by K. Bromberg
She gets dressed up for them, but not for me?
My blood boils knowing that they’re over there enjoying the sight of it, getting turned on by her, when I’m over here trying to figure out what the fuck is going on, because I can’t do anything about it.
Not with three guys staring me down. Hell, the guys wouldn’t give a shit if I was sleeping with her; the only reason they’d care is because that means they can’t get with her. But if they knew and accidentally told someone, and it got to the front office, then that could cause problems for Scout and Doc’s contract.
Besides, I promised her I wouldn’t say anything. And with a woman who has a hard time believing promises, this is one I need to keep.
The problem is, it doesn’t seem she’s keeping her word, either.
Her word? Have another beer. She made no promises. All she agreed to was getting to know each other, to seeing where this might take us . . .
And spending every day together on and off the field doesn’t qualify as that?
What is going on here?
“You okay there, Wylder?” Tino bumps my shoulder with his and pulls me from my thoughts, and I realize I’m still staring at her.
“Yeah. Sure.” I down my beer and lift my hand to the waitress for another. “Just trying to make sense of it.”
“She didn’t say anything to you during rehab today about knowing them?” Drew asks, glancing over to her again, and I hate that I want to follow suit, but can’t without being way too obvious.
Because every time I look her way, my temper burns brighter. I try to justify that she knows I’m here. Christ, they weren’t sitting there an hour ago when I got here to save our table, so she had to have seen me when she walked in. Why hasn’t she acknowledged me? I get keeping a public distance to protect our professional relationship and her damn contract, but a simple nod of her head wouldn’t scream “We’ve fucked,” either.
“Did she tell me she knew them? Not a word.” I thank the waitress for the new beer and take a long swallow of it.
“You’d think she’d have said something about sleeping with the enemy,” J.P. jokes. He gets the laugh he was going for, but all it does is piss me off even further.
I lose sight of her through the crowd and tell myself that’s a good thing. The conversation moves on like it should, even if all I can think about is what she’s doing here. With them. And why she didn’t mention it to me.
“I’m gonna hit the head.” Drew stands, and when I glance Scout’s way, she’s staring at me.
There’s a shot glass up to her lips, but she doesn’t offer me a smile, doesn’t acknowledge me at all; her face is expressionless—distant. And my fists clench in reaction to the fleeting thought that she’s ferreted. That she somehow got spooked and didn’t have the balls to tell me to my face we were over, so instead she came out tonight and sat where she sat on purpose, so I’d see her with them. And then I’d know.
But as she tilts her head back and downs the shot in one impressive swallow before slamming it down on the table among the countless empties I can now see, all I can think is that there’s no way she’s moving on without me getting to have a final say about it.
“Where’re you going?” Tino asks as I tilt my own beer back and down its contents.
“Gonna buy the lady a shot, since it seems to be her poison of choice tonight.”
The burn of the shot numbs the significance of today’s date and yet does nothing to ease the shock to my system when I glance around and meet the ice in Easton’s eyes.
I should have expected him to be here. It’s the postgame hangout, after all. But I could have handled him if things had stuck to the plan—just Penski and Cameron and me taking a few shots in my brother’s honor on his birthday. Yet another piece of my history that I keep tucked away.
But things didn’t stick to the plan.
Because now I’m seated across from the one man I want to be nowhere near but can’t ask to leave, considering he’s Penski and Cameron’s teammate.
“That was two,” Cameron says with a nod. “Two more and Ford would be pleased.”
“Pour me one.”
I look across the table, and just the sight of him disgusts me. “No.” I snap the word out, causing Penski to nudge my knee under the table.
Santiago just stares at me. The mixture of his dark features, the dim light of the bar, and the fact that he’s in the corner of the booth (thank God) so the shadow of the wall falls over his face makes him seem like the asshole I’ve conjured up in my mind.
And keeps him out of Easton’s line of sight.
Because if there is ice in Easton’s glare at seeing me here with members from the opposing team—or maybe just men in general—then seeing Santiago here would set him off.
No doubt.
Because it sure as hell set me off when he walked in and sat down with us. I protested, told the boys that this was a ritual we’ve always done with just us—the only ones who really knew my brother—but they said it was harmless for Santiago to stay.
But he’s anything but harmless. Not with his curious eyes always watching me. Measuring me. Making it clear he wants me.
The neck of the bottle of tequila clinks against the shot glass as Penski pours Santiago the shot.
“To Ford,” Cameron says, lifting his glass. “It’s been three years without you, brother. It feels like a fucking lifetime since I’ve heard that laugh of yours. Fuck you for leaving us. We miss you.”
“Fuck you, Ford,” the three of us murmur in unison, and then we toss back the shot. This time, the burn is a little less, but the memories are still painful as ever.
In fact, something about this year’s get-together to remember and curse Ford for leaving us behind seems so much harder than the last two.
Maybe it’s because what started out as a promise one drunken night when they were trying to make me feel better over my brother’s death is tonight reminding me that next year I might have to perform two of these memorials instead of just one.
I raise my shot glass. “To my brother,” I whisper as the tears threaten. “You have no idea how much I miss you right now. How much I need your friendship and advice. How, if you were here, I wouldn’t think everyone leaves. What I’d give for one more hour to lie in the long grass at Dad’s and pretend we were the only ones left on Earth. I miss you.”
“Fuck you, Ford,” we say in unison, but when I finish my shot, as my head grows fuzzy and a lone tear slides down my cheek, I add in a whisper, “I love you.”
“I guess shots are the order of the night.” Easton’s voice snaps me from my melancholic fog, and for a split second I forget we have eyes on us. I forget that we are supposed to be trainer and player. Relief floods through me from the presence of the one person I’ve unknowingly started to need.
But just as quick as the relief is the reality that slams into me like a wrecking ball. That Santiago is here. Across from me.
This is trouble.
But Easton’s eyes hold mine, search my face, and when he notices the lone tear sliding down my cheek, he shoots an accusatory glare to Penski and then Cameron. But when his gaze shifts, when he comes to the person cloaked in the shadows of the bar, his expression morphs from curiosity to rage.
“What the fuck is he doing here?” His voice is a growl of unrestrained fury as he pushes his way to the table, testosterone raging and temper raw.
“It’s not what you think.” The words blurt out of my mouth as Penski shoves up from the table, sensing chaos is about to unravel, and steps between Easton and Santiago just as Tino and Drew arrive.
“Not what he thinks?” Santiago chuckles in a low, baiting tone that makes me realize what exactly I’d just implied.
“Leave her the fuck out of this.” Easton tries to push Penski out of the way, his fists clenched and body vibrating with a rage so palpable it rolls off him and slams into me.
“Easy now, Easton.” Penski pushes against Easton’s chest as Drew pulls ba
ck on his good shoulder. They can try all they want to prevent the fight, but it’s been brewing for so long I’m not sure anything can stop it now.
“You fucking the trainer now, Wylder?” Santiago baits Easton, his name a marred sneer loaded with disdain. “A little locker room lovin’?”
Easton lunges at Santiago, the empty glasses on the table crashing to the ground as Penski uses all his strength to keep them separated. “You fucking bastard!” Easton grits out.
“You got that right, pretty boy,” Santiago taunts, his chuckle grating over my nerves.
“Are cheap shots the only thing you’re good for?”
“You’d know, wouldn’t you? Too bad your lady was planning on going home with me.”
“Bullshit!” I shout in the confusion that’s now causing a crowd to form.
“Shut him the fuck up!” Penski barks to Cameron as he lifts his chin to Tino and Drew, silently asking them to get Easton the hell out of here, because it seems Santiago is going to keep provoking until he gets just what he wants.
In seconds, Drew and Tino have flanked Easton and are forcibly pushing him toward the door. There’s a mass of chaos and confusion swirling around me, but it’s the look on Easton’s face when he meets my gaze before he’s shoved out the door—the look that says, “What the fuck, Scout?”—that sticks with me more than anything.
“We’ll get him home,” J.P. says before looking at me and shaking his head in disapproval. “Not the brightest of moves, Scout.”
With that reprimand, J.P. walks away, leaving me standing in the middle of Sluggers with the man I want more than anyone being escorted out one side of the bar, and the man I despise for his nasty demeanor and the stunt he just pulled being shoved out the other door.
I sink back down into my chair, the remaining shots of tequila looking damn tempting. But they’re not the answer.
“I’m sorry.” Cameron’s voice is behind me, resigned and apologetic as he scoots into the seat next to me. “Not exactly how we’d planned to remember Ford tonight.”
I glance his way, at my brother’s best friend and college teammate, and know he misses Ford just as much as I do. That this annual ritual means as much to him as it does me. And that neither of us will go back on the promise we’ve made my dad to always celebrate Ford’s birthday to ensure his memory stays alive.
But how would we ever forget the boy with the goofy grin, obnoxious laugh, and heart as big as the ocean?
“I know,” I sigh. “The timing was perfect though. How the three of us were in the same city, the same time, on his birthday. Besides, Ford always liked a good fight so . . .”
“We should have made Santiago leave. I wasn’t thinking. Not with you working with Wylder or us coming to Sluggers . . . it’s my fault.”
I toy with an empty shot glass, wonder how Easton’s doing, and worry that one of the guys may have wrenched his bad shoulder.
But more than anything I just want to see him. Need to see him.
“You want me to walk you back?” Cameron asks, and I’m so grateful that he knows me so well.
I nod.
“Scout?”
I look at Cameron. “It’s fine. Thanks for walking me back.”
“You sure?” His eyes dart over my shoulder and then back to mine.
I nod and welcome the huge bear hug he pulls me into. “It was good to see you again, even if the night went to shit.”
I laugh, the tears threatening, as I squeeze him back. “It was. And it did.”
“Fuck you, Ford,” he murmurs and causes me to hiccup out a laughing sob.
“Thank you for never forgetting.”
“Never,” he says as he gives me a peck on my cheek, squeezes my hand, and glances one more time over my shoulder before walking away.
I draw in a deep breath before I turn to face the dark silhouette highlighted by the lone light still on in the parking lot. He’s leaning against the side of my car, his arms folded, his body tense. We stand there with distance between us and discord roiling around us.
“You want to tell me what the fuck that was all about?”
And the funny thing is, as much as I wanted to see him, as much as I feel like I need him tonight, he just pushed every wrong button possible by coming at me with anger when I did nothing wrong.
“Excuse me?” My voice is a quiet steel as I take another step toward him and his irrational temper.
“You heard me, Scout. What the fuck were you doing with Santiago?”
“First of all, I wasn’t with Santiago. And second, did I miss a point in time where you laid claim to me?”
“Not. At. All.” He rolls his shoulders. He shifts his feet. But between the dark night and the brim of his ball cap, I can’t see his eyes when I desperately wish I could.
“Great. Then you can move out of the way. I can leave. And tomorrow, when we meet up for your training, we can forget all about this whole getting to know you shtick and move on.”
His laugh fills the night, but falls flat. “It’s just that easy for you, huh? Run. Dodge. Avoid. Nice try, Scout, but I’m not letting you use that on me.”
“You don’t get a say in what I do or don’t do, Hot Shot.” I take a step closer to him, partly hurt, partly relieved that whatever he’s pissed about isn’t deterring him from whatever is happening between us.
“Nice skirt,” he says, completely throwing me for a loop with his change in conversation. There’s an underlying edge to his voice, though.
“Your point?”
“Can’t a man tell a woman who got dressed up she looks nice? I mean, I sure as shit know you weren’t dressing up for me. I get Nikes and sports bras, but Penski or Cameron or fucking Santiago gets a short skirt, long legs, boots, and fixed hair. ‘Dress to impress’ must have been the motto for the night, huh?”
My temper snaps.
“I don’t have fucking time for this. Or you.” I storm over to my car, hands on my hips. “Move.”
He doesn’t budge, just stands there with a clenched jaw and murder in his eyes that reflects how I feel. “You talk to Santiago with that mouth, too?”
“Fuck you!” I shout. He’s pushing for a fight, and you know what? I’m so game for one right now. I have a tornado of emotions whipping around inside of me—grief, loneliness, desire, need, uncertainty, fear—and it’s so much easier to be angry than to face any of them.
Or to admit that I’m hurt he could think I’d want Santiago when the only person I want is him.
I want him.
It’s a fleeting thought, one my temper overrides, but it’s loud enough to add fuel to the fight. Because if I fight, then I don’t have to acknowledge that, though I’m used to shutting everyone out, he might be the first I want to let in.
“Come on, Scout. Are you playing me?” I can hear the hurt in his tone, know he’s had a few drinks, like I have, and know that nothing intensifies bravado like alcohol. “Are you using the contract as an excuse to keep this your little secret? Do you keep pushing me away, holding me at arms’ length because you’re really dating one of them and you don’t want either of us to find out?”
What? My temper’s too far gone for me to think rationally, and so I do what comes next in line—lash out at him.
“Playing you? Glad to know you think so highly of me.” I step into him, our bodies inches away from each other.
“Well, you sitting there with Santiago tells me exactly what you think of me.” His words are guarded armor when he grits them out, quiet but loaded with vitriol.
“The way you’re acting, I shouldn’t think of you at all.”
We glare at each other. Hurt waging against hurt. Anger swirling in the cool night air. And neither of us attempt to back down.
“You know what? Fuck this,” he mutters, looks at me one last time through eyes laden with sadness, shakes his head, and strides out of the parking lot.
It takes me a second to process what’s happening. To realize he’s walking away from me. And at fir
st, all I can think is that with him gone, I’ll be able to breathe for a second. Have a clear mind.
Let him go, Scout. If you do, then you can’t get hurt any further. Because people leave. They all do. Ford. Mom. At some point soon, Dad will, too. Chalk up Easton to having fun while it lasted. Some good sex, a new friend, but nothing harmed in the end. He’s too close. You’re too close. Push him away or you’re going to end up devastated. And alone.
Walk away now, like he will from you.
Clear mind. Hard heart, Scouty-girl.
But what if I don’t want a hard heart anymore?
My feet move. Toward him.
My heart, hard as it may be, jolts into my throat.
And I really wish I had my damn Nikes on instead of my cowboy boots.
“Easton!”
His shadow’s up ahead, the streetlights hitting his hair a beacon for me to follow.
“Easton!” I call as I chase after him.
“Forget it, Scout. Just forget it.”
“No, wait.”
“At some point, it’s not worth the trouble anymore.”
Tears burn and my vision blurs as I catch up to him, just as he hits the lobby of his building. Conscious of the other people, I don’t yell like I want to for him to stop. Instead, I move a bit faster. He steps into the elevator and turns to face me with shoulders square, body tense, and eyes that say everything he doesn’t speak.
Step in now or turn around and keep walking. Now or never.
My pulse pounds, knowing the answer but fearing it at the same time.
I step in.
Easton blows out an audible breath as he pushes a button, and I’m not sure if that’s a good sign or a bad sign, but it doesn’t matter because my heart urged me to step in when every sensible thought screamed for me to stay out.
The elevator jerks and then surprises me when it begins to descend. I glance over at him, but he’s just staring straight ahead—jaw clenched, hands fisted, face intense.