“I was once on the street, too. If you want a good meal, the soup kitchen isn’t far. I put a card with the address in there.” She tapped the plastic with her finger.
“Soup?” He glanced down at the bag now crinkling in his hands as he turned it over, trying to determine what exactly she’d given him.
“I know it’s hard to accept help, but people care about you and want to help.”
His chin lifted, and he tried to catch her eye again. “You care about me?”
Her hesitation was barely discernible. He wouldn’t have even noticed if he didn’t spend his life studying batters and watching for those hesitations and small adjustments that would send a ball his way. “Of course I do.” Her dimples appeared, perched like little birds on her cherry cheeks. “I hope to see you for a meal or two before you move on.”
He opened his mouth to ask for her number, and shut it quickly as she climbed back into the car and sped away.
Dustin turned the bag over in his hands until he found the card she’d mentioned. Written in clean block script was the name and address of the local soup kitchen. “What the …?”
A do-or-die warning beeped on his phone and he cursed, breaking into a run.Kler-flapsechoed around him. There was no way he’d be on time now. His only hope was that Coach wasn’t waiting in the locker room.
* * *
Dustin hustled through the grass-green metal door. The stained concrete floor was cool against his socks. He’d ripped off his busted work boots as soon as he hit the car, throwing them in the back seat along with the gym bag full of workout clothes, his “emergency” mitt, and several bats. Which meant he’d run into the building shoeless—not an easy task when the temperature was already over one hundred degrees, and the parking lot baked like an all-day barbeque.
Despite the air conditioning inside the building, he was boiling inside.
“What happened to you?” asked Brayden Birks, starting pitcher and easily the most talented guy in the bullpen.
Dustin threw the zip-top bag at Brayden and glared.
Brayden caught it easily enough. “What’s this?”
“I believe they call themessentials bags.” The little card inside had said as much. It’d also contained an encouraging quote, the address to the soup kitchen, and a scripture about hope. The penmanship was neat and tidy and—of all things—cute. It personified the mystery girl who dropped the bombshell in his hands.
Brayden cocked his head to the side.
“Apparently, I look homeless.” Dustin landed on the bench and began peeling off his ruined socks. He threw them in a trash can in the corner. “Some woman pulled over and staged an intervention on my behalf. She gave me that.”
Brayden laughed—hard. His eyes crinkled at the corner and liquid leaked out. He brushed it away, dramatically, while holding his stomach. “You’re going to bust my spleen—stop it.”
Dustin growled.
Brayden began to settle, drawing in several gasping breaths, and then he pointed at Dustin and started all over again.
Dustin stripped off his pants and shirt, tempted to throw his smelly shirt in Brayden’s face. “Not funny.”
“No, it’s stinking hilarious.” He opened the bag and pulled out a small bar of soap. “Here, you’re going to shower, right?”
There was soap in the locker room showers. Nice soap. Expensive stuff with vitamin E and aloe to protect their skin against the dry air. “I don’t need soap.”
“I beg to differ.” Brayden ducked, and Dustin’s shirt flew over his head. “Look, there’s shaving cream and a razor too.”
Dustin ran a hand down his beard. He was in great physical shape—the best of his life thanks to the team trainers and the hours he spent hauling Sheetrock. Not that the woman could see all his hard work under his baggy construction clothes. Still, she had to know he wasn’t homeless. The whole thing was probably a joke. “I should have told her who I was.”
“Yeah, nothing impresses the ladies like the old do-you-have-any-idea-who-I-am line. They love cocky. In fact, I lead withdo you know who I amwhen I hit the clubs.”
“Shut up.” Dustin reached for a towel.
“Is that what you told her? Shut up?”
“No.” He wouldn’t have told a lady to shut up, no matter how she’d insulted him. “My mama raised me better than that.” There was something aboutthiswoman, though. Her golden eyes were big and trusting and full of concern. The more he thought about her, the more he was sure she hadn’t meant to insult him. She truly thought she was helping, which was admirable. And stupid. She was pretty—much too pretty to approach strange men on the street. He tugged at his beard again.
“She got you thinking about something.”
