“You can’t convince someone to stop being scared,” he says finally. “Fear’s not logical. You just have to show them the alternative is worth the risk.”
“How?”
“No idea. I’m terrible at relationships.” He grins. “But I know you. When you want something, you don’t quit. You’ll find a way.”
“What if the way is respecting her choice and backing off?”
“Is that what you want to do?”
I don’t answer. We both know I don’t.
“Look,” Mack says. “I don’t know Ava. But I know Bishop’s daughter probably didn’t grow up soft. She’s got her reasons for building walls. You want in? You’re going to have to earn it.”
“Earn what?”
“Her trust. Her belief that you’re worth the risk.” He stands, offering me a hand. “And probably prove you can handle not getting what you want for once in your golden-boy life.”
I let him pull me up, flipping him off with my free hand. “I’m not that spoiled.”
“You’re the most spoiled player on this team, and everyone knows it.” He heads toward the dugout, calling over his shoulder. “Don’t stay out here all night. We have practice tomorrow, and you’re going to feel like hell.”
He’s right about that part.
The next week is torture.
I see Ava exactly twice. Once at a coffee shop near the stadium, where she spots me and immediately turns around,and once outside her studio, getting into her car. She doesn’t notice me, and I don’t make her.
The media starts asking questions about my‘aggressive new training regimen’because apparently, my stats are spiking. More strikeouts, faster pitches, better control. One sports blog calls me‘a man possessed.’
They’re not wrong.
Coach pulls me aside after Thursday’s practice. “Steele. Office.”
I follow him in, already knowing this conversation won’t be fun. He shuts the door and leans against his desk, arms crossed. Classic intimidation pose. It works on everyone except me.
Mostly.
“You’ve been pitching well,” he starts.
“Thank you.”
“Too well.”
I frown. “There’s no such thing as too well.”
“There is when it comes out of nowhere and screams‘personal issues.’” He pins me with a look. “You fighting with your ex again?”
“No. Lena and I are done. Have been for months.”
“Then what’s going on?”
I could lie. Make something up about wanting to push myself or prove my contract extension is worth it, and he’d probably believe me.
Instead, I say, “Girl trouble.”
His eyebrows rise. “Girl trouble.”
“Yeah.”
