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Safe.
The fact he was worried about me.
“Yeah, Sophie wanted me to go home with her, but I just wanted to be here.”
Mack’s sigh is loud and I can picture him running a hand through his dark hair. “I hate you being alone, but I’m not going to lie, I love knowing you’re in my bed.”
I can’t fight the smile that spreads across my face. Hugging his pillow tightly, I bury my nose and inhale his lingering scent. “I wish you were here.”
“You have no idea.”
“Sorry about the loss tonight, but you played great.”
He hums, sending shivers down my spine as I replay the way it feels when he does that with his mouth against my skin. “We can’t win them all. Plus, it sets us up nicely to clinch at home.”
“Oh, we’re allowed to say things like that now?” I tease.
“I’m not quite as superstitious as some of the guys.”
I laugh. “Says the guy who celebrates every win with a grilled cheese sandwich.”
“I love grilled cheese sandwiches.”
“Yes, but you only eat them for dinner on nights you win.”
He’s quiet for a moment, but then finally says. “I didn’t think you were paying attention.”
“I love it,” I admit. “The superstition and your grilled cheese sandwiches.”
There’s even a longer pause this time and just as I’m getting ready to fill the void, Mack says, “I’m glad you love them because I love making them for you.”
Something about this conversation feels different. I don’t know if it’s all of the love being tossed around like candy at a Mardi Gras parade or the fact Mack called me and we don’t often talk on the phone, or quite possibly because it was a crazy, stressful day and he’s the only person I really wanted to talk to.
When I realized earlier that I wanted Mack more than Sophie, I knew my feelings had truly shifted, but I can’t bring that up. Not now. Not while he’s hundreds of miles away and while the season is on the line. I’m not going to be the reason the Revelers miss the playoffs, so I’ll keep all of my not so fake feelings to myself for now.
“At least you don’t wear the same socks or drink your own pee.”
Mack’s laughter fills my ear and it’s exactly what I needed. “Oh, that’s mild compared to some of the crazy shit I’ve witnessed over the years.”
“I bet. Athletes are weird.”
“Are you calling me weird, Reporter?”
Reporter.
Why do I like it when he calls me that?
“I’m not lumping you in with the majority, but you have had your weird moments.”
“Like what?” His question is a challenge and I can hear him shift in bed.
“Like when you make the sign of the cross with your bat when you step up to the plate.”
He laughs again, but this time it’s more in awe than amused. “You really do pay attention.”
“It’s kind of my job,” I say, deflecting. But the truth of the matter is I know so much about this man. I know his batting average from college and the details of his first contract. I know his strengths and weaknesses, although the weaknesses are few. He struggles throwing players out at first base. If I had to guess, it’s due to his knee injuries and range of motion. He’s also feral when a batter talks shit to his pitcher. He will go to blows before he will let them rush the mound. But I think that makes him a great friend, more than anything.
He’s loyal to a fault.
