Because every day, every glance, every accidental touch with Cassie is pulling me deeper into something I swore I wouldn’t fall into again.
She’s not mine, and she shouldn’t be mine. She deserves calm, stability, and a guy who ideally stays in one place. Who really knows the trajectory of his life.
And what am I really but some traveling ballplayer? I’ll be here this summer. Unless I get called up to the majors. But after that? Who knows. And she’s trying to put down roots. If I really care about her, I should just let her down gently, stop all this nonsense.
But fuck…
I lean my head back and stare up at the sky. Try to breathe and convince myself to let it go.
But I can still see the way her fingers traced over my skin in the shower.
Still hear the echo of her voice in the steam.
Still taste the moment wedidn’tkiss.
I finish my beer, but I don’t go back inside.
Because if I go back in, I’ll walk past her door.
And if I walk past her door, I might stop.
And if I stop…
I don’t know if I’ll keep walking.
The sun’s brutal the next day. Not the kind of heat you sweat out—more the kind that turns the infield into a frying pan and cooks your brain while you’re standing still.
I crouch at third, glove ready, squinting toward home. Coach yells something, but it barely registers. My head’s not here. Not really.
Ball cracks off the bat.
I react half a second too late.
The grounder skids past me, right between my legs.
“Damn it,” I mutter, whipping off my cap and dragging a hand through my hair.
Reset.
Same drill. Same batter.
Focus, I tell myself.
The pitch comes in. Contact. Hard line drive, same direction.
This time I field it clean. Step, fire to first, but the throw is too high.
Our first baseman has to leap to save it, and it still sails over his head.
“Jesus, Logan,” he mutters, tossing the ball back. “You sleep last night or what?”
Instead of answering, I just let out a little grunt.
Because if I did answer truthfully, I’d have to say Ididn’tsleep, not really. Not with Cassie in my head. Not after that shower scene. That laugh. Thatlook.
“Logan!” Coach’s voice rips through the field.
I jog toward the dugout, heart pounding in all the wrong ways.
