“Because of your knees?”
“Because of everything. I’m only twenty-seven, but my body isn’t going to make it much longer. Not as a catcher. And there are some really talented guys coming up. All it will take is one smart guy with good knees, and I’m out.”
“That’s not true.” Her belief rang through her words, and I smiled at her naivete.
“It is true. And the truth is, I feel the pressure all the time. I need to get better. I need to do better. It’s like being crushed in a vise. And you know what the worst thing is?”
She didn’t speak but squeezed my fingers.
“I want out of the vise as much as I want to keep playing. I love being a catcher. I love playing for the Bobcats, but sometimes the attention makes me want to explode.”
“The attention?” she asked. “That’s just people watching you do what you do best. They’re rooting for you. They’re fans. Why are they scary?”
“Because we might not make it to the pennant. Because one bad call on my part, one bad play, or God forbid, one twisted ankle and we’re screwed.”
She brushed a hand across my face, her touch sweet. “So you don’t make it to the pennant. It happens.”
“Often.”
“Yeah. But you thrive on the pressure. I’ve seen you talk in the locker room. It’s like you get this intense focus and everyone picks up their game.”
I thought about that. Yeah, I guess I knew what she was saying. But it wasn’t the game pressure that bothered me. It was theattention. All those people prying into my life, judging how I did things on sports shows, and lying in wait, just to charge me with an error. I’d already fucked up bad with Cassie, and now I felt like everyone was waiting for me to fail again. Paranoid? Yes, but still realistic.
“I just want to play. I don’t want the commentary.”
“Ah.”
The way she said that word made me tighten with anxiety. It was as if she suddenly understood something—the key to my psyche or whatever—and that made me worry. Then she burst out laughing.
“What?” I demanded, suddenly defensive.
“Nothing! I just got it, that’s all. You feel like we’re all judging you. Fair enough. A lot of reporters are. I’d hate that, too.” Then she leaned forward and pressed a kiss to my forehead. “But I’m on your side. I’m trying to help.”
I knew she was. Iknewit in my bones. And that’s why I finally caved. Right there, with her naked in my bed, I finally decided to let her in.
“Okay,” I said.
“Okay what?”
“Okay, I’ll let you interview me for the articles.”
“Um, great, but that’s not what I was going for here.”
“I know. That’s why I said yes.” And because everyone wanted it. And because—most important—it would do good things for her position with the Bobcats. Maybe take some of the uncertainty out of her life and job.
And suddenly she was bouncing closer so that she could kiss me, a quick peck on my lips and cheeks. Then she drew back with a mischievous grin. “I’m not going to look this gift horse in the mouth. In fact, I’m going to hold you to this promise or else.”
I frowned. “Or else what?”
“I won’t do this.”
I don’t know how she did it. We were sitting up facing each other. But a moment later, she had her mouth on my dick, and my worries flew straight out of my brain. My last coherent thought was that if this was my reward for answering a few questions, I could see quite a few interviews in my future.
Well, that, and one more thing. The eternal litany in my brain.
She’s not for you.
Fuck that. Tonight, Gia was mine. But just for tonight.
