“Stop,” I say, voice low and harsh.
“It’s just a tease,” she whispers. “I hope you’ll let me make it up to you tonight.”
“I won’t.” My gaze remains ahead as I start the ignition and put the car into gear.
Lacy’s mouth sets in disappointment, but she still talks as we drive. I say nothing but for a quick thank you for joining me when I walk her to the door. Over the years I’ve learned proper things to say in situations until it’s second nature, but I’m ready for quiet tonight.
I cannot leave fast enough, but Lacy takes six minutes trying to convince me to come inside. She’s not hiding her intentions. Normally I appreciate directness, but when she comes in for a kiss with her tongue already out, it’s not what I’m about tonight.
I take an abrupt step back, ignoring the arch to her brow that lets me know she thinks my aversion is strange.
Let her think things. I want to complete this favor for Skye and Parker, disappear into my solitude, and be done with people until I’m forced to people again.
With a lazy wave after Lacy cautiously tells me to call her, I drive away, windows down, alone at last. Tension seeps out of my muscles the more distance I put between myself and the lights of Vegas.
To live life in the off-season is bittersweet. I’m alive on the field. From the musty sand under cleats, to the tang of freshly mowed grass. Even the desert heat of the summer, the sweat, the adrenaline, is a piece of me that fades during the winter. But I enjoy the months of quiet. It allows me freedom to enjoy the quiet of my personal space, check off anything on my parents’ extensive to-do lists at our ranch, and binge a list of shows I’ve been waiting to watch.
Tonight is my first official Ryder-has-all-the-time-in-the-world task. It’s not Skye and Parker’s fault, it’s Griffin’s. He’s the one who thought it was a good idea to buy Wren, his new wife, a writing cat.
His words, not mine. Wren is an author, and her rainbows and unicorns husband insisted on her having a writing buddy.
It’s a mangy rescue named Licorice who hisses at me the second I walk in the door.
Skye and Parker were the ones taking care of the beast at first, but it was promptly discovered they’re both allergic. Figures. The cat probably had it all planned out as a way to murder them slowly.
Now, I’m the one who’s in charge of the stupid thing.
I don’t know why Dax couldn’t do it. He lives closer, but he’s so squirrely, no doubt Parker didn’t even try to ask him to emerge from his dungeon and step out into the real world.
Parker won’t leave Skye at night because he’s convinced if their baby wakes up, he needs to be part of it.
Only a few months into fatherhood and he’s still one of the best ones I’ve met.
Skye was the one who asked me to manage the creature and deliver the pointless second present from the team ladies. I guess Griffin had arranged a surprise gift for Wren earlier today, cleaning the house or something, and it spurred the last-minute gift idea.
I still maintain Griffin and Wren are so lost in each other they aren’t even going to notice it, but I agreed to not kill the cat and deliver the gift. If Parker had asked, it would’ve been a hard no.
I wouldn’t bury a body for my teammates, but for their wives I’d bring the shovel. A Kings Lady is watched over by the team. Daughters, sisters, wives, girlfriends, they’re all part of the team. Skye and Wren are even more so since I teeter on the line of friendship with their husbands.
Which is why I’m dropping everything to be Skye’s delivery boy for the after-honeymoon gift. Skye wiggled her way into my circle of people I can tolerate, not only because she’s our team trainer, but she gets stuck in her head like I do sometimes.
Our reasons aren’t the same; Skye has a brain injury, and I have autism.
Growing up, I always felt different. But I didn’t match every typical sign, so I slid under the radar until fourth grade. I can make decent eye contact and do fine in small social gatherings.
What I do know is it’s difficult for me to alter my thought process, and I’ve collected some repetitive behaviors to soothe anxiety. Small social settings, fine, but press conferences—I’ll avoid them as much as possible. Sometimes the tone of a room is impossible to gauge, so I fight to appear neutral, afraid I’ll give the wrong expression. Certain touches grate on me, despite being innately affectionate. If you’re going to hug me, basically crush me. Too light and sweet like Lacy, and I’m left with prickly, irritated skin for hours.
The way Skye and I are similar is our focus. Like her, when I focus on something, I get locked on it. I think of little else until it’s conquered, or I lose interest.
One of my focuses was baseball, but I think it paid off in a big way.
I’m fortunate noise is manageable, or my job would be close to impossible. I do wear foam plugs in my ears during games to help me blot out the crowd a little, but at this point the team thinks that’s my superstitious ritual.
No one on the team, not even Skye, knows this about me. It’s not that I’m embarrassed, but what’s the point of sharing? My diagnosis doesn’t stop me from doing my job, from living an independent, functional life, and if you ask my great-aunt on my mom’s side, who thinks she’s being complimentary, “No one can even tell” unless I tell them.
If no one can tell, I see no point in blurting it out. One piece of me does not define all that I am.
But the truer reason is talking about something so personal is an act of vulnerability, and I decided I was done with that sort of thing a long time ago.
