“Gonna start your own band?”
He lifts his head and looks at me.
Just looks at me.
Doesn’t say yes.
Doesn’t say no.
Heat builds under my sternum as those bright green eyes bore into mine.
This man wants something.
He wants something from me.
Maybe notsomething from methough.
More likeall of me.
“Duncan—”
He smirks.
He smirks, and my belly drops, my nipples shiver, and my mouth goes dry.
I shake my head, but it only makes the smirk grow bigger.
“Duncan,” I start again, but I have to pause.
And that’s when I realize I’m licking my lips.
My body drifting closer to his.
My breath getting shallower.
This isn’t happening.
Those are the words I’m supposed to say.
Because thisisn’thappening.
Our lives aren’t compatible, and even if they were—even when he retires—I don’t do relationships.
Baseball is my one true love. The thing I can depend on while knowing the sport itself will never take anything from me.
It doesn’t matter what team I’m playing for.
Not when I’m on the field. Rain or shine. Hot or cold. Breathing in the fresh-cut grass or dirty infield. Through the bad calls and hard losses and brutal injuries. Soaking in the game-winning go-ahead homers and stolen bases and acrobatic fielding.
And if I think I’m busy now, I’ll be even busier when I take over Santiago’s job.
And if that isn’t next year, itwillbe another year. The other coaches are older than I am. They have more experience.
But they don’t have the same finely-honed instincts and they don’t have my drive.
They can’t. They haven’t had to fight as hard for it as I have.
I know I might not get the job.
