She unlocked her car and dropped behind the steering wheel, staring at her screen while she waited with the door hanging open for the heat wave to dissipate. St. George was awfully hot in the summer. So hot it melted the thoughts right out of her head. Why couldn’t she think of anything fun and flirty to say to him? She ran her hands around the steering wheel, testing the temperature. “Think. Think. Think.” The wheel was fine, so she started up the car, shut the door, and pulled into traffic.
“I saw the game last night,” she muttered, trying to get the old wheels turning. That wouldn’t do—they’d lost—by a lot.
“Better luck next time …”
Blech!
“It looked like the other team throws really hard.”
Brainless.
“Your uniform was spotless. What detergent do you use?”
Dimwit.
“Okay, I give up.” She flicked her hand at her phone as if dismissing it. “Apparently I am text defective.” She stopped at a light and dropped her head to the wheel.This is so not good.Dustin was out of town for half the year—how was she ever going to date a man she couldn’t text/talk to for half the year? He might as well know how inept she was so he could make an informed decision.
Her heart crimped at the thought of watching him run into the dugout without looking her way. With a sigh, she pulled over and picked up her phone.Good luck in the game tonight. I’ll be cheering for you.There! She hit send and gulped.
Thanks! Heading out for BP. Bye.
Bye.
That was the worst flirting job ever.Thankfully I have four more days of this before he comes home.Even her sarcasm couldn’t wrap up a protective layer around her heart. Strange, sarcasm had never failed her before. She might just have to admit that Dustin was more important to her than she wanted to acknowledge. Four more days of denial. She could work with that.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Sunday after the long road trip, Dustin walked up the stained concrete steps of his parents’ home for a family dinner. He paused outside the door to paint on a smile. The Nationals were brutal—beating them by double digits three games straight. Dustin couldn’t connect with the ball to save his life. That wasn’t entirely true. He’d connected fly balls aplenty, but hadn’t been able to put the ball in play.
On the bright side, the rest of the team didn’t do much better, ensuring his poor performance didn’t stand out.
On the dark side, the rest of the team didn’t do much better.
To top it off, he wasn’t making any progress with Clover. He’d text, and she’d answer, but there was no real back-and-forth. It was like pulling apart the laces in a glove with his teeth to get her to talk. He’d tried calling once, but her roommate answered and said she was in the shower. He didn’t leave a message.
All the while he was fumbling his way through trying to talk to Clover, Blake Rygs paraded his redheaded girlfriend all over D.C., flaunting their stupid relationship bliss in front of everyone. They took selfies in front of the White House and the Washington Monument, posting them on Instagram like lovesick fools. Dustin took a little satisfaction knowing they were staying in separate rooms and had to at least say good night before they could sleep. Coach and Harper Wolfe hadn’t been married that long, and they managed to keep things professional in front of the team. Blake was a doof. Dustin had hardly said two words to the cheesy couple all week—stupid happy people.
All in all, it had been a week of battles and disappointments, and Dustin could use a day to gather his wits. Instead, he was headed onto another battlefield: family dinner.
The sound of children’s laughter and a dog running on the hardwood floors came through the front door and brought a small smile to his lips. His nieces and nephew were the best part of any family gathering, and he hadn’t seen them in weeks. They were probably taller—kids grew so fast.
Dustin squared his shoulders. He couldn’t afford to show weakness in front of his parents when it came to baseball. Mr. Positive was his alter ego. They could say, “You struck out twelve times this week,” and he would grin and say, “I’ll get ’em next time,” because the minute he let his guard down, they would pounce.
He opened the door and was tackled by everyone under the age of ten all at once. Laughing as he tried to keep them from injuring one another in the dogpile, he hugged and kissed and exclaimed over pronouncements about one’s fall off a bicycle, the flavor of popcorn another had tried, and where still another’s dog had chosen to go the bathroom that made Mommy ground him to the backyardfor-ev-er.They peppered him with questions about where he’d been and what he ate on the airplane.
Ginger, at six years old, was especially enthralled with the idea of eating while flying. She had dark brown hair that flipped up at the ends. “Did your fork float away?”
He tickled her side. “I didn’t go to space.”
She giggled. “I want to go to space.”
“Then do it! You’d make a great space woman.”
“More like space monkey,” quipped her older brother, Ty.
“Hey.” Ginger shoved him.
“Hey, both of you. Quit arguing and let Dustin get in here.” Aurora, his sister-in-law, waved him into the kitchen. “He’s probably starving.”
