Beck

Your favourite.

Strawberry with a cream cheese centre.

Beck

I’ll remember that.

I stare at his message for a few too many minutes before opening up Google.Beckett Rourkefills the search bar before I realize what I’m doing. Hitting Enter, I watch as dozens upon dozens of links appear. Most of the ones at the top are about his stats, so I click on those first.

The site opens up to a photo of him in a Havoc hat and jersey and an action shot from a past game. A giant list of stats appears, and I blink at the abbreviations, not understanding what I’m looking at. The G clearly stands for games. I look past the 29beneath it and to the side, scrolling my eyes over the rest of the information.