He stepped closer to my bag. It was unnerving having him mere feet away from third base. Call me paranoid, but it felt like he was always watching me, judging me. At least this time, I wasn’t the one getting my ass chewed out at practice. How refreshing.
“You should be on him more.”
I knew it was too good to be true. I turned to him over my shoulder. “Sorry?”
“Wu. You should be on him when he fucks up.” The lens of his glasses did nothing to dull his penetrating stare. “You knew he wasn’t where he needed to be.”
It wasn’t a question, so I didn’t bother coming up with an answer.
“That’s part of being a team. A well-oiled machine.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “When one part fails, the others work overtime to make up for it. Better to fix it now then wait for the implosion.”
Damn.The man certainly knew his way around a metaphor. I wasn’t convinced that Ward, himself, wasn’t a machine. Between his constant grimace and lack of blinking, the guy had cyborg written all over him.
“Speak up,” he said. “That’s what leaders do.”
There was a bad idea if I ever heard one.
“No offense, coach, but you’ve got the wrong guy. I’m not exactly leader material.”
I could tell by his silence that that wasn’t the answer he wanted. Disappointing others, especially my coaches, was a feeling I knew well. He popped another handful of sunflower seeds into his mouth. Sucking, chewing, all without taking his eyes off me. When he spat them out, he did so with grace and precision, landing them millimeters from my feet. Fuck, Ward’s legacy was intimidating enough. I didn’t need him using me for target practice.
When I finally tilted my cap down to cover my eyes—and block out his stare—he shouted, “Again.”
Wu and Tucker both hauled ass after that. We all did.
Later, while the guys wrapped up batting, I ditched out early to get my fingers taped. I was halfway down the tunnel to the locker room when she appeared. Like a shadow from the mist—or maybe the steam room—a siren calling to me. The lighting in the tunnel was shit, but I didn’t need it to know it was Clarke. I’d memorized every line, dip, and curve of her body weeks ago.
We moved in slow motion. At least, that was what it felt like, her magnetic pull drawing me closer until we were nearly face-to-face.
God, that lipstick.
If there was one thing I’d learned about Clarke, it was that she wore her lipstick like a coat of armor. Painted to perfection, ready for battle. And oh, the shades. She had more than enough to wear a different one every day if she wanted. I didn’t know the actual names for them, so I’d given them my own. There was Bubblegum Pink, the lightest of her shades. Pink Lemonade was a little bit darker but still light enough that it probably wouldn’t leave a ring around a glass. Or something else.
Pink was clearly Clarke’s comfort zone, though she dabbled in darker neutrals from time to time. A Caramel Kiss here, a Cookie Crisp there, both equally delicious. But none of them compared to Cherry Red. Roasters Red. My personal favorite and hers too, based on how often she wore it.
It was Clarke’s power color.
It was also the color I pictured staining the base of my cock after fucking her mouth. She could leave her mark on me any day of the week.
This wasn’t the first time we’d seen each other since the night we kissed. We’d made pleasantries on the field and in the locker room. I’d watched her come and go from her trailer more thanonce, usually with June by her side or the woman who owned the bookstore. Come to think of it, she’d been doing a lot of reading lately. It seemed like every time I saw her, she had a book in her hand.
“Soren,” she said coldly.
I nodded. “Clarke.”
“Got a minute?”
Every rational part of my being said I should keep moving. That I should make up some excuse and walk away. Unfortunately, “rationality” had no place when it came to my feelings for Clarke Myers.
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Is this about business or pleasure?”
My lips kicked up when she sucked in a breath.
“It’s about the other night.”
