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“She is. It was hard keeping up with the two of them. David, too. They’re honestly brilliant.”
“You’ve known her for a while? You’d be a good person to get any dirt on her then. For my man, Grayson.”
“There’s no dirt about Bexley.”
I like the way her voice tightens. She’s loyal. Protective. “Bexley’s your best friend, isn’t she? You should be checking with me about Grayson, then, make sure he’s a good guy for your girl.”
“I know he’s a good guy.”
I raise my eyebrows. Naïve as well. “And how do you know that?”
“I watched The Suitor. And I’ve been getting to know him these last couple of weeks.”
“Darlin’, that show is aboutacting.”
“Bexley wasn’t acting. That’s what she’s really like. And no darling. I’m Fiona, or Fee.”
I sit back at her reprimand. She is Fee and I’m Mase, and there’s no need for my generic terms of affection because I know I’m not going to forget her name. “I like that you stick up for her,Fee.” She smiles her approval. “And Grayson’s not that good of an actor to pull it off—he is a really good guy. One of the best.”
“How long have you known him?”
“He was drafted a year before me, but we ended up in the Cardinal organization, came up together. That was almost ten years ago, and it’s been a good run. I was sad when he stopped playing. He was a good pitcher, damn good.”
“What makes a good pitcher?”
It’s an odd question. “Control. Determination. You have to be smart about it, know the other team and what they like, and trust your own team to get you out of a jam. The game can rest on your shoulders, but you have to remember it’s not just one person playing it.”
“And why are you so good?”
I give her a wicked grin. “Because, darlin’, I’ve got soft hands and a very good bat.”
She laughs but doesn’t swoon like usual when I use that line. Instead, she picks up one of my hands and runs her fingers over the palms. Her nails are short and unpainted. “Soft hands.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She wears a silver ring with a milky white stone on her third finger. There’s a sudden urge to ask what it is, who gave it to her.
“Good bat.” Her eyes are very blue, and all my lines fade away as she looks at me. She rests her palm against mine. “Big hands. Do you know what they say about a man with big hands?”
I only shake my head under that direct blue gaze.
Fiona leans forward. “Studies show that men with big hands… need big gloves.” She waits for a beat, and then smiles.
I laugh—a real, genuine laugh. “I thought for sure you were about to ask about my bat. All the ladies do.”
“I’m not one of your ladies,” she says firmly, drawing her hand away. “And I’d rather hear about you playing ball with Grayson.”
She is not like other girls. Women. Duly noted. I regale her with some of the best stories of Grayson and me. She listens and asks questions and asks for clarification when she doesn’t understand some baseball term. The whole time, I watch how her lips pucker when she drinks. And how she plucks the cherry out of the cup when the waitress finally brings us another round.
“You love it,” she says finally.
It’s not a question. “Nobody tries so hard and sacrifices so much if they don’t love it. It’s not worth it if you don’t love everything about it.” Talking about it makes my chest tighten. I’ve always loved the sport—how the ball fits into the pocket of my glove when I make a catch, the sweep of satisfaction as I tag a runner, the crack of the bat as I connect. I even love the way the dust covers my cleats as I trot off the field.
It hurts to think that someday, maybe soon, I’m going to lose it all to someone better, faster, younger.
I’ll become replaceable.
But not yet.
“What did you sacrifice? And don’t give me some line about the love of a good woman. I want the truth,” Fiona demands, like she has every right to know all my details.
