“Even though I disgust you.”
“That’s not what I said!”
But it was. So when he went for me, I held up my hands to keep him away. He could have made me change my mind, but I knew he’d respect my boundaries. His moral code insisted on it.
And wasn’t that the hell of it? I wanted him because he was so honorable. Because he would go to the ends of the earth to protect someone he loved. I just wasn’t good enough to be that someone. And that shredded me.
“We’re done, Connor. Sorry I sullied your bed.”
“Gia! That’s not—”
“It is. And I’m out.”
It took me a moment of fumbling to find my purse and keys. Hell, it even took another minute to find my phone, and wasn’t that a sign of how far I’d fallen? My phone was my life. Every part of my career depended on me being hooked into social media and all the communications that flooded my smartphone. Yet here I was, scrambling to find it and too blinded by tears to read it once I got my hands on it.
Connor kept trying to approach me. He even said my name a couple more times. But I just turned my back on him until I’d finally dressed and shoved my things into my purse. I wanted to say something before I walked out, some dramatic phrase that would hurt him as deeply as he’d hurt me. But I had nothing.
So I just left. As fast as I could.
Chapter Thirteen
Connor
Every baseball player is familiar with the bobble. There are plenty of causes for that particular disaster, but usually it’s because you’d taken your eye off the ball. Or maybe your hand position wasn’t quite right, your feet were in the wrong place, or worst of all, you just couldn’t hold on. One moment, the ball felt solid in your hand. A moment later, it came alive, jumping right out of your glove.
But what made the bobble particularly awful was the time you spent in denial. You remembered clearly catching the ball. You knew you had it, and were looking beyond the catch to the throw. To the victory cheer. But it never happened.
Gia walking out of my apartment was just like a bobble. I’d done everything right. I’d spoken honestly. I’d been clear about my issues and the way I felt. Lying was endemic in our society, and it was wrong.Wrong.Surely, she understood that.
But the next moment, she was gone, and suddenly, I was thinking the woman I’d had in my arms wasn’t there anymore. The woman who’d asked for honesty didn’t sound like she was coming back. The woman who was the most important part of my pre-game ritual had been really angry. At me. And I wasn’t sure how that had happened.
Two weeks later, my bed still remained empty. I trained every day. I worked extra hard on my swing. And she published a second article on me, one that focused on proper technique and was half education, half profile of a man working hard at a skill. I saw her before games the way I used to. I’d peek in when she addressed the press or see her with her nose buried in her phone as she juggled social media balls that I couldn’t even fathom.
See? Nothing was wrong. Except the light had gone out of my life, and I was so busy denying it, I barely noticed.
I did talk to Sophia. I told her I was disappointed in her lack of professionalism. I asked her point blank if she’d lied about my past girlfriends. I pushed her on every doubt I’d ever had, but she was firm in her denials and teary-eyed that I would even question her. Didn’t I know how much she loved me?
I did know. I also knew she loved herself, and that her priorities got messed up sometimes. But I had no proof of my suspicions and Sophia had a way of making herself look like an innocent victim and me, the big bully. So I left it alone and resolved to watch her closely. Which took me right back to Gia.
Gia was a lot harder to talk to, especially since I sucked at small talk. I asked about her day, about her sister, about anything I could think of. She answered politely, professionally, and with enough warmth that I could pretend everything was fine. But when I asked her to come over, she said she was busy. When I mentioned Cassie’s game, she gave me a serious look and told me that it was very good—very good—that I was going to my sister’s game. It was as if there was special meaning there. And worst of all, when I went to touch her, she patted my hand fondly—like an aunt would her favorite nephew—and said, “Don’t be an idiot.” Then she walked away.
I’d bobbled with Gia, and I still wasn’t sure how.
So I concentrated on my game, on taking the Bobcats to the pennant, and even though I hit for shit, we were steadily marching our way to a glorious season. My most significant conversations with Gia were about Cassie. She often asked if I’d seen her, talked to her, or visited her on campus. Of course I had—as much as my job allowed—and when I asked about the intense look in Gia’s eyes, the woman would emphasize that it was good that I was staying close to Cassie. When I pressed for more details, she got a stiff look on her face and admitted that she and Cassie had been talking, on and off. And instead of being annoyed by that, I was pleased. I thought Gia would be a good influence on Cassie. But when I told her so, the woman just sighed and shook her head.
Clearly there was some subtext I was missing, but I couldn’t figure it out. Gia wouldn’t explain except to tell me to go talk to Cassie. But when I did, Cassie told me I was being an ass and to mother hen someone else.
Women! They made no sense to me.
Fortunately, I had plenty of male company. More time passed, and my hitting finally improved. I climbed to .295 and was a major factor in the division win. The team celebrated in style, but I spent the evening nursing a beer while watching Gia work on her phone, snapping pictures and uploading them to God only knew where on the internet.
I carried a beer to her, but she shrugged with an apologetic smile, and said, “A publicist’s job gets even busier when the team is doing well.” Then she put a Bobcats beer stein in my hand.
“Smile or take off your shirt,” she ordered, camera at the ready.
“What?”
“You heard me. Choose. Because right now, you look awful.”
