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“You’re gonna reject our pack.”
My grip slips.
The machine drops, and my stomach lurches in the long second before the pain hits my toe.
“Fuck.” Reese scoops me into his arms. “Is it broken?”
There’s the pain.
I scrunch my face and knead his shirt.
Reese sinks to the ground, rocking me, rubbing down my calf. There’s a pain-touch-delay, so he has fingers on my sneaker laces before I realize he’s at my ankle.
My cuff-grizzle is healing, but I can’t begin to explain the ringed scars.
“Sorry. It’s my fault—”
“How is it your fault?” I kick from his reach, wincing from my shriek and the crushed-toe sting.
Brilliant.
Reese’s heart beats faster against my ear. His cocoa smells more sharp than smooth, but he doesn’t let me go.
“Sorry.” I wiggle away. “It’s not broken.”
He holds. “Thought of a name for you.”
“Huh?”
“Butterfingers.”
My heart tightens. It was easier when he ran away. “Reese—”
“Did you ever think of us?” He squeezes me, waist and knee. “I thought of you. Every fucking day.”
My breath hitches.
I think about you once an hour.
Every time I’m cold, lonely, hungry.
Especially when I’m horny.
I push at his chest until he’s forced to let me free.
I wince when my foot lands, but the pain will fade.
Pain always fades.
“A lot of things have changed.”
“No doubt.” Reese rights the fallen pitching machine, squatting and giving me his back while he checks its moving parts. “I wanted to play in the majors. Walk out to the mound, look up to the skybox and see you up there, wearing my jersey.” His shoulders droop. “Guess it was a stupid dream.”
“No.” The word slips through the kink in my heart.
“No?”
“You’ll make the majors.”
