I set the tablet down, meeting his gaze with a raised eyebrow. “Because I wanted to watch grown men throw balls at each other?”
“Hey, we also catch them sometimes.”
“Riveting.”
His grin widens. “You know, most people who show up to watch practice are here for someone specific. Girlfriend. Spouse. Overeager fan who somehow got past security.”
“And you think I’m here for you?”
“Am I wrong?”
I lean back, crossing my arms. “Incredibly wrong.”
“Ouch.” He presses a hand to his chest in mock pain. “You’re brutal, you know that?”
“I’ve been told.”
“By who? Every guy who’s ever tried to ask you out?”
“By every guy who assumed I’d be impressed by his job title.”
He tilts his head, studying me with those sharp green eyes, the kind of eyes used to reading pitches, tracking movement, calculating outcomes before they happen. “You don’t strike me as someone who’s impressed by much.”
“I’m impressed by talent,” I say. “Real talent. The kind you work for, not the kind you’re born with.”
“Ooh, nature versus nurture. Deep.” He shifts, turning to face me more fully. “For the record, I work my ass off.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“You don’t believe me.”
“I don’t know you well enough to believe or disbelieve you.” I pick up the tablet again and scroll through a consultation request for a floral half-sleeve. “We had one conversation. You walked into my shop on a dare, tried to charm me into breaking my rules, and left empty-handed.”
“We’ve had two conversations, and I prefer‘made a memorable first impression.’”
“Two conversations? Clearly, you made an impression,” I allow. “The second time we spoke, but the first? Not ringing any bells, and whether it was memorable remains to be seen.”
He laughs again, and I hate how much I don’t hate the sound. It’s genuine, not the practiced, camera-ready laugh I’ve seen athletes use during interviews. This one has rough edges and warmth underneath.
“So, if you’re not here for me…” he says, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, “… who are you here for?”
“None of your business.”
“Come on. Give me something.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m curious.”
“About me?”
“About everything.” He gestures toward the field. “You show up unannounced, sit in the bleachers looking at your tablet instead of watching practice, and you’re not here for me. So, who? Secret boyfriend on the team? Long-lost brother? Bookie collecting debts?”
I bite back a smile. “You have a very active imagination.”
“Goes with the territory. Pitching is ninety percent mental.”
“What’s the other ten percent?”
