“Shouldn’t you be at practice or something?” I flip my phone over on my thigh, checking the time. My dad should be done soon.
“Off day for me. I threw a bullpen this morning. I don’t throw again for two days. You should come. We play Tulsa.” He shifts in his seat and pulls his phone from his pocket.
“Thanks, but I’ve seen my fill of Mavericks games. I grew up here.” I wrinkle my lips and shrug.
“I get that, but . . . you’ve never seenmepitch.” He’s persistent, and I almost reply that Ihaveseen him pitch—on TV. But I don’t want to give him that satisfaction.
“Tempting, but I work nights,” I say instead.
“Well, good news—it’s a day game. Here, give me your phone.” He sits up tall and holds out an open palm, which I stare at skeptically.
“I’m not going to hack it. I just want to transfer the tickets to you.”
My brow puckers.
“You already got tickets?” I have yet to accept this invitation. Is that what he was doing on his phone?
“Yeah, Jackie sent them over when I texted her just now. You know Jackie, right? She’s in PR or something?—”
I raise a hand, but keep my phone where it rests, on my leg.
“I know Jackie. We went to high school together. And you’re awfully presumptuous, aren’t you? I haven’t said yes yet.”
“Exactly.Yet.” His lips twist up on the ends into this fucking charming smirk that pulls a light laugh from me. Damn him.
“Fine, I’llthinkabout it.”
I hold my phone out but keep a good grip on it. No way am I giving him full control. He scoffs but lets me have my way, cupping the back of my hand in his palm as he taps his phone against mine. His fingertips brush against my knuckles when he’s done, and the tickle nearly makes me drop my phone. I clutch it fast, then pull it into my lap and bury it beneath my hands.
“Are you going to order something? Or are you just here to harass me?” My hands are still buzzing, which I don’t like at all. I need to regain my cool.
Hunter tilts his head, his eyes crinkling a little on the edges with his soft grin as he rests his elbows on his knees and clasps his phone between his hands.
“I did come in here for a smoothie. You’re right. You’re also very distracting.” He waggles a finger at me as he stands and makes his way to the counter.
“I’ll have what she’s having,” he says to the college girl working the counter. He leans against the counter as he taps his phone to the payment device, and it’s obvious he’s waiting for the sweet blonde with her hair pulled into a net to swoon over him. She doesn’t as much as remove one of her AirPods, however, which gives me smug satisfaction.
“They get ballplayers in here a lot. Just so you know. I’m sure you’re used to the smoothie girls fawning over you back home at—” I stop myself from dropping the name of his college, Pacific Coastal University. “Wherever you went to school.”
“You got me,” he says with a wink. “Some guys are players, but me . . . I only love and leave the smoothie employees. If a woman can’t blend ice and banana, I’m not interested.”
I purse my lips, staving off the itch to laugh at his joke.
“You know, it’s possible you’re all wrong about me,” he says.
My head falls to one side as I study him for a beat.
“Hmm, is that so?” He has a point. He did surprise me with the romance books.
“Absolutely. For starters, I happen to believe in exclusivity when it comes to dating,” he says, taking his smoothie from the employee and pulling the wrapper from the straw.
“Okay, that’s fair. But . . . how often do you start and stop these exclusive arrangements?” My gut says he’s working with a loophole in this argument.
“Well, I’ve had four girlfriends. The shortest relationship lasted six weeks—she was a football fan,” he whispers as he sits across from me. He wraps his lips around his straw, puckering as he glances up and squints at the ceiling tiles. “I guess maybe four or five short dating attempts, too, after the draft.”
“Dating.” I call out that word as I narrow my gaze on him. He means sleeping around. He can play gentleman all he wants, but no pitcher with his body and buzz is a saint.
“I mean, yeah, there was always a dinner involved. But I’m an adult. The women are adults. We’re adults. Like you and I . . .we’readults.” He waggles a finger between us, as if we’re a thing.
