He glanced down at her hand, wondering what she would do if he threaded his fingers through hers.
“Babe, I have a climb tomorrow.” Tilly tugged on Brayden’s hand, gently reminding him that it was after one in the morning.
“I’ll drive you home.”
They said goodbye, and Dustin was once again alone with Clover. She turned to face him, just as Brayden’s lights shut off. They were left with the half moon and the lights from his place a few doors down to light their way. Emboldened in the dark, Dustin reached for Clover’s hand. She grabbed on to him, and his pulse matched Brayden’s pitch speed.
“Thanks for the lesson.” She squeezed his hand. “Now I’ll be able to stop produce attacks.”
“Do they happen often?”
“More than you’d think.” She laughed lightly.
Dustin’s heart grew warm at the sound. They turned and headed back to his place. “We have one more game against Oakland tomorrow. Will you come?” He brushed his thumb over the back of her hand. She shivered, and he instinctively drew her closer. Instead of going back into the garage, he walked her to her car, parked at a crazy angle on the curb.
“I can come for part of the game, but I’ll have to leave early.”
“I’ll take whatever time you’ve got.” They stopped by the driver’s side door. He released her hand and ran his fingers up and down her bare arms, loving the soft feel of her skin.
Clover searched his eyes. He got the feeling she was looking for evidence that she could trust him. That lion sat up in his chest, and he wanted to be a man worthy of her trust. Because of that, he stepped back, letting her hands slide through his fingers. “I’ll have the tickets at will call.” He smiled and headed for the house, though every part of him wanted to hold Clover’s face in his hands and kiss her good night.
Chapter Eighteen
People streamed down the stairs and found their place in the red plastic seats. Dustin wanted to call them fans and not spectators, but he couldn’t deny the number of Oakland shirts. Harper Wolfe had a dream—a dream she broadcast to the whole Redrocks organization. One day, Redrocks fans would fill the seats, and fans would pay money to see them in other cities. It was a great dream, one Dustin found himself longing to be a part of. His batting had been average during this series. A couple base hits and grounders too short. Santacruiz had hinted at moving him up in the batting order. That wouldn’t happen unless he picked up his game.
He shook off thoughts of contracts and batting averages and pressure. He had a philosophy: Practice like your stats were on the line and play the game like you love it. Because that was the key. He’d seen too many guys burn out in the majors because they played a game like they had to increase their on-base percentage. Dustin preferred to play like he wanted to win. Because when you forced baseball, you got trippy. Your swing came up short. You threw wild. And you began to resent the players, the field, and the game.
Needingto win was poison.
Especially because the guys he watched fade out needed to win for themselves. They began thinking things like, “If I hit it out tonight, then that means I’ll stay in the game.”
Baseball didn’t work like that. There weren’t baseball gods on the baselines waiting to bestow the worthy with extra bases or faster pitch speed. Baseball was complex—like an amazing woman—once you thought you had it figured out, it threw you a curveball, and you struck out looking.
Grabbing a handful of dirt, he rubbed it between his palms. He poured the stats and commentators’ thoughts and projections about the show into the grains scraping his palms and let them dribble into the dirt as the sand fell like water to the ground.
Tipping his head up, he checked the two seats behind the dugout. He must have looked there a hundred times during batting practice. The smell of popcorn wafted down from the top of the bleachers—a signal that game time was close.
The cold-cut sandwich he’d had an hour ago sat heavy in his stomach as the reality of the empty seat sank in.
“You got somewhere else you’d rather be, Colt?” called Coach Wolfe.
The implied threat was a hollow one. Coach Wolfe was a good guy. He’d handled tough situations, like Jackson Kimber’s major league temper tantrum, with calm intensity. They were past the trade deadline, so Dustin was on the Redrocks for the rest of the season. A month ago he would have groaned at the prospect of ending the season on the second-worst team in the division. Funny how a little time and a little Clover had changed his outlook. “No, sir.”
Coach signaled to Rex Barnes, the catcher. At forty, he was ready to retire. Dustin couldn’t blame him. He had to be in constant pain—a man’s knees weren’t meant to squat for twenty-plus years. Rex spent more time than the rest of them with the PTs. He sat in ice tubs and applied salve and had a family worth saving some of his health and energy for. Then again, for some guys, baseball was like breathing, and Barns might suffocate without the opportunity to rub infield dirt into his palms.
“Hey.” Coach Wolfe jerked his chin in greeting as he meandered Dustin’s way.
Dustin responded in kind. “What’s up, Coach?”
“You seem distracted.”
Dustin’s eyes flicked to the seats and he bit back a smile. Clover and Jane were settling into their seats. Jane carried a foil-wrapped hot dog, and Clover had an iced lemonade. He brought his attention right back to Coach Wolfe. “I’m good, Coach.” He dropped a cocky grin.
Coach glanced over his shoulder. There was enough movement in the stands that he couldn’t possibly zero in on Clover as the reason for Dustin’s stray attention. His eyes lingered on the section behind the dugout, taking in each face, before he turned back. “I need your head on the field.” He pointed out to the grass. “Not in the stands.”
Now that Clover was here, the tightness around Dustin’s chest released. He could focus. He smacked Coach on the shoulder. “Let’s play some ball.”
Coach smacked him back before heading into the dugout. Dustin smiled all through the local high school a cappella group singing the national anthem and the Vietnam veteran throwing the first pitch. He put his hat back on his head and touched the brim while looking at Clover. She didn’t wave back. Maybe she wasn’t looking right at him; it was hard to tell from where he stood. He jogged into the dugout to grab his mitt and then made his way out to his position.
