Spoiler alert:We’re already burned.
I groan, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes like that’ll erase the reel playing in my head.
It doesn’t. Instead, it plays slower, and in finer detail. Her lip catching in her teeth. The glint in her eyes when I said “I should go.” The tension in her shoulders when I didn’t.
I exhale hard.
Nope. Nap’s not happening.
I roll onto my side, pulse still pounding, and mutter to the empty room, “Get it together, man.”
But the worst part that I can’t shake?
It isn’t even the sex.
It’s how good it feels to be around her. To make her laugh. To talk casually.
That’s what terrifies me the most.
Because lust? I can handle that. But this feels like something else entirely, and it’s completely new to me.
The stadium lights buzz overhead, bright even in daylight. I step out of the tunnel into the locker room, duffel bag over my shoulder, heart doing this slow, steady thud that somehow feels louder than all the shit-talk flying around me.
“Hey, new guy,” one of the pitchers says. “You ready to show us you’re not just a pretty face?”
I grunt something that sounds like a yes and head to my locker, trying not to let it show that my head’s barely here.
The guys are amped. Slapping each other’s backs, hyping up tonight’s home opener like it’s the World Series. For me, it might as well be.
First start in a long time. First real shot to prove I still belong on a diamond.
But my focus is shot to hell.
I shove my headphones in and pretend to scroll through playlists. I don’t hit play. I just need the illusion of a barrier between me and everything else.
“Logan.”
I glance up. Coach Gentry, the hitting coach, is at my side, arms crossed, chewing gum like it wronged him.
“You good?” he asks.
“Yeah, Coach. Just dialed in.”
He nods once. “Good. Because I need you hot at third tonight. Team we’re facing likes to bunt down the line all game. Eyes up. Stay sharp.”
“Yes, sir.”
He claps me on the shoulder and walks off. And I tell myself tolock in. Focus. One pitch at a time. You’ve done this a thousand times before.
“Hey, Logan,” one of the outfielders calls out. “You got a girl back home, or are you flying solo like the rest of us degenerates?”
Laughter erupts. I open my mouth to answer—maybe something cocky, or vague—but I freeze.
Because Cassie’s face flashes in my mind.
Her soft laugh. That damn yoga set. The way her eyes lingered on mine this morning like maybe…just maybe…
I hesitate a beat too long. Okay, this is getting ridiculous.
