“Maybe,” I say, stepping closer. “But I’m the kind you like.”
She opens her mouth—probably to argue—but Mrs. Winthrop barrels in just then with a basket of scones and a thousand opinions, and the moment shatters into harmless chatter.
That night, I’m back at the farm, watching game footage Marcus sent me while thinking about Bailey’s laughter echoing in the aisles.
My phone buzzes.
Bailey:Thanks for helping today. Even if your “hot cover” system was questionable.
Me:Questionable? It was flawless.
Bailey:You sorted half the romance section by abs.
Me:You say that like it’s a bad thing.
Bailey:It’s a thing.
Me:You’re smiling.
Bailey:No proof.
Me:Liar.
Three dots appear, vanish, reappear.
Bailey:Good night, Crew.
Me:Good night, Bailey.
It should be simple. It’s not.
I stare at the screen, thumb hovering, tempted to send something reckless likeI wish you were here, but I don’t.
Because if I say that, I’ll mean it.
And meaning things around her feels like walking barefoot on glass—painful, grounding, addictive.
Two days later, Marcus flies in from Nashville after meeting with the Stallions GM for an in-person checkup. He’s all business, clipboard and precision.
“You’ve got full rotation,” he says, watching me throw. “Speed’s coming back.”
“Feels good.”
“Still on board with the plan? Camp starts in three weeks.”
Three weeks.
That used to sound like salvation. Now, it sounds like a countdown I didn’t agree to.
“Yeah,” I say automatically.
He eyes me. “You don’t sound convinced.”
“I am.”
“You’re lying.”
I toss the football again, hard enough to sting my palm. “You’re reading too much into it.”
