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Me: Probably so. Can’t sleep.
Instead of a message, my phone rings as I see Carter’s contact flash across the screen. When I answer, he says, “I can’t sleep either.”
Tomorrow will be a long day, but I settle in, wanting to stay on the phone as long as possible. The conversation flows naturally until I say, “Yeah, but my students don’t get a cheat sheet for their tests.”
“I don’t have a cheat sheet.”
“But I saw you looking in your hat, and Bodie said that’s what y’all have in your hats.”
“It is for most guys, but I don’t need a cheat sheet though. Memorizing the lineup is always something I study beforehand.”
“Then what were you looking at?”
“I’ve never showed it to anyone. Not even my pitching coach knows what I keep in my hat. He knows it’s not a cheat sheet, but it’s what I’ve always needed to keep me focused.”
“You don’t have to tell me.”
He lets out a soft laugh. “I want to show you.”
My phone dings with a message, and I see a text from Carter containing a picture. Putting him on speaker, I open the message, and the enlarged photo comes into view. It’s a baseball card. A Coyote one of a young Cash Barlowe that’s laminated and worn at the edges. In the features of the young player, I see similarities to Carter, but what my eyes focus on is the writing across the card—the same words I’ve heard him say.For me, not him.
“I needed my career to be mine, not something I did out of spite, even if it started out that way. He took so much from me; I wouldn’t allow him to take a game that I love and turn it into something I hated as much as I hate him. Because he tried.”
“I don’t know how you do it. Pretend like everything is okay when it’s not.”
“I had plenty of practice growing up.” He pauses for a second before saying, “But some days are harder than others.”
He quickly changes the subject, lightening the topic as he asks about Finn, and I follow his lead. But the picture of young Cash Barlowe stays in my mind. It’s not the retired baseball legend who consumes my mind though. It’s his son who’s put on a show, keeping the horror of growing up with the monster locked inside. Especially after hearing some of what occurred during his childhood, my heart aches for the ten-year-old with his arm in a cast who still covers the pain with a smile, but I’m thankful he trusts me enough to confide in me. Carter doesn’t appear on the surface to be struggling, but something tells me he’s still working to escape the ghost of a man who lingers in the shadows. How could he not?
26
CARTER
The week on the road has had plenty ups and downs, but the highlight of each day was always when I talked to Avery about everything and nothing. There’s no comparison to being with her, though, and I’m trying to be patient. Damn, it’s difficult.
Because I can’t slow my roll where she’s concerned, I’d asked her before the game this morning if I could stop by on my way home from the stadium after we traveled back. So when I pull up to her apartment, I opt to leave my bag in my truck. Planning to play it cool, I figure if everything goes well, I can avoid going to my house altogether and simply “remember” I have my bag out in my truck. Lame, but I want her to want me to stay. I shouldn’t just assume she’s okay with it after being away from her for the week.
The door of her apartment flies open, and the gorgeous sight of her smile and sparkling eyes send all thoughts of anything but her right out the window. Stepping inside, I wrap an arm around her, bringing her lips to mine. I walk her back until she’s pressed up against the wall, then I pull her slightly forward, grip her ass, and lift. Her legs wrap around my waist as I lean into her.
Her arms snake around my neck and I’m unable to suppress my smile. “I’ve been wanting to do that the entire damn week.” Coach was right. Leaving her had been difficult but coming home to her is hot as hell.
“Me too,” she laughs, leaning in to kiss me again. When my phone rings, she pulls back, watching me. “You gonna get that?”
“Nope.”
“Carter…” She attempts to squirm out of my arms.
“Avery,” I say with mock seriousness, to which she stills, eyebrows shooting up in question, “my hands are on your ass. They’ll leave a message if it’s important.”
She smiles and rolls her eyes, but she likes it as much as I do. “You should answer it. It’s late, so I’m sure they’re calling for a reason.”
I don’t want to let her go, but she’s adamant, so I officially trash my playing-it-cool plan. “Am I staying here tonight?”
Her eyes don’t meet mine as she says, “I hope so.”
“Remember where we left off.” The promise of a night in her bed is enough for me to release her temporarily but not before I give her another quick kiss, then I set her back on her feet.
Pulling the phone out of my pocket, I see Dundee’s number. This better be good. “Yes, Coach?” I ask, watching as Avery walks into her kitchen, grabs a bottle of water, and props her hip against the counter. I follow her, accepting the bottle she offers me as Dundee continues his lecture from the plane. I had one rough inning yesterday, and he’s been on my ass nonstop. I’ve reassured him it was a fluke—I messed up, made a few wrong calls, and paid the price by giving up two RBIs and then a home run.
