“I gave you a chance, Chaos. You left me no choice,” he says as he carries me by my waist, quite literally kicking and screaming, like a toddler having a meltdown in a supermarket. “Todd, take my place.” He calls over his shoulder. “Skylar, you’re pitching.”
“What?” I hear her alarmed gasp come from the outfield. “I don’t—oh, fuck it.”
Her voice trails off as Ashton carries me further away from the field. I fight him the whole way, cursing him and that bitchy umpire from hell. He ignores me until we come to some sort of equipment storage shed, and he deposits me on a bench. I lookaround. It’s really big. It must house all of the sports equipment for the entire high school. Ashton failed to mention that we would be playing at Emberfield High when he asked me, or more like insisted, that I play in today’s game. But here we are. This isn’t my first time here. We played EHS when I was on the softball team, and I may have hooked up with a guy or two from here back in high school.
My eyes land on Ashton. He takes his hat off and runs his hand through his slightly damp hair before pulling it back in place. His shirt fits tightly around his muscled torso, and when he turns around, I can’t help but check out the way those white baseball pants hug his ass. Of course, he had to wear professional baseball pants.
“Can I leave now?” I ask. “Or are you going to hold me hostage for a second time?”
“That depends.” He turns around and squats down in front of me, the bottom of his pants rising up ever so slightly. “Are you going to be good?”
“I think you have it backward, Ashton. You’re the one who should be good for me.”
He chuckles. “I meant, are you going to try to punch innocent umpires if I let you out of here?”
Instantly, the lust in my veins turns to white-hot anger. “Innocent? She’s been fucking with me all night, Ashton. Every single call she made while I was pitching was bullshit, and you know it.”
“It’s just a game, Allie.”
Just a game?
“Oh, now it’s just a game? What about when you were begging me to pitch for you so you could win your silly littlegame? Which, by the way, was the second time in twenty-four hours you’ve begged me for something.”
He stands up and walks over to a rack of footballs, spinning one around with his thumb. “Huh.”
“Why do you keep saying that?” I growl.
“You keep bringing up last night. It’s just interesting, is all. Especially since this isn’t a thing.” He gestures between the two of us.
I blink at him several times before something between a screech and a roar comes out from deep within my diaphragm. I shoot up, stomp over to a shelf, and slap my hand across it, knocking over a basket of tennis balls that fall to the floor, bouncing back up like rain on a steel roof.
My heart hammers against my chest, and tears spring to my eyes. When I look back at Ashton, I expect to see shock coloring his face, but there is none. There’s only quiet concern.
“I’m just tired,” I mumble, and the look on his face tells me he knows that this isn’t about softball or bitchy umpires. It’s about nothing andeverything. It’s about being better. Not making the same mistakes. But also being tired. Too tired to fight, but not tired enough to give up.
“You know what I think?” Ashton’s voice carries throughout the enclosed space, echoing off the walls. “I think you need someone who can take care of you. Even if just for a few minutes.”
He walks closer with each word, making sure to sidestep the tennis balls still slowly rolling around on the floor. “Let me take care of you, Allie.”
My initial instinct is to tell him no. I don’t need anyone to take care of me. That being said, what he’s offering makes me want to throw my instincts out the window.
Yes.Just say yes.
“Okay.” It’s so quiet, I barely hear it myself. There’s no way he heard it, but he offers me his hand anyway, and I take it.
He leads me over to another bench, this one higher than the rest. It’s counter height, probably for cleaning or organizing equipment. Lacing cleats. I don’t know. I can’t think straight because now he’s hoisting me up onto the bench. He reaches upand gently removes my hat, tossing it to the side. When his palm comes to rest on my cheek, I look away. I’m wearing contacts because I didn’t want to deal with my glasses getting knocked off during the game.
Now I’m regretting that decision. I feel too exposed without them. Like if he looks too deep, he’ll see too much…or not enough.
“Hey,” he says, softly moving his finger to my chin and turning it toward him. “Don’t hide from me.”
“I don’t know how to do this,” I admit. I’m not sure what I even mean. I don’t know how to be vulnerable? How to let someone else take the lead? How to quiet the wild horses galloping in my head?
“I’ll help you,” he says, moving a strand of hair behind my ear.
“Wh—what about the game?” I ask.
“I don’t care about the game.”
