Alex
Every eye in the press box zeros in on me as Trevor’s audio sails through the speakers. The network has been micing up different players with lavaliers to give live reactions to different plays. Last week, the audience loved having Colton miced up in the outfield, so today was Trevor’s turn.
But I’m certain no one expected a brawl to break out between Tenny and the Rattlers’ first baseman—or for Trevor’s hot mic to catch the aftermath. My skin tingles at Tenny’s earnest words, how he passionately defends my character, but my mind keeps tripping on one word in particular.
Love.
“He was trash-talking thewoman I love.”
I expect a reeling freefall, like when I take a header off the crest of a wave. Dizziness and disorientation should rattle my brain. Nausea and uncertainty should make my muscles twitch in anticipation of the worst.
Undeniable shock runs through my bloodstream, but I don’t feel unsettled. If anything, there’s a humming resonance similar to the vibration I feel through my feet when my board is fully supported by rushing water.
Love.
Tenny loves me.
There’s something undeniably dangerous about that word, yet the thrill of it sparks firecrackers in my chest.
“I’ve got to go,” I mutter, backing out of the doorway and racing down the stairs as quickly as my Vans will carry me.
My phone rings in my hand as I dodge a few fans on the concourse before descending the final stairwell toward the back entrance of the clubhouse. Glancing at the caller ID, I nearly stumble. I’d been so distracted by Tenny’s confession, about what that would mean for the two of us, that I hadn’t even considered the potential ramifications of what he said.
In addition to professing his love, Tenny also mentioned me by name. He hadn’t said my last name, but after months of flirty interviews, it makes sense why my producer is trying to get a hold of me. Two other calls light up the screen—Mags and my sister—before an unknown numberwith a New Jersey area code flashes over everything. My stomach drops to my toes as I swallow over the forklift jammed in my throat.
Diamond Breakdownheadquarters are in New Jersey.
There’s a very real chance I’ll lose my job over this.
Before panic can capsize me, I set my free hand on my belly and pull in a deep breath. While Tenny has been seeing a sports psychologist to help with his superstitions, I’ve also been seeing my own therapist. Sessions with Sharon have been not only enlightening but have left me feeling empowered.
After a few more rounds of diaphragmatic breathing, I’m settled enough to head downstairs. When Cecil calls me two times in a row, I power my phone off. Once I know Tenny is okay, I’ll get back to everyone else.
Brianna, the clubhouse manager, doesn’t even look surprised when I approach the security members keeping the clubhouse ‘staff only’ during the game. In fact, it’s almost as if she’s been waiting for me.
“You get five minutes.”
I nod as the two behemoths slide sideways to allow me in.
Tenny’s on the bench in front of his locker, elbows on his knees and head in his hands.
“Hey,” I say softly, sitting beside him.
“Alex.” He glances from me to the clubhouse doors, that deep groove forming between his brows. “How did you get in here?”
“Brianna said I had five minutes,” I tell him, pressing my thumb to that divot before sliding my fingers through his hair. “Are you okay?”
His arms wrap around me so tightly a startled puff leaves my lips.
“I’m fine,” he says, nuzzling into my neck before taking a deep breath. “Patrick tore into me, but it was deserved. He’s never yelled at a player in his tenure, but he’s also never had a Wave ejected before.”
Tenny leans back, loosening his grip to meet my gaze. “Thanks for checking on me.”
A part of me wants to joke. That would be part of our usual repartee—to poke and tease—but this is too important. I lean back until his hand falls from my shoulder to my knee.
“I heard what you said to Trevor.”
His forehead wrinkles.
