“That’s not the same, and you know it,” I rush out, chest flaming. Tugging my hand out of hers, I will my temperature to drop before I’m engulfed in flames. “He secretly likes when I look at him like that.”
“You’re sounding more like Beck by the day. Maybe he’s a bad influence on you.”
“Don’t be jealous, Aubs. I love you more than all of the boys.”
“Lucky me,” she says with a sigh, though her smile contradicts her attitude. “Next time you want to hook up with someone, make sure you don’t disappear without a word. I was worried when I noticed you’d left without saying anything.”
“I got that from all your texts. I’m sorry. Last night was a lot.”
“A good a lot, though?”
Trapped in the lie I’ve wrapped like a noose around my neck, I roll my eyes. “An alright a lot.”
“Well, at least you don’t have to see him again. Leave the Toronto boy behind.”
The thought of flying back home on a non-chartered plane with the general public makes my skin crawl. I’ve always been the type of person who gets sick easily on airplanes, so that’s not something I’m looking forward to in the next few days. In a perfect world, Aubrey wouldn’t have to return to work tomorrow, so we could stay for the rest of the games and fly home with the team.
This is far from a perfect world, though.
“He’s already been forgotten,” I mutter.
“That’s my girl. Maybe you weren’t kidding about it being lacklustre after all.”
I shift my attention to the field again. They’re up by one in the eighth with two on base and one out. Finn’s been out since the start of the sixth. I don’t remember which reliever replaced him, only that the pitcher currently on the mound is Beck. The star closer hasn’t let up a single hit since being sent in earlier than usual, and if I were a betting girl, I’d be putting money down on him keeping that streak until the very last hitter has stalked off home plate.
Our seats are incredible, too. Not only are we in the closest row to the field, but we’re only a few feet from the dugout. To my right, Roman is leaning forward against the blue barrier with his green jacket zipped to the top and sleeves shoved up the wayhe always has them. The grey baseball pants I watched him tug on this morning are so tight over his ass that I know if I allowed myself one more glance at him, I’d be jumping into the dugout like a panther starved for a juicy steak just so I could take a bite out of it.
He hasn’t looked our way all game, so clearly, he doesn’t share the same problem. I doubt that’s because he’s had his fill of me already. No, if I had to guess, I’d say he’s too afraid of how distracted he’d become if he risked it. Especially since I wore Beck’s jersey again on purpose.
Being surrounded by Toronto fans while wearing a Rourke jersey is both brave and a bit reckless. The fans here are hardcore. Maybe even more so than the ones back home. The number of glares and jeers I’ve gotten while sitting here today would have freaked me out if I hadn’t grown up around a similar environment.
Aubrey’s wearing Finn’s jersey, which I’m pretty positive is the only one she has. If there were others, they’re definitely long gone now that she’s dating him. One thing that never changes about athletes is how possessive they are when it comes to their loved ones. Well, possessive and arrogant, but that’s not the point.
There’s a clap of contact from home plate. A foul ball goes flying through the air, heading back, back, back . . . and into the dugout. It falls out of sight as our section rises to our feet. I drape my arms over the guardrail in front of me and lean forward, my eyes finding Roman on instinct.
The mesh netting to my right keeps the fans away from the players below, which is a good thing when it’s not also distorting my view of him. He drops to a crouch as if he’s about to pick it up before changing his mind last minute and kicking it away.
One of the bench players scoops the ball off the ground and tosses it into the air. When he catches it, he says something to Roman that has his head dipping in a weak, barely there nod.
Aubrey bites off a low laugh from beside me when the player whose name I shamefully don’t remember lifts his eyes and winks at us. My brow twitches when she nudges me forward like a human sacrifice and steps to the side, shielding me from a balding guy with a beer gut and a Toronto jersey who tries to plow through us. The Havoc player slips the ball beneath the netting and extends it to me with a smirk that should excite me.
There’s genuine interest there in his eyes as he keeps a steady hand out, waiting for me to take the ball. When I do, I hear the old guy grunt something under his breath before I say, “Thank you.”
The solid weight in my hand is familiar after all these years of my brother playing ball. It should be comforting. Something that I want to show off or maybe hand off to the first little kid I come across. What it shouldn’t be is meaningless.
Unfortunately, that’s the reality right now. And I know that has to do with Roman.
After flashing a pathetic smile at the player, I huff and turn back around, ignoring the prodding eyes all around us. The gnawing in my chest grows in intensity the longer I have the ball in my hand. Misplaced frustration floods my system as I run my finger across the stitching and imagine throwing it at the dugout hard enough that it burns a hole through the netting and hits Roman in the head.
If anyone were going to hand me a ball, it should have been him. I don’t believe for one second that he wasn’t considering it when he reached down. He changed his mind at the last minute.
Surprise.
“His name is Jack. You should ask him out,” Aubrey encourages.
I fight to keep from cringing. “Not a chance.”
“Because of Wes?”
