“How your physical therapist, Dennis, loved baseball. He had it on during all of your appointments, and you fell in love with the sport by proxy.”
I pick an invisible piece of lint off my sleeve. “That’s what happened.”
“I think you’re forgetting a crucial piece of evidence, dear sister. I was there.”
Amelia didn’t hesitate when she got the call about my accident, just hopped on a plane to Hawaii. When it became apparent that my recovery would take months, she deferred law school to be there with me every day. Since our dad could only leave his dental practice for so long, Amelia insisted he return to California after I was stable. Then Amelia extended the lease on the apartment I’d rented so I could recover there instead ofa rehab facility. Appointments. Medications. Physical therapy. Amelia was there for me not only physically, but emotionally.
Every. Single. Day.
I could live a dozen lifetimes and never fully show my appreciation for my sister.
“Now that you’re finally in the big leagues—punintended”—she waggles her eyebrows—“you should admitwhyyou picked baseball, especially since you’re working for the Waves.”
My neck twitches at Amelia’s astute observation.
She hasn’t forgotten about how I’d been way too excited over a kiss with a stranger, how I started watching baseball games between wave reps even though I’d never had interest in the sport before, and how, after the accident, I clung to the tiny rush of happiness from MLB games because it kept my mind off whether I’d be able to walk again.
Though a younger version of Tenny might have sparked my initial interest in the game, I’d never give him credit for that—especially after learning that he goes through women like napkins at a barbecue.
“Thewhydoesn’t matter. What matters is that I fell in love with this game, and despite having to deal with a rather infuriating player on a daily basis, I’m really happy here.”
Amelia’s gaze softens. “I’m so proud of you.”
My reflexivethanksis on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it. “I’m proud of myself too.”
It’s been an uphill crawl, but I’m finally where I want to be.
“I love you.”
“I love you too,” I say, mirroring my sister’s smile. “Call you tomorrow?”
She lets out an exasperated sigh. “If Demon doesn’t kill me first.”
Fifteen minutes later, Daphne and I are finishing our final checks when a clubhouse attendant tells us we can head inside. The goal is to get more than two-second interview with Shane Seaver, the elusive new right fielder, then speak to the starting pitcher.
But as we walk into the room, Tenny finds me first.
Just like he’s been doing since the incident in the parking lot.
As long as I don’t mention his playboy lifestyle, he’s happy to answer questions. Afterward, we end up verbally sparring. It’s actually something I should wrangle in. I don’t spend time after interviews inadvertently learning DJ Rivera’s favorite color or how he hates the little strings on bananas. Before he leaves, Tenny always gives me a fist bump. It’s a little weird, but I’ve learned to roll with it.
“Hey, Alex.”
I don’t look up from my notes, just hold up my fist for him to tap his knuckles against. I need to stay focused today.
“What’s on the docket this afternoon? Planning on dragging anyone else’s name through the mud, because you should know, I’m very protective of my friends.”
Apparently, today’s fist bump isn’t the quick, passing kind.
With an annoyed huff of breath, I glance up from my notebook…
And nearly swallow my tongue.
Because Tenny is halfway through unbuttoning his Waves jersey. My gaze unconsciously follows his long fingers, making quick work of removing the dirty jersey. Each inch of exposed tan skin is more tantalizing than the next. The subtle groove between toned pecs yields to an enticing valley of sculpted abs. Tenny is leaner than other players, but each muscle is still distractingly defined.
It isn’t until he shrugs out of his jersey that I realize I’ve not only been staring, but also haven’t answered his question.
Snap out of it!
