I toss a cashew in my mouth and wave down the bartender, asking for another drink. I plan on walking back to the inn with wobbly legs and a fuzzy head. Anything to help me forget today and the shot that I completely blew.
Ugh.
It’s not very often that women get the chance to break into the field of men’s sports. And this was it for me, an opportunity to start over—to procure a teaching job at the school and possibly assist the men’s baseball team—but one trip into the wall sent that idea tumbling away faster than I could say “ouch.”
And I needed this.
I needed it bad.
With my brother still in the minor leagues, I’m helping him pay his bills while he waits for that big break, and since there were budget cuts at my last school, this was an opportunity of a lifetime.
That meant sucking up my pride and returning to Almond Bay after leaving for three years. Did I grow up in the small coastal town? No. But did I move here when I found out that the high school had one of the best baseball programs in the state? Absolutely. I kept my distance, though.
I worked a job up north at a roadside pub with a flexible schedule so I could catch Bennett’s games and also have time to earn my degree in teaching. I was easily the oldest graduate.
From the outfield, I watched Bennett play while I studied. We shared a studio apartment, and while I spent late nights at the bar, he worked on his dream of becoming a professional baseball player, a dream I know will come true. A dream that we have both sacrificed for.
But it’s taking longer than we expected. I assumed he would have been called up by now, but he hasn’t, and well, the money is drying up, hence this job.
Also why the vodka I’m drinking is what I used to drink in high school because it was all I could afford.
“Are you going to come back home tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” I mumble. “Since the interview ran late, I didn’t think it would be best to come home tonight. Thanks for the coupon for the free night at the inn. It came in clutch.”
“That’s what I’m here for, saving you money through online surveys.”
Bower is the master at an online survey. She fills them out while watching shows at night and ends up with a whole bunch of free things. I don’t have the patience . . . or the time for that matter.
“Also, you can always pick up some shifts at the Olive Garden. My dad said he’d take you on whenever you need it.”
That’s the last thing I want to do, but it looks like I might not have a choice after today’s pitiful showing.
“Thanks.” I sigh. “Might have to take you up on that.” The bartender hands me another drink, and my mind starts to get that fuzzy feeling, just what I was looking for. I take a large gulp of my drink, and just as I set it down, the door to the bar opens, and a very familiar yet rugged face appears.
I feel every muscle in my body stiffen as a set of mossy-green eyes scan the bar . . . passing right over me.
Ryland Rowley.
“Holy shit,” I say quietly into the phone.
“What?” Bower says as my eyes shamelessly scan Ryland, who seems to be encouraged by his friend behind him to keep walking forward.
He . . . he’s even more attractive than I remember.
Broad shoulders, boulder-like biceps tugging on his shirtsleeves, and pecs perfectly defined by the fabric pulling across them. His height towers over the patrons in the bar, while his dark stare gives the feeling he’s not one to mess with. And his forearms are ripped and defined, all the way to his large hands. Hands that instinctively curl ever so slightly, almost like he’s always gripping something . . . or ready to throw a punch. Well-worn jeans encase his long legs, and his tapered waist, along with the rest of his chest, gives the impression that he might not play baseball anymore, but that hasn’t stopped him from continuing to make some gains in the gym.
I remember the first time I laid eyes on Ryland Rowley. I was . . . I was awestruck. He was fit, attractive, at times . . . mesmerizing, and he was my brother’s coach. All of Bennett’s other coaches have been much older, like they’ve seen their fair share of days out on the field. Ryland was a different breed. He was fresh and innovative but with a dark stare that could make you faint if he locked eyes with you.
And he treated Bennett differently. Not only did he teach him how to improve upon his already established talent but he also taught him how to be an adult. How to take responsibility on and off the field. And he gave Bennett the opportunity he needed to be seen by scouts, which led to him being drafted right out of high school.
Now that he’s standing a few feet away, I’m still experiencing that awestruck feeling, but there’s a mask over it this time.
A mask of indifference because he . . . he didn’t show up.
“What’s going on?” Bower shouts into the phone, pulling me out of my reverie.
“He just walked in.”
