How on earth did he get my number?
My stomach twirls, and my face splits into a grin as I reread his message. I save his contact information, and I can’t help chuckling as I type in the nickname. I have a full-on out-of-body experience as I watch myself snap a picture of my legs and feet, with the view of the balcony behind, and tap send.
“Dammit,” I groan. I shouldn’t encourage him.
Before I can mentally slap myself, three dots appear, and a new text follows soon after.
Baseball Boy:Fuck me. Those have got to be the sexiest legs I’ve ever seen. Please tell me you know who you’re talking to.
Alone on my balcony, I giggle at my phone like a teen with a crush. This isn’t like me. I do not giggle over text messages from boys. I’m a badass doctor. I don’t do this. And yet? I can’t help embracing the feeling and teasing Nico.
Stephen fromthe hospital?
Baseball Boy:Who the fuck is Stephen?
LOL. Relax, baseball boy. I’m kidding. I know it’s you.
Baseball Boy:I swear, Savannah. One day…
What does … mean?
Baseball Boy:You’re not ready to find out what … means.
Heat curls between my legs as I imagine all the different meanings of … And none of them are PG. I close my eyes and exhale a deep breath to push away the indecent thoughts running through my head.
He’s right. Even though my body is absolutely interested in finding out the meaning, I’m not ready for the answer.
Don’t you have a game to play?
A picture of his jersey hanging in a locker comes through. Romero and the number 82 are written across the back of his blue away-jersey. The image has me wondering what it would be like to see him play in person, wearing his jersey and cheering him on from the stands.
I’m so screwed.
Where are all the guys walking around in towels?
Baseball Boy:What other guys? There is only me.
…
Baseball Boy:Smartass. What’s your work schedule this week?
Why?
Baseball Boy:Stop being difficult.
A loud laugh bubbles out of me. I can picture him grinding his molars and taking a huge deep breath as the roaring lion head tattoo on his neck undulates.
I don’t know why I do it, but I send him my schedule for the week. Another text pops up with a link to a streaming service with the username and password.
What’s this for?
Baseball Boy:In case you miss me and want to check out my ass squatting behind the plate.
You’re ridiculous.
Baseball Boy:Nope. Just hopeful.
Go to work and hit a home run or something.
