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Fuck my goddamn life.
When,when, am I gonna catch a break?
The tiny woman gaping at me is not a break. She is the opposite of a break. She’s a pretty little problem disguised like a prize, poised to fool me again.
Not for the first time, I wish I’d gone with my gut instinct that night. I wish I’d turned her away instead of falling for her act. I have to force myself to wish I hadn’t walked her to her car because her riding me in the passenger seat? Almost worth waking up the next morning to my name trending.
There’s no photographic evidence of the actual incident. But pictures of us—funny how her face is always slightly obscured, like she knew exactly how to hide from the camera—talking and laughing and kissing and leaving hand-in-hand were enough. The explicit details of my pierced cock provided in the attached article were enough.
Apparently, the payday wasnotenough because she’s back for more.
Crowd be damned, I’m about to demand to know what she’s doing here. I’m tempted to get her escorted off the premises by the security Ben mentioned. I’m really, really ready to cause a scene because I’m really, really pissed. My family is here, for fuck’s sake. Break my privacy, fine, but leave theirs alone.
And then, a small body sidling up beside Sunday steals my attention—a miracle considering how honed in on her I am. A young boy with the same distinctive eyes, the same light hair, the same fuckingface. As long as it takes the kid to form a scowl, that’s how long it takes me to figure out he’s Sunday’s. And that realization is all it takes for me to close my mouth, avert my gaze, and fix my goddamn smile.
Irritation scratches at the back of my throat but I swallow it down, ignoring it the same way I ignore the confusion on everyone’s faces. I make a particular effort not to acknowledge my sister or her husband or our friends as I step away from Sunday, further into the crowd, settling on some other random face that doesn’t make me want to scream. I’m not going to do this here, not now, not in front of my family and certainly not in front of hers. Whatever reaction Sunday wanted, I’m not giving it to her.
As relaxed as I’m capable of pretending to be, I clap my hands before rubbing them together. “Everyone ready to play?”
It takes a second clap for the gawking to stop. Another before the crowd slowly, reluctantly, disperses. I can’t help but notice—I really try not to notice—that Sunday and her boy linger the longest. When the kid tugs her one way, I go the other, trying and failing to shake out the sudden itch in my hands.
“Please tell me that wasn’t what I think it was.”
Batting away the hand that tries to pull me to a stop, I shake my head. “Not now, Ben.”
Unsurprisingly, he ignores me. He darts in front of me, jogging backwards when I keep going like he isn’t there. “Did you saySunday? As inthatSunday?”
Tell your friends your problems,my therapist says.It’ll make everything better. It definitely won’t cause you complications down the line.“Leave it, please. I mean it.”
Coming to a stop so abrupt I almost barrel into him, Ben smacks his palm against his forehead, groaning a laugh. “I can’t believe I thought I could wait untilafteryour first day before giving you the ‘don’t bang the parents’ speech.”
“What can I say?” My shoulder screams in protest as I snatch up one of the bats stacked next to the bleachers with too much vigor. “I’m an overachiever.”
* * *
By the end of try-outs, both my shoulder and head hurt in equal measures.
Exercise—every dirty, sweaty form of it—has always been my way of working off stress, and God knows I need to do that today. Hence why I threw myself into playing like I was the one gunning for a Select spot. No pitching or batting, since I fear what Amelia would do if I even thought about it, but plenty of everything else, and it worked.
Except for whenever my gaze strayed to the bleachers, always easily and inexplicably finding one specific face. Always finding her staring back,scowlingback, likeI’min the wrong.
For hours, I’ve held myself back. Resisted the urge to stomp over there, haul Sunday somewhere more private, and demand to know what her problem is. To know why she did what she did, if she approached me with just that intention or if she figured out who I was somewhere along the way and saw an opportunity too good to miss. To know why her presence makes me feel so damn guilty when, as far as I’m concerned, my lie was absolved the second I saw TMZ headlining my name yet again.
And her kid. Her fucking kid, August. Pitching baseballs like he’s mad at them and tossing scowls my way. When someone gives him a bat, I get the distinct feeling he’s imagining swinging that thing at me. Even when the whistle blows and he starts jogging towards his mother, he doesn’t do it without one last venomous look.
I don’t like it. I don’t like a kid I don’t even know looking at me like I’m the worst person in the world, I don’t like the guilt swirling in my gut, and I definitely don’t like Ben hissing, “Fix this,” in my ear like I’m the one in the wrong.
“I didn’t do anything,” I hiss back. “She—”
“—has terrible taste in men, I know,” Ben cuts me off. “It’s unfortunate. Clearly, she’s realized her mistake.” Humor makes way for frustration as Ben slashes a hand through the air. “I don’t care what she did right now, Cassie. I don’t wanna have to cut the kid ‘cause he murdered my assistant coach.”
I blink at my suddenly incredibly authoritative friend. “Have you always been this bossy?”
Hands grab me by the biceps, spin me around, and shove. “Make nice.Now.”
Stumbling with a curse, I try to retaliate but before I can whip around, my gaze snags on something.Someone. The same someone who’s been distracting me all damn day. Someone who, the second I make eye contact with them, flees.
It would be so much easier to just let her go. A younger me would do just that. But today’s version of me—Adult Me, Coach Me, Being Scolded By FuckingBenMe, Not A Fan Of Being The Mortal Enemy Of An Eleven-Year-Old Me—doesn’t roll like that.
