Page 25 of Saving The Shortstop

“I heard you’ve been spending time alone with my girl,” he says, keeping his voice low and his eyes narrowed. “Be wise if you cut the shit now, Rivers.”

My head rears back, and I almost choke out a laugh. Tabor may be a strong guy, but he’s a trust-fund kid who I’m sure doesn’t have a clue how to fight. He’s probably never had to.

I step closer, my eyes burning into his.

“What was that, Timmons?” I growl, unsure if I even heard him right.

He pushes against me. “Stay the fuck away from Haven,” he threatens sharply. “I don’t give a fuck if your parents are friends. I see you. Moving in on her.” His breathing deepens. “She’s mine, motherfucker. And she always will be.”

“Last I knew, she kicked you to the curb, brother,” I say through gritted teeth. “And you’re right. Our parents are friends, and that makes her family.” This time, it’s me pushing harder into him—knowing most of the team is now watching. “See what happens if you fuck with my family, Timmons. I fucking dare you.”

“That’s enough.” Evan, one of our defensive tackles, pushes us apart. “King wants a harmonious team dinner.” He looks from me to Tabor. “Not whatever the fuck you two have going on.”

“I was just leaving anyway,” I utter, keeping my eyes fixated on Tabor’s before stepping further back and turning away.

I don’t know what the fuck has gotten into him, but I know one thing—I need to keep him the hell away from Haven. And I have to do it without her knowing, because the last thing I want is for her to be scared.

I sit and wait for Haven to get home, swinging lightly on the porch swing, knowing her practice probably ran late. I came a few minutes early anyway, but I had to get the fuck out of the team dinner and away from Tabor.

The last thing I want to do is freak Haven out when it comes to the dude. At the end of the day, I’m sure he’s harmless and just got his feelings hurt by a woman who is for fucking sure out of his league. But there’s something about the way he said what he did that rubs me the wrong way, and I can’t stop thinking about it.

Peeling in on two wheels, her Jeep comes to a stop in the driveway, and she practically leaps out. “Sorry I’m late! Practice ran a little over,” she says frantically, slamming the car door. “I just need to shower super quick and then we can start.”

The last thing I should be thinking about is her in the shower, yet here I am, imagining her running her own soapy hands over her perfect tits. My dick twitches, and I’m thankful that my laptop and books are sitting in my lap because my gray sweatpants are too fucking revealing.

When she reaches the top of the steps, my eyes fall to her softball pants and the front of her shirt, causing a smirk to tug at my lips.

“Still love to dive for the ball, I see,” I tease, looking her up and down, amused because for as long as I’ve known her, that’s been something she loves to do. Dive for the ball and cover herself in dirt.

Stopping, she looks down and nods. “Yeah, but I miss the days when my mom would scrub the stains out for me. Now I understand why she’d bitch about it as much as she did.” She takes a step forward, nodding her head toward the house. “Come on, QB.”

Standing up from the swing, I follow inside the house, quickly feeling how much warmer it is than The Tower and how different it smells. This place is enveloped in vanilla and sugar. The Tower reeks like … male athletes.

Dropping her keys onto the counter, she heads toward the hallway. “Make yourself comfortable and get your work out. I’m going to hop in the shower, but I’ll be right back,” she calls out, and it’s obvious she’s fighting a yawn with the last few words.

I’m sure she’s tired after having class and practice today. After all, that’s why she gave up tutoring to begin with. She was too busy for it. Now, she’s stuck doing it again.

I take a seat on the couch and remove my laptop from the case. Even down the hallway, I hear the shower turn on, and I have to fight the thoughts of imagining her naked from overtaking my brain. It’s not because I’m obsessed with her or anything. No, definitely not.

She’s just hot. And I’m a guy.

That’s all it is.

And now I’m staring down at my assignment, hoping it’ll force me to stop thinking about the soapy titties …

When she returns to the living room, her wet hair is combed back, and she’s in a baggie crewneck and oversized sweatpants. I’ve seen every version of her over the years. The one in the crop top and too much makeup. The girl in the poofy dress when her mom talked her into doing a pageant when she was thirteen. Homecoming, when she wore the form-fitting black dress and every motherfucker stopped and stared at her ass. Countless softball uniforms, a skimpy bikini, and everything in between. But for some reason, her like this—completely stripped down and raw at the end of the day—is my favorite.

And fuck no, I’m never telling her that.

“All right, let’s get crackin’,” she says, fighting back another yawn. “We have to power through this so that you can go home and get plenty of rest.” She grins, holding her phone up, showing me a message her dad sent. “Per your coach’s request.”

“You sure you don’t mind?” I ask. “You seem tired.”

She lifts a brow. “Is that your way of telling me I look like shit, QB?”

My eyes stall on her face for a moment. She’s free of makeup, scrubbed clean and bare, and yet I can’t even lie—she’s breathtaking. Her green eyes cut into me like daggers, and her pouty lips are a deep pink, like always. She’s beautiful, but fuck no, I’m not going to say that to her.

“Pretty much,” I finally deadpan, knowing damn well that’s the furthest thing from reality. But this is what we do. We make fun of each other. I can’t tell her the truth. That I love the way her hair looks when its wet. Or that when she wears those oversized clothes, I always pretend that she’s wearing my clothes, and for whatever fucked-up reason, that does things for me.