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“I might have to order one of those,” he commented, having passed on the waffle for the protein boost of the sandwich.
Amanda eyed his plate. “I don’t know how you’ll have room. That is the biggest chicken sandwich I’ve ever seen.”
“Never underestimate my appetite,” he warned, thinking of how hungry for her he was. “Maybe I’ll just use the whipped cream on you.” Brad watched her reaction, surprised to see her face color. “Are you blushing?”
“No.” Guilt flashed on her features. “Okay, maybe a little.”
When was the last time a woman he’d dated actually blushed? He found Amanda’s mix of innocence and vixen sexy. As sexy as the sight of her in his T-shirt. He’d given it to her for a selfish reason—so that he could enjoy that sweet floral scent of hers on the drive home. He was a sap.
He decided to spare her blushes and changed the subject. “Your dad and your sister are both doctors but you aren’t. How did that happen?”
“I have a little problem with blood.” She stabbed a strawberry with her fork. “But I love the sports part as much as they do. So when I couldn’t compete anymore, I started reporting.”
Brad didn’t even want to think about what came next for him. Deep down, he knew he needed to, though, especially if no contract materialized. But somehow, planning for that future seemed to be admitting his ball-playing career was over. How was he supposed to give up the only thing he’d ever wanted to do?
“I’m sure it’s not the same.” How could watching from the sidelines ever be as amazing as playing? Hell, his off nights made him crazy having to sit in the dugout and think about how he’d play each scenario differently. The only thing that got him through those games was knowing he’d be pitching his turn in a matter of days.
She tilted her head and studied him. “At first it’s hard, but not forever.”
He thought she would say more, talk about his future, but she didn’t. Yet, he sensed she was telling him this for his benefit.
A change of subject was needed. “And your mom?” he asked. “What does she do?”
“She teaches kindergarten. I have a doctor and a teacher for parents. Talk about protective.”
He snorted. “Try being in high school and having both of your parents teach at the school. I couldn’t make a move without them being on me about it.”
“I’ll bet,” Amanda said, with a short laugh. “Your dad coached, right?”
“Yeah,” Brad said. “I hate that he never saw me make the majors.” He suddenly realized who he was talking to. Amanda was a reporter, and this wasn’t casual pillow talk. “This isn’t an interview, is it?”
Her eyes flashed with irritation before she looked away, pushing her plate out of reach as if no longer hungry. “Okay. So conversation is out. Forget I asked a question.”
He grimaced then exhaled, hating the way she’d erected an instant wall. Hating that he’d made her do it. “Amanda.” Brad considered his words. “I’ve been burned by the press. More than once. And right now I have a lot on the line.”
She fixed her attention on him, her green eyes sharp as they settled on his face. “So do I, Brad. Burning bridges and creating enemies isn’t going to help me, either. You came here tonight spouting about trust. You ask for it, but apparently you aren’t willing to give it.”
He was a shit to make her feel they couldn’t have a conversation. Worse, there was a thread of truth in her words. “What happened with you and Tony tonight?” he asked, because he needed to clear the air. To make sure she deserved his trust.
To Brad’s surprise, she didn’t hesitate to answer. “I warned him about Laura,” she said, facing him. “If she has something on him, she’ll use it. I think it’s just a question of when.”
He narrowed his eyes on her. “Why would you warn him? You’re a reporter.”
A frustrated sound escaped her. “You surprise me, Brad.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You label reporters like we’re some sort of demon race capable of only bad deeds, like there’s no individuality. I guess I could do that with pitchers. Maybe I should assume you and Casey are the same type of person.”
“Me and Becker?” He snorted. “You have got to be kidding.”
“You’re both pitchers,” she said. “Aren’t you all arrogant and immature?”
He had just been put in his place. Laughter rolled from his lips as he hugged her. “I stand corrected. Not all pitchers or all reporters are made the same.” His lips brushed hers. “Forgive me?”
“Well, I guess I’ll cut you some slack since you’re in pain.”
“Pain?” he asked, leaning back to face her. “What are you talking about?”
“You haven’t used your throwing arm since we started eating. Even now it’s plastered to your side.” She trailed her finger along his top lip. “And you have this white line here. You’re hurting and don’t tell me otherwise.”
