Somehow, in the middle of coaching a nationally televised baseball game, Jeff Rosehill got ahold of my cell phone number.
He texts me at the top of the fifth inning.
Jeff
Tacos or steak?
It’s the kind of question that catches a girl off guard, and I find myself answering honestly before I realize that I’m accepting the premise that we’re going out for dinner.
Molly
Tacos
He doesn’t reply again until the bottom of the seventh.
Jeff
Do you want me to pickyou up at home?
Molly
I can meet you there
He doesn’t reply to that, period.
He just shows up in my office after the Outlaws win, a comeback 6–5 victory in the ninth.
His silver-streaked dark hair is damp from a shower, and he’s changed out of the uniform he wears during the game into blue jeans and a faded t-shirt.
It’s the first time I’ve seen him in something other than his uniform or other team gear.
He looks effortlessly handsome. His t-shirt clings to his thick chest in a way that makes it very ironic that I’m so eager tonotbe married to this man, because I’ve never been interested in dating, but if I had a type, Jeff Rosehill would be it.
Stop lying to yourself, Molly.
Because I do have a type now. It’s a much older man with thick thighs poured into faded blue jeans, apparently.
My heart pounds as I scramble for my purse.
No argument, no debate that we’re not going out for dinner.
Quietly, I let him lead me down to his car in the parking lot.
“The place I was thinking of is a bit of a drive,” he says as he opens the passenger side door for me. “But it’s worth it. Best tacos in the city. And we can get to know each other on the way there.”
The first thing I notice when he closes my door and walks around to the driver’s side is that the car smells like his aftershave, the same fresh scent I caught just a hint of as he opened the door. And there’s another note too, leather and sun-bleached dirt maybe.Baseball.His car smells like baseball and the showers a man takes after a long afternoon game, and it’s just…
I take a deep breath as he opens the driver’s side door.
It’s a lot.
I’m suddenly hyperaware that I’m sitting inJeff Rosehill’scar. Two months ago, I got a job with the Outlaws thinking it might be cool if I met the coach at some point, and now I’mmarried to himand I’m sitting in his car.
It’s a nice car, but it’s also… ordinary. There’s a travel mug in the cupholder. A pair of sunglasses in the center console. Some of the radio preset buttons are worn down, and there’s a parking pass hanging off his rearview mirror.
He slides into the driver’s seat and the car dips slightly with his weight.
“Seatbelt,” he says, not unkindly. Grinning at me. He smiles a lot more than I thought he would.
