“It’s not just the women. In fact, the cheating bullshit that goes on in this environment is mostly a symptom, in my opinion. It’s an excuse.”
“Did you cheat, Roddy?” My bold question takes me by surprise, and I regret being impulsive when the two-hundred-ten-pound unshaven beast of a man steps closer to me. The only thing that keeps me still is that his hands haven’t left his pockets.
His gaze drops to his feet, but I keep my focus on the fine lines etched into his face, the years of wear and tear and exhaustion and sun that have marked his jawline and eyes for good. He sniffs and bunches his lips before nodding.
“Yeah, I cheated.”
I feel kind of sick for asking, and I’m not sure if I feel bad for him or disappointed in him. When his gaze lifts and hardens on mine, all those emotions morph into apprehension.
“Not with a woman, though. Like I said . . . cheating physically is a cop-out in my opinion. The real problem is that feeling—that first big win. The little wins. The chase to get the biggest win of all. The feel of that perfect leather ball and the threads against my fingertips. The dirt. Ha, even the fucking dirt. Yeah, I cheated all right. I cheated with the game, when I probably should have picked a person.”
Well, damn. I can’t belittle him over that. I know there’s a certain level of acceptable selfishness to being the best at this sport. It’s like that in most sports, I suppose, but there’s something about the grind of this game. The schedule. All those innings. When baseball is in your blood, you want to be in the game all the time. You never want to be taken out. It’s who you are. It’s whoIam.
It’s who Roddy is. A thirty-eight-year-old guy isn’t catching in the minors if the game isn’t both his mistressandhis wife.
“All I’m saying, kid, is I like you. And I like Renleigh. And if this game weren’t involved, I could maybe even get behind the two of you getting together. But the game is part of you. Damn, you might just be the brightest bit of raw talent I’ve ever caught.”
I grin, but it falters quickly when I come to terms that his compliment is big, but his warning is bigger.
“You’re going to live two lives in this game. One out there"—he jerks his chin in the general direction of the ball field—"and one somewhere else. With someone special . . . or withlotsof someones. You’ll never be able to give another person all of you. It’s just part of the game.”
Roddy’s heavy hand lands on my shoulder as he leaves me with my thoughts and a mountain of guilt over the womansitting in the baseline family section, waiting for me to smile at her from the end of the dugout.
Chapter 16
Renleigh
I left without telling anyone where I went, which should be fine for a twenty-four-year-old woman to do. The fact nobody wonders where I am shouldn’t be strange. Only . . . it is. Because I’m me. And my presence has been woven into routines for two years. Why has nobody noticed the disruption my being gone causes?
I’m fumbling with my phone in my lap, still dressed in a pair of Hunter’s sweats and one of his training shirts that I’ve basically commandeered as my own for the weekend. I should probably get showered and check in for my flight. I meant to last night, but then Hunter ordered an early dinner for us in the room, and I sort of never looked at my phone again.
“You sure you don’t want to head over early with me? The family room is super nice. I saw it on my way out of the training room yesterday. Nashville’s got money!” Hunter rubs his thumb to his index and middle finger and flashes wide eyes.
“You mean, it’s nicer than the repurposed portable classroom in Sweetwater with a few old leather sofas and a folding table with three chairs?” I lift a brow as I drop my phone next to me and pull my knees up to hug them.
“Yeah, this place has recliners and stadium-seating in front of the big screen so you can watch the warmups or a movie if you want. And there’s a coffee bar with a barista and everything.”
He slides a sleek copper tie into a Windsor knot as he stands before me in his fitted black pants and white dress shirt that fits every perfectly formed muscle on his body. I push myself forward and snag the end of the tie, then rock back, tugging him toward me. He crawls forward until I’m caged between his arms, and he drops his forehead to mine.
I tilt my head up, lifting my chin until our lips meet, and the warmth of his mouth over mine tempts me to untuck his shirt and work open the buttons he spent a full minute fastening.
“Careful,” he says, his teeth holding my bottom lip as he presses his hard-on between my legs. “You’re going to wear me out before I throw today.”
I pull a knee up, increasing the pressure between us, but stop myself before I wrap my legs around him. I slide my hands up to his chest and push him away with the strength of a noodle, but enough that he moves back and abandons the bad idea I think we were both considering.
“I’ll head over in an hour to watch your pre-game,” I say.
Hunter straightens his tie and runs his hands down his crisp shirt. I love when the starters dress up before games. I know it’s only for the walk to the ballpark, but I like the classiness of it all. The tradition and respect it brings to the game. And, my God, do I like the way Hunter looks in dress pants and a tie.
“Promise?” He quirks a brow. It’s sweet how excited he is for me to watch him work again. It’s a bit different this time, too, because now I know what I’m looking at. I’m possibly watching a future Hall-of-Famer. A guy who’s about to change the game for the organization, at least if he keeps going the way he is now. And yeah, I kind of like that I know what he feels like againstme. And that if I want to, before I leave to head back home, I can have him inside me one more time.
“I promise,” I say, leaning back on my palms and crossing my legs as I stretch them out in front of me. “Just let me shower and check in for my flight.”
I study Hunter as he swings his sports coat over his shoulders, looking for signs that he wants me to stay. His expression is indifferent, though, probably as it should be. We aren’t anything. We’re having fun. Still, I am tempted to stretch this into a longer weekend. It would only be one more night. But I’ve already left Daisy hanging for my shift today. I don’t think she bought the text I sent her about being sick. I’m never sick. At least, not so sick that I don’t suck it up for tips.
“I’ll look for you. Same seat, okay?”
I lift my phone and click open the ticket app before flashing the screen at him.
