Page 4 of Love Beyond the Diamond

She crosses her arms over her scrub top. “There’s no way to know if you’re telling the truth. You could be telling me lies in order to harvest my kidneys.”

Resisting the urge to fist my hands because we’re wasting precious time, I pull my phone out of my pocket. “Here’s my contact information. Send it and your location to a friend, or your parents, or your…boyfriend.”

I don’t know why the last word comes out rougher than the rest.

She taps her phone to mine, reading aloud. “Shane Seaver. That name sounds familiar.”

I grind my molars, not really wanting to get into the ins and outs of being traded to the Virginia Beach Waves. I was supposed to finish out my five-year contract with the Atlanta Stallions. Instead, I was traded right before the league cutoff last season. And if that wasn’t enough of a gut punch, I was sent to the team where my cheating ex-fiancée and her new boyfriend had secured jobs months earlier. The last fastball to the throat is that the guy she cheated with—and got pregnant by—is one of my coaches.

“Do you sound familiar because I’ve heard your name on the news?” The woman’s brown eyes narrow beneath her black bangs, the rest of her chin-length hair flitting in the late-night breeze.

My chin tilts skyward, looking for patience when I’m always in short supply.

“I knew it!” she says, entirely too excited. “You are a mafia boss. The motorcycle was just the icing on the tattooed, all-black, talk-to-me-and-die cake.”

Something about her overjoyed tone makes my lips quirk, but I firm them into a line before I level her with a stern look.

“I’m not with the mafia. I’m just trying to get you to the nearest hospital. If you’d stop yapping and get on the bike, we could be having this conversation while you’re getting checked out.” A hard swallow works my throat as I thrust my helmet toward her. “Where you’d be safe.”

She surveys me for two long seconds. “You really think something’s wrong?”

“Yes.”

She purses her lips. “The thing is, I can’t really afford a trip to the emergency room right now.”

“I’ll cover it.”

“You’d pay for a stranger’s visit to the ER?”

I don’t answer, just shake the outstretched helmet. She accepts it with a sigh. I have no idea why the sight of her tucking it over her hair makes my chest flip. Probably nerves about getting her to the hospital in time.

I also shove my riding jacket at her. Since it’s late March and hovering around fifty degrees, she doesn’t argue with me about taking it and zipping it up to her chin.

“Have you ridden before?” I ask, straddling my bike.

“No.” Her voice is a little muffled, but I can still see her eyes with the visor tilted up.

“Keep your feet up, try to lean with me, and hang on.” I start the engine, unexpectedly pleased when she doesn’t jump at the deep rumble. “It won’t take us long to get there.”

“But you were drinking.” Her hand raises to adjust her bangs before she realizes they’re trapped in my helmet.

I shake my head. “Club soda and lime. I don’t drink.”

Not during baseball season, anyway. I’ve been known to enjoy a carefully aged Bordeaux at Christmas, but not while I’m demanding my body to operate at its peak.

Her shoulders rise and fall with a deeply drawn breath before she juts her hand in my direction. Even in the wan lamplight, I can see that each of her nails are painted a different color.

“Willow.” When I don’t move, she adds, “I figure you should know the name of your latest organ donor.”

I fight against the tic in my cheek.

“Again, just trying to get you to the hospital,” I say, briefly wrapping my hand around hers while trying not to notice how soft her skin is. “Can we go now?”

“You really are a grumpypus.”

You would be too if you’ve been through what I have.

“Get on the bike, Willow.” It’s a growling command, and I’m surprised when she doesn’t cower. Most people do when I bark at them.