I hate how icky this feels as I usually avoid online stalking the guys I’m into. Then again, that may also be because Logan normally does it for me. That woman deserves to be in the FBI with how much she can find using so little information. But this is for work, so it technically doesn’t count, right?
A few searches later, I’m deep in a Fletcher-shaped rabbit hole. I’ve hit the jackpot between all the old articles, interviews, and scouting reports. It’s no surprise to see them talk about his skills and how he’s definitely destined for the majors. What is a bit shocking though, is how in every single picture he has one defining look. Gone are his silly, goofy smiles with his adorable dimples. Instead, it’s him, jaw tight, eyes serious and focused without a single ounce of joy in his body.
It’s a weird contrast to the guy the fans have fallen in love with, and who I’ve gotten to know on such a deep and personal level. Every picture I’ve seen or taken myself, whether it’s promotional or candid, is of a man with a passion and a joy for life. Yet, in these pictures the spark is missing. It’s as though someone’s turned off the light behind his eyes, other than a few rare ones I’ve found from his Little League days.
I finally settle for one of those and hit print. As my printer comes to life, a knock sounds at my front door.
Perfect timing.
“Coming!” I call as I grab the picture from the tray and set it aside with the others.
I’m practically skipping as I bounce toward the door and eagerly throw myself at the man behind it.
“Whoa!” He stumbles back. “It’s good to see you too,” he chuckles before leaning down for a kiss that’s far too short formy liking. “I’d hug you back, but first I need to set these down.” He holds up two completely full grocery bags.
My lips part as I arch a brow.
“I told you I was in charge of dinner,” he explains, walking past me into the kitchen as though he owns the place.
I close the door as he sets the bags down.
“I remember, but I just assumed that meant grabbing some take-out,” I admit as I take a seat on a stool.
“Take-out? For my old lady? Not a chance,” he smirks, leaning across the counter to steal another kiss.
“I’m choosing to ignore the old lady comment,” I huff, fighting a smile as I lean back and enjoy the view. “For the record, I’m younger than you, nor am I your lady. We’re still just friends, remember?”
While he needs to hear it, too, the reminder is mostly for me. Unfortunately, somewhere “just friends” morphed into something completely different as I crossed way too many lines, and if I’m not careful, I fear I might erase them altogether.
“Fine. But take-out? For my best friend? Not a chance,” he repeats with a wink before he starts to unload the bags.
“Best friends, huh?”
“Why not? You’re my favorite person on the team right now, and the one I’m choosing to spend all my free time with, so I'd say it fits.”
He moves around the kitchen with ease, as though he’s been here hundreds of times as he opens the cupboards and pulls out various pots and pans. There’s something annoyingly attractive about how confident he looks right now, like cooking dinner in my apartment, of all places, is the most natural thing in the world. Worst of all, I hate how much I find myself loving it.
Still, that’s exactly why I need to discourage it, or at least keep him on his toes.
“Is that really a good thing? When I leave in a few months you’re going to be best friendless. What will you do then?” I ask, resting my elbows on the counter as I place my chin in my hands.
“That’s something I’ll worry about later,” he says, turning on the hot water as he gets to work on washing his hands.
“Unlike you, that somehow only makes me worry even more.”
This isn’t the conversation I meant to initiate, especially when I’d been looking forward to our alone time together all day, but how can I not panic, at least a little bit?
“Don’t have to worry about me,” he says, drying his hands on a towel. “If anything, what you should really be asking yourself is how you’re going to handle being away from me once you're gone.”
A pit forms in my stomach at the mere idea of not getting to spend any more time with him, not that I’ll ever admit it, at least not out loud.
“I’ll be fine.”
“Whatever you say, Holls,” he says, seeming to believe me just as much as I do as he gets started on our dinner.
I offer to help, but he waves me off.
Instead of watching and risking falling even harder, I decide to use my time wisely. I grab my laptop and start hunting for even more pictures of the players.
