Page 9 of The Sweet Spot

No, because Larry is pretty damn awesome.

Suffice it to say, I have no doubts she's eventually going to find out that I lied to her earlier. Tate isn't out for the All-Star Game; he was just doing me a solid by letting me take the pitch since he knows I'm a huge fan.

“Yeah, you're right, let me just–” I slink out of his hands, attempting a ninja move around him, but Max is too agile. He blocks my path to the hot dogs with his alarmingly tall body and piercing green eyes. Damn him.

“Out now. You can get your hot dog later.”

I slump my shoulders.

“Okay.”

That's when I see her through the tunnel opening. Whit Marlow is already back out there, with a ponytail as tight as the fake smile she's rocking. How do I know it's fake? I've seen her real, genuine smile when she won her first LPGA tournament.

She's already standing on the field, waving at the crowd with the rest of the golfers.

As Max and I come into view, her gaze lands on me. I offer her a wide smile, ignoring the fact that she looks like she wants to set me on fire. Her eyes are narrowed as she watches my every step.

Why is it kind of...hot?

Not the point. Moving on.

“Let's go,” Max says, already walking toward the golfers who are on the first base side.

Chip, our long-term broadcaster, is standing in the middle holding a fishbowl with tickets inside. I really hope that was rinsed out because it's usually used to hold empty peanut shells and I don't know if anyone is allergic to nuts.

After lining up on the third base side of the field, Chip goes through the rules as if we were on a dating show... I fucking wish. Although with my luck in love I'd probably end up with our retiring mascot, Captain Cod Almighty. No one wants to end up with that fisherman for longer than needed.

“Whit? Would you like to go first?” Chip asks.

She nods, making her way to the mound, that fake smile plastered onto her face the entire way. Her posture is straight, her stride is determined, and she approaches the task of reaching into the bowl as someone who intends to dominate, which I'm learning is how she approaches everything, including standing still.

She reaches in. Pulls a card. Looks at it. Her jaw does this thing—this tiny, almost invisible tightening—that only someone who's watched her face with a level of attention that should probably be talked through with someone would see.

I smile without meaning to because she has said everything she needed to without saying a word.

“JB Callahan,” she says into the mic, trying to stop her lip from curling.

This is fate.

It's the only explanation. Fate wants me to fix what happened between Whit and me during our meet cute. I need to show her my fun, non-creepy side, and that's what I'm going to do.

Time to shine, Big Bear.

The crowd cheers even though Whit isn't. No, Whit looks like someone just told her that her flight's been canceled and the only other option is a middle seat next to a man who wants to talk about crypto. But that doesn't matter because I'm cheering—internally, externally, with every cell in my body. I'm the lucky bastard who is going to spend two days with Whit and talk all about her golf game.

I jog out there since walking feels disrespectful to the moment, and when I reach her, I don't think about it—I just wrap my arm around her shoulder and pull her in, because we did the awkward photo thing on the mound already and I've decided we're past that. We're partners now. We're a team.

I feel her go slightly rigid in my arms. That will need to change. We need to be comfortable around each other.

“You stink,” she whispers in my ear.

Talk fucking dirty to me, why don't you?

“I do,” I agree. I've been in full gear since the first inning and the situation underneath is not something I'm prepared to defend.

The stadium erupts, and I can't help myself, I lift her. Just a little. Just enough that her golf shoes leave the ground for a second and the jumbotron catches it. The stadium erupts. I've only heard them louder when I hit that go-ahead homer in the playoffs back in the day.

She grabs my shoulders, her fingers digging in like she's bracing for impact, but I barely feel it thanks to the pads.