It’s a mess. Half-spilled, buzzing panty set and clamps and blindfold and hell knows what else.
I should toss it all. Burn it, maybe. Let it go like the night was supposed to be.
But instead—I grab the whole thing, shove the panties inside, zip it up tight, and stuff it into the bottom of my duffel bag.
A souvenir.
I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with me.
Get a grip,I tell myself.You’ve got bigger things to focus on.
Jackson’s right. This summer is a shot I can’t afford to waste.
I finally got bumped from Double-A to Triple-A. It’s not the majors, but it’s one level closer. One step toward the call-up I’ve been chasing since I was nineteen. I’ve spent a decade sweating for it. Bleeding for it.
And Icannotfuck this up.
I take a deep breath, grab my keycard, and head down to the hotel’s workout room. Just need to sweat this ghost out of my system.
The gym is half empty—just a couple of treadmills, free weights, and a Bowflex machine that’s probably older than I am. I head for the dumbbells, pop my AirPods in, and start stretching out my shoulders.
That’s when I feel eyes on me.
I glance up.
A woman is standing by the water cooler—leggy, blonde, glossy like she stepped off the set of a pageant. Sparkly crop top, tight leggings, the whole vibe.
“Hey,” she says, tilting her head. “Do you happen to know what time it is?”
I glance down at my watch. Realize I forgot it. Shrug.
“No,” I say.
She smiles like I’m supposed to play along. I don’t.
“Oh…” she says, with a pouty little twist.
I nod politely, reaching for the 85-pound dumbbells. “Sorry. I have a girlfriend.”
She blinks again. “Oh.”
Then she walks off, glancing back once like she’s still confused.
I lower the weights slowly, heart hammering harder than it should.
Girlfriend?
What the hell was that?
I haven’t had a girlfriend in too long. I don’t evenwantone. Relationships get messy, complicated, and distracting.
And yet…
Her face flashes behind my eyes. That red lipstick. Those daisy dukes. The sound she made when I kissed her neck. The way she whisperedwreck melike it meant something more.
I sit down on the bench, towel over my neck, staring at the floor.
I don’t get it. I don’t know why this girl—thisone-night girl—has such a hold on me.
