AllFreeNovel
Share Us
In the picture, Tate has one leg wrapped around Sophia and one arm flung up into the air, holding a drink while she laughs.
Grant: You sure about that? That picture looks pretty damning…
* * *
Tate: I swear I was good.
I look at the picture again. Tate’s dress is riding up, nearly to the top of her thigh, her long, toned legs on display in her four-inch heels. Her back is arched, her hair tumbling down around her shoulders. Jesus. She’s insanely sexy.
Grant: I bet the guys were all over you.
* * *
Tate: If they were, I wasn’t paying attention. There was a game on the TV behind the bar I was too interested in.
* * *
Tate: You should have seen it—the entire bar went crazy when you dove and got that catch in the fifth inning. They kept replaying it in slow motion. Some guy bought a round of shots for everyone to celebrate.
I love the fact that she was watching our game, watching me.
Grant: It hurt like hell. You probably saw me clutch my ribs afterward.
I took two Advil back at the clubhouse, but still, my body aches a little.
Tate: I’m sorry. Want me to kiss it and make it feel better?
Fuck me.
I’m about to fire off a quick reply, but then I slow down. Tate was drinking tonight. There’s no telling her state of mind right now. Even if she’s totally sober, she could just be teasing. I hate that I can’t hear her tone, can’t see if she’s biting her lip or wearing a goofy grin.
Then a second later, another message pops up.
Tate: Off to bed! Didn’t realize how late it is. Good luck against the Twins tomorrow!
Her green active status goes dark. She’s gone, and though it feels like a gut punch, I tell myself it’s for the best. She’s setting boundaries, and I should heed them. I’m aware.
I toss my phone across the bed, hoping that will save me from continuing to endlessly scroll through her photos.
It’s been two weeks since we talked in her apartment, two weeks since I crowded her in that tiny kitchen and fought the urge to kiss her. Two weeks is plenty of time to get over a tiny crush. A crush, mind you, who has made it perfectly clear she won’t entertain the idea of us under any circumstances. But that’s where it gets tricky because I know deep in my fucking bones that Tate isn’t pushing me away because she doesn’t want me, she’s pushing me away because of everything else working against us.
She’s my teammate’s little sister—that’s enough right there. It’s a huge red flag, bedazzled and lit up like the Fourth of July. I should be deleting her from memory for that alone.
There are other factors too. I’m not dying to be in a relationship right now. In fact, presented with anyone else other than Tate, I’d put up a roadblock. I just moved to a new city and signed on with a new team. I’m still getting my bearings with everything. The last thing I need is someone clouding my focus, pulling my attention off the field. I can hear my dad warning me to keep my wits about me, and before Tate, I could have done that in an instant, no problem. I’m damn good at doing my job.
Only now, in this dark hotel room, I feel like this thing is growing out of my control. It coincides with an anxious, gnawing feeling I can’t so easily set aside.
So just block her on Instagram, common sense tells me.
Impossible. I’d delete the whole app before I did that.
I want to know if she’s gone on a date with Michael. I’ve wondered about it a dozen times a day since I first heard about the guy. What does she even see in him? I mean, come on, he’s a physical therapist for babies? Big whoop! I hit baseballs real hard, real far, and I get paid a lot to do it, okay? So who’s the real hero here?
God, this is stupid.
Worse than stupid.
Hopeless.
TEN
TATE
If phone books were still a thing, I’d find one and scroll through it until I landed on W, for witches. I need to hire someone to work a little magic and erase the last twelve hours because what kind of idiot am I messaging Grant that teasing comment?
WANT ME TO KISS IT?!
I want to shrivel up and die.
Against my better judgment, I tell Daphne and Sophia about it the next morning, and they both gasp in horror.
“I should take your phone right now,” Sophia says.
“Yes,” Daphne agrees. “You’re in phone jail for the next twenty-four hours. No checking Instagram! No messaging Grant!”
“It’s not my fault! I was still kind of tipsy from those drinks.”
“That’s no excuse! Everyone knows…” Daphne looks to Sophia, who chimes in so they say in unison, “No texting while drunk.”
