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His mouth loses the battle with a cocky smile. “Did he now? Turn around, let me see how my number looks on you.”
My stomach squeezes tight as I sweep my hair over my shoulder and spin so he can see his name stitched across my shoulders. He reaches out and traces the 2 and 5 that fall across my mid-back. He accidentally brushes his finger against my spine, and I shiver. He feels it. He has to. I twist back around quickly, hoping the stadium lights aren’t showcasing my burning cheeks, but who are we kidding, they definitely are.
Grant’s eyes are the lightest shade of brown I’ve ever seen in person, like pale amber. Right now, they’re narrowed teasingly at the corners like he’s trying to bore past the bullshit and get to the real grit inside, the fleshy truths.
He takes a step toward me. It’s the most mundane thing, a mere step, but it feels as good as a promised threat. I have to fight to keep from stepping back.
“I scored three runs tonight. That’s more than any other game this season.”
He doesn’t need to tell me this. I watched him like a hawk the whole time. I probably know more about what happened in the last nine innings than he does.
He nods his head to where he was just standing for his interview. “That reporter was asking me what was different tonight, if I’d warmed up more, maybe changed my pregame stretches. I laughed it off, and then she asked if maybe I had a good luck charm here with me tonight. That’s when I looked up and saw you over her shoulder, wearing my jersey…”
I don’t want to indulge him in this. I should cut past him and hurry over to Michael, apologize for the delay, and do my best to introduce my date around to everyone. But I’m as useless as a puppet on strings.
“My jersey had nothing to do with your performance tonight.”
“Prove it.”
If I were still wearing my original shirt underneath, I’d strip his jersey off right here and now. He knows that. It’s like he’s imagining the exact same scenario. It’s why there’s heat building in his gaze.
He so clearly has the upper hand even if he’s not gloating about it—yet.
I look away for a moment, failing to regain my composure before I look back. I force a swallow and try to sound confident when I speak but end up failing miserably. My voice wobbles. “I probably need to get over to Luke and them. Do…do you want to meet Michael?”
His eyes darken like a threat. “Not even a little bit.”
“He’s nice, I promise.”
He tilts his head, studying me. “Are you two on a date right now?”
I almost feel bad as I reply with a small nod. “Our first.”
“And he put you in my jersey?”
His smile damn near twists me up inside.
“He brought you to my game?” he continues, sounding almost cruel.
Oh god, I’m losing my head here.
“Does he know about us?” he asks.
The question sends a torrent of anguish through me.
“There is no us, Grant.”
There can’t be.
His jaw tightens then flexes. I watch the muscle there and damn near shiver at how intimidating he looks right now. I’m not even the one on the receiving end of his annoyance, not really. For a moment, I think he’s going to continue the argument.
Instead he nods. “Fine, lead the way…”
He falls in step right beside me. Too close. He towers over me stride for stride until we reach Michael and my family.
They seem to have started off on the right foot. They’re talking and smiling. I don’t even think Michael’s noticed that I haven’t been by his side the last few minutes. It’s easy to get distracted down here, though. I mean, look at me.
“Michael?” I say, catching his attention. “Thought you’d maybe want to meet the man whose jersey you bought.”
Michael turns, notices Grant, and then just starts gaping, unable to control his reaction. He blinks and shakes his head, glancing back and forth between Grant and Luke like he can’t quite believe they’re both standing here with him.
“This is unreal.”
We laugh.
Well, I take that back—everyone laughs except Grant. His mouth is a tense flat line.
“Good to meet you, man,” Grant says, stepping forward to take Michael’s hand. “Michael?”
“Yes. God. It’s so cool to meet you. Awesome game you played today.”
Grant blows right past the compliment and furrows his brows. “You work with Tate at the hospital, right?”
Michael grins proudly. “Yeah, we work in the same department, though I’m a PT, not a nurse.”
“Riiight,” Grant says, keeping hold of Michael’s hand. I stare down and wonder if I’m imagining how tightly he squeezes it, how easily it seems Grant could hurt him if he wanted to. “You two have worked together for a while and this is the first time you’ve had the courage to ask her out?” He laughs good-naturedly (only I know it’s not). “What took you so long?”
