Published by Hot-Lanta Publishing, LLC

Copyright 2021

Cover Design By: RBA Designs

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All characters in this book are fiction and figments of the author’s imagination.

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Copyright © 2021 Meghan Quinn

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Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Epilogue

Excerpt - Earn Your Extra Credit

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Prologue

WALKER

Have you ever had the feeling when you walk into a room, you just know everyone hates you?

You can feel the animosity.

The distaste.

The unfiltered negative energy directed at you, wishing—hoping—you’d just disappear into nothing right there on the spot?

Try having that feeling when you’re walking into the batter’s box in a stadium with tens of thousands of people who actually hate you.

Who wear shirts displaying their anger toward you.

Who wave signs from the stands, screaming out why you suck and shouldn’t be playing the one sport you’ve played your entire life.

It doesn’t feel great.

And yet, I haven’t been able to muster up an ounce of care, which has only made matters worse.

The most hated player in baseball—that’s what they call me.

My attitude is shit.

My “bedside manner” is atrocious.

My interviews are lackluster at best.

My relationships with the coaching staff and my teammates are mercurial.

And recently, this year, my stats are a fucking dumpster fire.

Why am I so moody?

I can waste a week of your time unraveling that Pandora’s box, but one of the main reasons is I have to play baseball with the one person I thought I’d never have to play with again: Penn Cutler.

The All-American heartthrob—the media’s words, not mine. I think the dude is a giant douche. I’ve thought that ever since we were small. We grew up in the same town. We played on the same teams—little league all the way through high school. We’ve worked magic on the field, Penn being the pitcher, me being the catcher. We’ve won title after title together, and yet, we hate each other.

Hell, hate isn’t even a strong enough word.

Abhor.

Seniors in high school, I’d thought that would be the last time I had to deal with his smug face. He was off to California to pitch, and I was headed to Florida to catch. The era of Penn and Walker came to a close, and I was the first one to throw some goddamn confetti in the air when it happened.

But you should never celebrate too early. Before I knew it, we were both in the minors, then the majors, floating between teams until the Bobbies penned us both: same year, same team.

Life was fucking over.

The media ate up the reunion, and Penn, being the camera whore that he is, played it up for the flashing lights and the live mics. Arm draped over my shoulder, offering to the fans what kind of presence the dynamic duo could bring. And we did. We have. We’ve dominated.

But as Penn’s stardom rose, mine clunked and clambered down.

I accepted it. The limelight has never been my thing.

I prefer to be a hermit. I prefer to keep my distance. I prefer to do my damn job and then go home. I don’t need any of the extra fanfare that comes with being a professional baseball player.

Apparently, that’s not good enough though, because rumors are being tossed around.

Forced retirement.

The front office wants me traded or wants me out.

And I’m not ready.

The only way to get them off my back?

Clear up my image. You can imagine the monumental feat that would take, given how everyone I interact with despises me. But I took it head-on because I’m desperate to play, desperate to stay in Chicago.

And how hard could it be?

Famous last words, right? Especially when the Bobbies decide to set me up with their newest PR nightmare fixer.

To her, Penn’s the absolute golden boy—beyond reproach, charming, brilliant, and, of course, charismatic.

To her, I’m the absolute leech—beyond redemption, reprehensible, unpleasant, depraved, and, of course, demoralizing.

This girl’s compassionate, beautiful, has a heart of gold, and is everything I’m not, and she has me by the goddamn balls. I’ve never met anyone like her. I’ve never wanted a woman as much as I want her.

Of course, there’s the no fraternizing with the players rule. Because what’s a story without a fucking HR nightmare ready to unfold?

But oddly enough, that’s not the worst part. No, the worst part is how she sees Penn and how she sees me. And I have no clue how to change that or how to change me.

Basically, I’m screwed.

Chapter One

WALKER

“Strike three.”

“Fuck,” I scream, loud enough for not only both dugouts to hear, but for my booming voice to bounce off the eardrums of the first twenty rows in the stadium. I swing my powerful body around to the umpire, who’s taking off his mask and resetting his clicker. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I spew. “That pitch was at least a foot off the plate. Where was that call when I was standing in front of you, protecting you from ninety-five mile-per-hour fastballs?”

Not even looking me in the eye, Joe Verity, one of many umpires I’ve come to know well during my years behind the plate says, “Walk away, Rockwell, before I chuck your ass out of here.”

“Go ahead, the game’s fucking over.”

Brow lifted, he makes eye contact. “Don’t think I won’t get you suspended for the next few games. Watch yourself, Rockwell, I know you’re on thin ice already.”

Gripping my bat in both hands, I step over the plate and mumble over my shoulder as I walk toward the dugout. “Fuck. You.”

“Rockwell . . .”

I ignore the warning tone in his voice and make the walk of shame back to the dugout. I glance over my shoulder at the scoreboard.

Six to five.

Final.

I went zero for four with two strikeouts, one pop-up, and a goddamn groundout to the pitcher, a grounder my grandmother could’ve fielded. I haven’t been in a slump this bad since my first season in the minors.

Fans start to clear the stands, disappointment on their faces, accepting another loss for our barely five hundred season. We’re still in the running for the playoffs, thank you long baseball season and other teams slumping, but for a team with the potential to win the World Series, this is a pathetic showing, and it starts with me not being able to put wood to the ball.

I jog down the steps of the dugout, bypassing my teammates, who are collecting their gloves and fleeing to the locker room. They can sense what’s going to happen next—destruction.

They can see it in my face.

And it wouldn’t be the first time.

I can feel it in my tense shoulders as my vision tunnels to black, rage seeps from every pore, and the bat in my hand turns into a weapon, not a means to win a game.

Heading to the far corner of the dugout, I raise my bat, let out another swear word that would scare the Jesus out of all believers, and smash it on the blue water cooler.

The first connection of my bat to the plastic vibrates through my wrists all the way up my forearms. Fuck, that stings. But the next two hits ease some of the pent-up tension in my shoulders. The few after that make me feel alive for the first time all day.

It isn’t until the water cooler has lost all of its contents and keels over, wrapped around my bat, that I feel satisfied. And that’s when I take a deep breath and turn around to not only find my manager staring at me, hands stuffed in his pockets with a disapproving look on his face, but I also find every camera on the field pointed at me.

Fuck.

“I LIKED THE WATER JUG,” Ryot, our third baseman, says from next to me. “Why’d you do it, man?”

“Shut the fuck up,” I mumble while leaning forward in my chair, towel wrapped around my waist, and a death march to my manager’s office hanging over my head.

After a pleasant walk while cameras flashed at me through the dugout, Coach met me in the hallway and told me I wasn’t to leave this stadium until I stopped in his office for what I can only think will be my third verbal lashing of the month.

Still caught up on the water cooler, Ryot whispers while glancing around for listeners, “When you were in the shower, they wheeled the poor fella through the locker room on a gurney with a towel draped over his limp body.”

Ryot Bisley, third base for the Bobbies, an arrogant yet hilarious prick, is my best friend—my only friend. Normally, he can make me laugh, lighten the mood, but not right now.

Not today.

I stand from my chair, whip off my towel, and put on a pair of boxer briefs, my muscles aching with every jagged move I make. With each passing year, this job gets harder and harder. Despite my young age of thirty-three, I can already feel the ache in every one of my bones from squatting for a living.

Sensing my frustration, Ryot bends over to tie one of his shoes and says, “It was a bad game. Shake it off.”

“It’s been four bad games in a row,” I answer through gritted teeth as I yank my jeans up my legs and sit back in my chair again, facing away from the rest of the team.

“The loss isn’t just on you. None of us had our bats tonight.”

“The rest of the team isn’t facing trade and forced retirement rumors like I am.”

The All-Star break is coming up and despite it being a week where those who weren’t chosen for the All-Star game get to take a breather, it’s also one of the most hectic times for the front office, trying to make those last-minute trades to stack your team for the end-of-the-season run to the World Series.

My name has been tossed around, speculation that I could be possibly sent to Oakland or Phoenix, both teams I would rather not touch with a ten-foot pole.

Not when my home is in Chicago.

Not when the only thing I care about is here.

“So you think beating the fuck out of a water jug is going to grace you with a shining image?”

“No.” I grind my teeth together while the urge to punch the wood of my locker pulses through me, but I hold back. “Should’ve just broken my bat over my knee instead.”

“You performed that trick last week. You can’t keep showing off,” Ryot says with blatant sarcasm.

The smallest of smirks passes over my lips before I quickly wipe it away. The look on Ryot’s face when I broke my bat over my quad is still engrained in my head. Horror and respect crossed his eyes at the same time.

Unfortunately, I still have a bruise on my leg to show for my loss of temper.

“I need more time in the cages. Meet me at ten tomorrow?”

“You don’t need time in the cages. You need to get laid.”

I roll my eyes and pull my Bobbies T-shirt over my head. “Sex can’t fix everything.”

“It sure as hell can loosen you up. Your shoulders were so tense at the plate, I swear they started to eat up your bat.”

“I’m fine.”

“When was the last time you actually fucked someone?”

I scratch the side of my jaw, my nails scraping over my rough five o’clock shadow. “Don’t know.”

“Fuck, dude, if you don’t know, that’s a problem. You and I both know in an adrenaline-laced job like ours we need to work it off in the bedroom. Don’t you have a fuck buddy? Someone you can call? You need to come, man, and not in your hand, because if you show up tomorrow with your shoulders still touching your ears again, I’m going to blow you myself.”

Jesus Christ.

Ignoring Ryot, I stuff my wallet and keys in my pockets, snag my phone, and head to my manager’s office, where I knock on the closed door.

I don’t need to fuck. I need . . . hell, I don’t know what I need.

Ralph Hopkins is one of the toughest managers in the league—fair, but tough—and from the disapproving look he gave me in the dugout, I know this conversation is going to be anything but pretty.

“Come in.”

I push through the door and take a seat in the chair across from him, knowing the routine by now.

But to my surprise, when I sit down, I notice I’m not alone. Nope, the beat-up water jug is “sitting” in the chair next to me. A sick feeling builds in the pit of my stomach. I’m not going to like whatever this meeting is about.

Still in his uniform, Ralph sits back in his chair, hands folded over his stomach, and glares at me.

Glares.

Not fucking happy at all.

Staring me down with his classic unhappy eyes, he says, “You acted like a child out there today.”

I acted like an angry ballplayer who’s desperate to get out of his rut, but he doesn’t see it that way. Never has.

The thing about the Bobbies is they’re the most clean-cut do-gooders in the league. They pride themselves on admirable morality, respect on and off the field, and loving the game. There’s no fighting, there’s no long beards, there’s no goddamn personality allowed to be shown on the field. We’re machines. We play the game as it’s supposed to be played, and we don’t show emotion on the field as it’s a sign of weakness. We’re the complete opposite of our rival team here in Chicago, the Rebels; our manager enforces it.

Playing for the Bobbies has been everything I wanted, despite all the rules and regulations we have to face, because it’s kept me close to where I need to be. My temper has hindered me, something I haven’t been able to get ahold of since my rookie season. And Ralph Hopkins is one temper tantrum away from not dealing with it anymore.

“You’ve been zero for sixteen over the last few games with nothing to prove for your talent besides being one of the best catchers in the league. That glove and arm of yours is the only reason you’re not sitting out right now. I can’t afford to have Tony behind the plate, not when he can’t throw his own grandma out at second.” Ralph drags a frustrated hand over his face. “And then you go and pull that shit.” He gestures to the dilapidated cooler. “With every media outlet pointing their camera at you.” His chair squeaks as he leans forward, planting his hands on the desk. “I’m already struggling with your image and shit attitude. How the fuck am I supposed to deal with that stunt you pulled after the game? Sit you out? When I need you to be behind the plate? You don’t fucking think, Rockwell.”

“It won’t happen again,” I answer simply, knowing it’s a promise I can’t keep.

“That’s what you said after you broke the bat over your knee.” See?

“I didn’t break a bat this time, I broke a water jug.”

Coach’s eyes narrow. “I’m talking about your attitude, Rockwell. It’s shit. And I’m fed up with it. If this roster was up to me, your ass would be out of our red-and-blue jersey, warming the wood somewhere else.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I stay silent. Ralph has never liked me . . . ever. And frankly, the feeling is mutual. We clash. He’s strait-laced, I’m crooked. He’s smooth with his delivery to the media, I’m bent, broken, constantly piecing myself together to represent something I’m not.

He shakes his head and blows out a frustrated breath. Looking off to the side, he studies a picture on the wall for a few breaths before saying, “Be here tomorrow morning at nine with an apology ready to be issued.”

“An apology?” My brow knits together. “You want me to apologize to the press?”

“No,” he deadpans. “I want you to apologize to the goddamn water jug.” I give him a confused look, thinking he’s joking, but then he says, “You think I’m kidding? I’m not. We’re doing damage control, which means our media team will have the cooler set up in the dugout where you’ll make an official apology and thank the inanimate object for its long service with the Bobbies. It’s a PR stunt that will show a lighter side of you. Believe it or not, you’re not a fan favorite and it’s because you have the attitude of a Rebel, not a Bobbie.”

Not the first time I’ve heard that.

“You want me to apologize on camera to a water jug?” I ask, trying to understand if I’m hearing him correctly.

“Yes.” He leans forward even more and adds, “And you’ll wear a goddamn smile while doing it or I will bench your ass, putting a playoff run in jeopardy for the entire team.”

Fuck. He’s serious.

He really wants me to apologize to a fucking water container.

“Don’t be late. Now get out of my office.”

Chapter Two

KATE

“You know . . .” I tap my chin, watching the replay of Walker Rockwell beat the plastic right off a water cooler. “He has pristine accuracy and he enunciates so well.” I turn toward Vivian. “You can read his lips as if he’s directly talking to us. Pretty sure that was ‘fuck you, you fucking dickbag.’”

Vivian chuckles. “You think he said dickbag?”

“Oh, for sure.” I pause the TV and rewind. “Watch right . . . here.” I pause again. “See the lift of his lip, the show of his teeth? For sure he’s saying dick, and then bag is plain as day.”

“Hmm, I see your point,” Vivian says with a tilt of her head and a sip of her wine. “Here’s the real question, though—who do you think he’s calling a dickbag?”

“Ah, a question for the ages.” Turning toward Vivian on my couch, I hold up my fingers. “It could be narrowed down to four.”

“Four? How so?”

“Exhibit A.” I rewind some more to the point where Walker is walking away from the plate. “Right here, he’s mouthing off to the umpire for calling him out on a third strike. He’s pissed.” I pick up the laser pointer on my keychain I plan to use as a blinding ray for self-defense if I’m ever in a bad situation and point to Walker’s shoulders. “See the coiled muscles, the veins in his neck. Oh yeah, he’s not thrilled.”

“Yes, I do see that.”

I press play and then pause quickly. “Right here, he’s totally saying fuck you to the umpire.”

“A risky move, but then again, it’s Rockwell. I don’t think he cares about what happens to himself on or off the field.”

“Precisely. The umpire is our first dickbag suspect, and then there’s Ralph Hopkins.” I fast-forward until I find the spot where they pass in the dugout.

Vivian calls it out before I can. “Oh, the glare from both of them. I think they’re trying to cut each other down with razors from their eyes.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. They’ve been known to hate each other. He’s dickbag suspect number two.”

“I’m assuming dickbag suspect number three is the water cooler?”

I nod and pat my heart with my hand. “I hate to lob such an innocent victim into the mix, because what did a water cooler really do to deserve such treatment? It was a mere vessel of hydration, but unfortunately the blue fella was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Such bestiality.” Vivian shakes her head with humor.

“In its rawest form.”

“So who’s dickbag suspect number four, then?”

Taking a sip of my wine, I look over the rim of the glass, pop my lips together and say, “Rockwell himself. Self-hatred is glaringly obvious in that man, so calling himself a dickbag doesn’t seem far-fetched.”

Vivian nods in understanding as she crosses her legs and faces me. “You’re so right. Out of all of the Bobbies, he by far is the most self-loathing.”

“The rawest and rowdiest.”

“The crudest and most disobedient.”

“Hardheaded and impulsive.”

Vivian wags her finger at me and says, “Dominant and alpha.”

I bite on my bottom lip and look toward the screen at the brute of a man whose forearms look as if they have their very own forearms. “I bet he looks amazing with his shirt off.”

“Think he has tattoos?”

“I would be surprised if he didn’t. But not just any tattoos, ones that actually mean something. Just look at his eyes.” I take my laser pointer and circle around the dark, narrowed brows. “Those are eyes that have seen devastation. You just don’t grow sharp lines like that on your own.” I shake my head. “He’s seen a thing or two.”

“I bet he’s amazing in bed.”

“No doubt. Commanding, uses phrases like ‘suck me off, wench’ while ripping his pants off.”

Vivian tilts her head back and laughs. “As charming as ‘suck me off, wench’ is, I don’t see it.” Vivian studies him for a few seconds and then says, “No, he’s the kind of guy who hovers above your naked body, fully dressed, and runs his nose along your jaw until he reaches your ear and says something like, ‘I’m going to suck on your pretty, little cunt’.”

We both stare at each other for a few seconds and then back at the paused TV. With a large swallow, I say, “Yeah . . . that sounds more accurate.”

Vivian fans herself and drinks more wine. “How did we even get to this topic?”

I gulp down the wine with her. “I’m not quite sure, but I feel as if it’s dangerous territory. We need to step away.”

“Yes, agreed.” She points to the TV. “Turn that off because it’s not helping the situation at all. Just look at how defined his pecs are in his baseball uniform. That should never happen. I swear he orders a jersey one size too small.”

“I feel as though all the guys on the Bobbies do.”

Vivian shakes her head. “Actually, it’s the Bobbies way of wearing a jersey. Not one baggy uniform because that would be sloppy.”

I do the sign of the cross over my chest and say, “Good Lord, we can’t have sloppy uniforms.”

Vivian chuckles and then sighs, leaning back on the arm of the couch. “What kind of PR nightmare do you think Rockwell created?”

“Not a good one, that’s for sure.” I lean over and pick up a pretzel thin from our communal bowl and pop it in my mouth. Sighing, I look around my mostly empty apartment and say, “Thanks for helping me unpack. I really appreciate it.”

“I’m surprised it’s taken you this long.”

I shrug. “I think you and I both know I’ve been busy.”

“Yeah, we’ve all been.” She glances at my bland walls. “You need some artwork to make this place homier.” Smiling devilishly, she asks, “Want me to get some printouts of Walker to hang?”

I roll my eyes and nudge her with my foot. “Staring at that cantankerous scowl is not what I want to do when I’m here at my apartment.”

“What if I cut off his head?”

Laughing, I stand and start picking up our plates and the empty wine bottle. “I think I’ll pass.”

“Might be helpful, getting used to that scowl,” Vivian says, following me.

“You think they’ll make him do more community work?”

Vivian raises her brow. “It’s Ralph Hopkins. Of course he’s going to make him do more community work. You’re in charge of community events, and I have a feeling Walker Rockwell is going to become your new best friend.”

I wince.

“No doubt you’ll be working with him, especially after that stunt he pulled today.”

I try to hold back my smirk. “I’m sure he’ll be pleased.”

“Oh, I can hear his displeasure already.”

“KATE.” I’m scooped up into two giant arms and squeezed tightly. “How’s my girl?”

Chuckling, I squeeze my dear friend back. “It’s about time you came to visit me, Dan.”

Vivian left twenty minutes ago just as Dan texted me asking to come over. I couldn’t say no, even though it’s getting near my old-lady bedtime.

He sets me down and tips my chin up playfully like he always does. “I know. I’m sorry.” He rubs his hands together and peeks into my apartment. “Are you going to let me in?”

I hold on to the door of my apartment and say, “You know, I’m not sure if you deserve it after the number of times you cancelled on me.”

He holds up two fingers. “Twice. I cancelled on you twice, but it wasn’t my fault. My schedule forced me.”

“Uh-huh, sure.” I scan his hands. “Uh, no housewarming gift?”

Dan rolls his eyes and lifts a basket from the hallway and hands it to me. Full of famous Chicago foods, the basket feels like twenty pounds in my arms.

“Welcome back to Chicago, Katie. It’s about damn time we’re in the same city again.” I welcome him in and we both head into the living room, where I set the basket down and open it, grabbing for the Garrett Popcorn first.

Dan and I met in college, freshman year. We were in the same dorm. He was in the room across from my suite and he was the life of the floor. Contagious laughter and fun personality. It was impossible not to be drawn to him . . . just not romantically. We both agreed there was no attraction between the two of us, just friendship. And that’s how we’ve been since—friends.

I hand the canister of popcorn to him, but he holds up his hand and then pats his stomach. “Watching the old figure.”

I roll my eyes and shove a handful of popcorn in my mouth. “When are you not watching your figure?”

“December. Fuck, do I live for December. The Christmas cookies, the hams, the roasts, and flimflams and the flamflims . . .”

I chuckle. “The whozits & whatzits and the widdle-waddles.”

“Fuck—a widdle-waddle, got to love those delightful delicacies.”

“Dr. Seuss really knew what he was talking about, didn’t he?”

“The man was a genius when it came to food.” Dan glances around my apartment and says, “I like your place. It’s as big as my coat closet.”

I push him with my foot. “Hey, not all of us are millionaires.”

He adjusts the hood of his sweatshirt as he leans back on my couch. “You should really appreciate that I’m actually giving you, a peasant, the time of day.”

“I’ll be sure to write you a thank-you card for blessing me with your presence.”

“If you can make it a thank-you card with gold foiling, I would appreciate it. Only the fanciest of shit for me.”

“Because you’re nothing but class.”

“Exactly.” He winks. “Now, tell me . . . you’ve been here long enough, any dates yet?”

“Are you serious with that?”

He chuckles even harder. “What? Getting action in a new city is important. You can’t be all dried up there.” He shoots two fingers up into the air.

“Unfortunately, I haven’t quite had the time to prowl for dick just yet.”

“That’s disappointing, Kate. You were such a whore in college. Are you grown up now?”

“Oh . . . my . . . God.” My eyes widen. “I can’t believe you just called me a whore.”

“Do you want me to list the guys?”

“There were five.”

“Jose, Dean, Harley, LeBron, Mitch, Vince—”

I put my hand over his mouth to stop him. “Those weren’t all hookups; some were just make-out buddies. Not everyone got access to the goods.”

“Are they goods?” He winces. “I mean, not stretched out and all?”

I punch him in the arm. “Stop it. You know I’m not loose.”

He laughs. “Yeah, because if you were, you’d have mounted me at some point.”

“Ha, okay.” I laugh and lean back. “I wouldn’t touch your diseased dick with a ten-foot pole, especially now.”

Feigning shock, Dan asks, “Are you calling me a player?”

“No . . . never.” I laugh some more, feeling at ease. It’s been a rough few years, but this new chapter, this new life, it’s exactly what I need, and I’m so glad Dan is here at my side. “You’re not a player at all.” Humor laces my tongue.

“I’ll have you know, I’ve been celibate for a week.”

I give him a nice, long slow clap. “Wow, the sacrifices you have made.”

“Tell me about it.” He shifts on the couch and gives me a once-over. “I’m getting horny enough that I would consider taking my pants off for you.”

“Aren’t you charming?”

“Always.” He flashes me that winning smile. “So, meet any friends you want to introduce me to?”

“Never. Did that once, and it came back to bite me in the ass.”

He rolls his eyes. “Connie was a stalker. You and I both know that. You lost that friendship because of her, not because of me.”

“Care to reexamine the events?”

He shakes his head. “I’ve put that moment behind me and you bringing it up like this is, frankly, rude.”

“That’s what I thought.” I lean my head against the couch. “I can’t believe it’s taken you this long to come visit me. What kind of friend are you?”

“Not a good one. I’ll admit to that. But do you know what I love about us?”

“What?”

He grins. “That we can pick up where we left off without an awkward beat between us. It’ll always be you and me, Kate, against the world.”

I chuckle. “Wow, not quite sure that’s accurate, but I will take the part where we can pick up where we left off.”

He winks. “I’ll take it.”

Chapter Three

WALKER

I sink into the leather seat of my Tesla Model X, the only excessive thing I’ve spent my hard-earned money on. That, and expensive-as-fuck rent. I haven’t found a place I like enough to buy, and buying a house as a professional baseball player has always seemed like an omen. I’ve known a few guys who bought a house, thinking they’re going to stay on their team for years, and then out of nowhere, they’re traded. I’m good with my rent.

This shitty day. I drag my hand over my face.

Apologize to a fucking water cooler tomorrow . . .

That’s what my life has come to, having to apologize to a goddamn water cooler.

Staring at the silent stadium in front of me, I grip the steering wheel, refraining from bashing my head against the cold, leather wheel out of pure frustration.

When did baseball stop being fun?

Was it ever really fun for me?

It’s always been something I’ve been naturally good at, something I knew would take me places, and it has.

But it’s not fun.

Not anymore.

Dragging my ass out of bed to get to the stadium to rip callus after callus off my hands from batting, to squatting for hours on end while getting bruised and battered by a nine-inch-circumference ball.

I used to love the crack of the bat, the sound of the crowd, the smell of stadium food floating onto the field.

Now, I feel absolutely nothing.

I’m numb when I step onto that field, and I’m afraid nothing is going to change that.

My phone rings next to me, and I don’t have to look at the screen to know who it is. After a show of unsportsmanlike conduct, there’s always one phone call I can count on like clockwork.

“What?” I answer, leaning my head against the headrest and closing my eyes. Here it comes, all the reasons why I’m fucking up my career.

“What the fook were ya thinking?” my agent, Roark McCool, says into the phone, his Irish accent heavier with his anger. He’s been the voice of reason my entire career, even though I haven’t listened to it.

“I was thinking I needed to beat the shit out of something, so I did.”

He exhales sharply. “Walker, you’re not helping ya fooking case.” It’s actually hard not to laugh when I hear the word fooking. “Your image is less than stellar and pummeling a water cooler with ya bat isn’t helping the matter.”

“Who fucking cares?” It’s true—at this moment, who really cares? Because I don’t.

“I care. You should care,” Roark yells. “We’ve worked our asses off to get you the contract you wanted, the team you wanted, so you could be close to your sister, and now you’re going to throw it all away over a strikeout?” He’s also dramatic at times.

“It was a foot off the plate.” My voice rises as I throw my hand out to the side.

“It was right down the goddamn middle. You froze.”

I did not fucking freeze.

Growing more irritated by the second, I say, “Unless you have something important to say, spare me the lecture.”

“After your apology to the water cooler—”

“You know about that?”

“It was my idea. The front office ate it up. You can thank me later.”

What the actual fuck? “I’m going to murder you.”

“I prefer flowers,” he says in his signature smart-ass tone. The man is a genius when it comes to contracts and deals, but he has about zero bedside manner—the reason I wanted him as my agent. I don’t need to be coddled; I like the cold, hard truth.

Which is what he delivers.

“Listen, you want to stay in Chicago, right?”

“Yes,” I groan. I need to be near Chicago, close to my sister.

My parents had me when they were in their late forties. It was a very unexpected pregnancy and kind of a miracle since they were trying for so many years. And then a few short years later, when they were knees and elbows deep in three-year-old temper tantrums, they had my sister. She was even more of a surprise, and then she was diagnosed with spina bifida and spent her life on forearm crutches. Despite the difficulties we faced, my parents gave us one of the best childhoods we could’ve asked for, but they could only take care of us for so long . . .

“And your contract is up at the end of the year. That’s if they don’t trade you during the All-Star break. Catchers don’t last long in the big leagues—we both know that, so we need to make the most of what you have left in you. Meaning, you need to get your shit together and start acting like a decent human being.”

“I am a decent fucking human being. I just don’t televise it like every other dick out there.”

It’s true. I’m not much for showboating or being in the limelight. I don’t need the recognition from the media to know that I’m doing a good thing. I just do it on my own because that’s what I was taught, because I feel like I owe it to my upbringing, to my sister, Dawn.

But apparently my surly attitude, quick temper, and rough-around-the-edges look doesn’t bode well for my image, painting me as the least-liked player in baseball.

The nickname wouldn’t be so bad if I were able to control my temper rather than snapping bats over my leg and screaming swear words loud enough for the upper deck to hear. But handling my rage, the anger boiling inside me, it’s been a daily struggle, because when you actually hate yourself, there’s not much you can do to control lashing out every chance you get.

“I know you don’t display it, but you need to start. The team needs you to show some humanity, some good qualities, or else you can kiss your starting spot on the Bobbies goodbye. I was talking to Joel and he was saying Ralph is over having to coach you. He wants you out. Retired or traded is what he said.”

Of course he fucking does, the prick.

“When did contracts become about personal appearances and not about stats?”

“If they were basing things off stats right now, you’d be shit out of luck, too.”

I hate that he’s right.

“You need to work out how to fix that, mate. Stats don’t lie. Find a way. We also need to do some damage control, so we’ll spend the next few weeks making it impossible for the team to trade you. Which means you’re going to meet up with Kate Chapman tomorrow.”

“Who’s that?”

“The new community events coordinator for the Bobbies. She’s been working there for a month or so now. It’s really pathetic that you don’t know who she is. Just shows how uninvolved you are with the community.”

“I told you, I don’t need shit televised. I do my own charity work on my own damn time.”

“I hate to say it, Walker, but it’s time you start televising the pretty side of you.”

“There is no goddamn pretty side,” I huff out, dragging my hand over my face. Even though I’m bitter as fuck right now, I know he’s right. My image isn’t one to imitate, it’s unruly and agitated most of the time. Doesn’t read well on camera. Doesn’t read well in person. Doesn’t read well to my coach, who I’m sure would pay money out of his own damn paycheck to see me on a different team.

Ralph Hopkins has been the Bobbies manager for twenty years. He’s built a dynasty, has made the Bobbies who they are—strait-laced and professional on and off the field. We’ve clashed since the minute I signed my contract, because in his eyes, he sees me as a Rebel, not a Bobbie.

With a groan, I ask, “What is she going to make me do?”

“No clue, but whatever she says, just nod, smile, and take it up the ass, because if you want any chance at saving your career and not turning into a catcher who’s traded from team to team every year, then you need to listen to everything she has to say. Do you hear me?”

Unfortunately.

“Yeah,” I grumble.

“Good. Now get some beauty rest, because you have a water cooler to apologize to on camera tomorrow.”

“I don’t know why I haven’t fired you yet.”

“Because I save your arse.”

Fact, on more than one occasion.

We say a quick farewell, and I start my Tesla, enjoying the silence of not having an engine. Then I head out of the parking lot and straight to my apartment.

Chapter Four

WALKER

Hand on the beat-up plastic, I lean in and say, “So, you know I love you, pal. You’ve been there through thick and thin with us, hydrating me and my teammates during some of the most important moments this season. You’ve celebrated with us, you’ve been a silent shoulder to lean on, and you never pass judgment when we strike out, looking . . .” I pause and grit my teeth. “So, from the depths of my soul, I’m truly sorry, and as a gesture of kindness, I would like to pay for your plastic surgery bills.” I pause. “Friends?”

I lift the handle of the water cooler and shake it.

Digging from the depths of my soul, I smile and hold a thumbs-up to the camera. “Friends.”

“Annnnnnnd, cut.” The small crew I’m working with claps while I slowly lose any last piece of self-respect I had for myself. “That was great, Walker. The fans are going to love this,” Trevor, the social media specialist, says as he closes the camera and starts typing something out on his phone.

Yeah, real fucking great.

I feel like a giant jackass.

The apology to the water cooler went far beyond what I expected. Having to give the thing a damn flower as a thoughtful apology was more than I signed up for, and the kiss . . .

Fuck.

You.

Whoever came up with that idea.

From the giddy look on Trevor’s face, I’m going to guess it was him.

But like Roark said, I slapped a cheesy-as-fuck smile on my face and did what I was told because he’s right, I don’t want to end up being a catcher who’s traded from team to team. I want to be stable, a lifer on the Chicago Bobcats.

Standing and righting my pants, I say, “Yeah, sure.” I scratch the back of my head. “Is that it? I have to meet up with Kate—I think that’s her name.”

“Kate Chapman? Yeah, she’s in the cafeteria waiting for you. Just texted her to let her know we finished up.”

“Thanks.” Because I’m trying to be a good guy, I extend my hand to Trevor, who takes it in shock and gives it a quick shake. “Have a good one.”

“You too,” he says in disbelief. “And good luck with the game tonight.”

I give him a curt nod and make my way through the dugout and into the clubhouse. The red and blue colors of our team extend through the long, cinder block hallways. I’ve been on the team for five years now, which means I know these walls by heart. Blindfold me and tell me to find my way, and I would be able to just from the feel and smell of each of these corridors.

I’m turning the corner to the cafeteria when I run right into the biggest annoyance of my life.

“Whoa, almost took you—” Penn Cutler looks up from his phone. When he spots me, his lips turn into a wide grin. “Look who it is—the water cooler beater himself.”

“Get out of my way, Cutler.”

Penn Cutler, the bane of my existence. The reason why I did more conditioning in high school than I was supposed to. My least favorite person in the entire world, for many reasons. But mainly, the guy who changed my life forever.

I hate him.

“Is that how you should treat your number-one pitcher? We have a big game tonight, Rockwell, and I need you ready to squat your ass behind the plate for me.”

“Move,” I repeat, this time getting in Penn’s face.

“Touchy.” He laughs and steps to the side. “Let’s hope you use some of that anger to actually hit the ball tonight.”

“Focus on your curveball, not me.”

“My curveball is killer.”

As I walk away, I say, “Says the guy who gave up two homeruns last start on hung pitches.”

I don’t stick around for a retort. There’s no need, because frankly we could go at it all day if we had a chance.

I can still remember the moment I found out I was signed with Penn. Same year. Same team.

After high school graduation, I thought I was free of him. We were done being teammates. I went to Florida, he went to California, and there was a small chance we could possibly meet up in the big leagues one day.

It pains me to say this, but Penn has always had naturally raw talent. He works at it, but not as hard as me. Pitching comes to him easily, and so does his arrogant confidence and “charming” personality that everyone—including Coach—enjoys eating up.

I, on the other hand, have put in countless hours at the gym, behind the plate, or in the cages, working on every aspect of my game, from having quick reflexes to being able to hit any ball that comes my way. I’ve struggled, but I’ve also had my winning moments too.

But the day I found out Penn and I were signed to the Bobbies, it felt like a sick twist on a dream come true, and I think it’s the main reason why my job feels just like that now—a job.

Irritated and wanting to be anywhere else but in the clubhouse about to talk to someone about community events, I round the corner of the cafeteria to find a woman dressed in a tight, black pencil skirt and a white, sleeveless blouse. My eyes scan down her short legs to very high heels that give her at least three inches of height. Curvy, her ass is prominent in that skirt, making her waist look small. Her long, wavy, honey-colored hair floats past her shoulder blades, and when she turns around at the sound of me entering the room, I’m greeted with a warm smile, a spattering of freckles across her cheeks, and deep brown eyes highlighted by long, dark eyelashes.

Kate Chapman is pretty damn hot.

“Walker,” she says in a sweet voice, approaching with her hand extended. “I’m so glad you could meet today. I know you have a lot going on—making up with the cooler and all.” She winks, and even though she’s hot, I immediately start to dislike her. I don’t like winking and I don’t like people making fun of me, either. “So I’ll make this quick. Please, have a seat.” She gestures to a table with papers laid neatly across the surface and a bowl of fruit to the side.

I reluctantly pull out a chair and make myself as comfortable as I can.

“I spoke with Joel in the front office and then had a little conversation with your agent, as well. They’re both very concerned about your image and the way you’re perceived by the media and your coach.”

Already on the verge of bolting, I remind myself of the benefits of sticking around—building a foundation as a Bobbie—and reach for an apple to keep my temper from raging.

I take a large bite, chew, and swallow before answering. “My image is fine.”

Her smile tightens and I know she’s trying to be as polite as possible. “Not to be rude, but if your image was fine, then you wouldn’t be sitting here, talking to me.”

All right . . . well, her sass just brought out my “sass.” See how easy that was?

“Skip the therapy session and tell me where you need me and when.” Another bite of my apple.

She blinks a few times and then stumbles through her paperwork. “Well, you have options—”

“I don’t want options. I want requirements so I can get this over with.”

Pausing, she makes eye contact, her brow knitted together in question. Setting aside the papers on the table, she folds her hands together and stares me down. Oh boy, here we go. “We’re going to be working closely together for the next few weeks, so I suggest you ease up on the attitude and try to be an active participant in our conversation, rather than steamrolling me.”

She’s tough, ballsy almost.

Interesting.

Too bad I’m a fucking bastard who doesn’t give two shits.

I sit up and lean forward while scanning all the papers with charity titles listed at the top. Every baseball team in the league has certain charities and causes they work with each year. The Bobbies like to focus their efforts on children and being active—just like every other team out there. As players, we’re required to make appearances at a certain number of events to show how involved we are in the community.

I’m involved with the community on my own terms, with my own causes, so it’s bullshit that I’m even sitting here. I like kids and inspiring our youth to do great things, but I don’t like spending all my efforts on the children. I break it up between the generations and those with disabilities. On top of helping out at hospitals and local YMCAs, I enjoy going to a few nursing homes around the city and visiting with seniors, where we reminisce about baseball during the golden era. Children are important, but so are our elderly, a population I think we tend to forget about as we attempt to shape the next greatest generation. I also spend a great deal of time helping out with local organizations that focus on offering equal opportunities to those with disabilities.

“I do my own work, on my own time—”

“Which is admirable, but no one knows about it.”

“Which means I’m doing it the right way. I don’t need a trophy for being a good person,” I shoot back.

“But according to the headlines and the opinion of your coach, you’re the least-liked player in baseball, with a bad attitude, painting you as anything but the man you really are.”

I drag my tongue over my teeth and lean back in my chair while folding my arms over my chest. “And you think you know the man I really am?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “But I would like to get to know him, to help him.”

“I don’t need your help. I need you to tell me where to be and when. That’s it.”

Visibly, she deflates as a blush creeps up her cheeks, and for a moment I feel bad for snapping at her. Capitulating, she starts to thumb through her papers as she shakes her head and mumbles something under her breath that I can’t make out.

“You have something to say?”

She meets my gaze, lips firmly pressed together. “I’m good.”

I know that look. I’ve seen it before, from my mom. From the thin purse of her lips to the small divot between her eyes, she’s not a happy woman. Terse response, glare in her pupils, stiff shoulders, the word “fine” on the tip of her tongue.

What, is she not happy because I’m not letting her dive deep into my psyche? Because I’m not letting her give me a mental makeover? If she’s looking for me to be her do-good project, she better look for someone else, because that shit is not going to happen.

Nodding at her stack of charities, I ask, “Do I need to stay for this or . . .”

She forcefully smacks the papers on the table and glares up at me, nostrils slightly flared. Someone loses their temper quickly. Just like me. Maybe we will be friends.

“You’re required to be at this meeting, not just by your agent, but by the team, so if you don’t mind, I would appreciate it if you could be a little more open to discussing your upcoming events.”

Ah, she pulled the “team” card, good for her. Going straight for the jugular.

Can’t argue with that.

“Then get on with it,” I say while pulling out my phone and opening up my calendar. I toss the device in her direction and say, “There’s my schedule. See what you can fit in.”

She stares at the phone for a few seconds before looking up at me, her expression neutral. “I suggest you pick up that phone, tack on a smile, and work with me, Walker. I’m not your assistant, nor will I act like one. I have no problem letting your manager know how difficult you’re being.”

Who the fuck does this woman think she is?

“Are you threatening to tattle on me?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. So, pick up your phone and go through the calendar with me. I’m not your secretary, nor am I your mother. I won’t be digging you out of this temper tantrum hole. You put yourself in there, now grab a ladder and start hauling yourself out.” She pushes the papers toward me with a shit-eating grin. “Time to get to work.”

Just as I thought—I don’t like her. Not one fucking bit.

Chapter Five

WALKER

“How did your meeting go?” Ryot asks as I hit a ball right back up the center of the batting cages.

That felt good.

I loosen my shoulders and move my head back and forth before getting back into my stance for another pitch.

“Waste of time,” I answer, just after a pitch fires in. Groundout. Fuck.

“Rolled your wrists too soon,” Ryot points out. “Punch and push through. Put that on repeat in your head.”

I’ve been playing baseball since I was eight. Being thirty-three now, one would think after almost twenty-five years I would be able to hit a ball with muscle memory alone, but it’s not that easy. One weak muscle, one bad practice, can throw you off your entire game.

And that’s where I am, thrown off but slowly gaining that feeling back.

Our batting coach tosses another pitch, and just like Ryot said, I repeat in my head, punch and push through. My hands sail through the strike zone, angling the bat just right, making that perfect contact and careening the ball right back up the middle.

I let out a deep breath.

That felt good.

“Just like that,” Ryot encourages, knowing how important it is for me to get my bat back in the game.

I take a few more pitches, ending on a streak of line drives to the left side of the cages and right back up the middle. Line drives are the goal, home runs are a bonus. If you gun for a home run, you’re bound to strike out or pop up. It’s the saying that’s been drilled into me since I was a kid, and I still live by the mantra today.

I remove my batting gloves and exit the cages, bat in hand. Ryot hands me a bottle of water and we walk to the locker room together, side by side.

“So, the meeting was a waste of time?” Ryot asks, bringing up the conversation again. He knew back in the cages, the minute I started to think about something else, my focus plummeted, and that’s when I grounded out. Its why he backed off and started the conversation back up now.

“Have you met Kate yet?”

“Blonde with freckles? Yeah, she’s hot.”

“She’s kind of—” I bite my tongue, not wanting to say it, but I end up saying it anyway. “She’s kind of a bitch.”

Ryot’s booming laughter echoes down the long hallway. “Because she’s assertive, she’s a bitch?”

When he puts it that way . . .

“Let me guess,” he continues. “She didn’t let you get away with passing your responsibilities off?”

I scratch the side of my jaw. “Not even a little.”

Another booming laugh from Ryot. “I could’ve told you that was going to happen. She’s tough, takes no shit, compassionate, and is perfect for the job because she has to work with douchebags like us.”

“I do community work. I don’t need more shit to do.”

“Yeah, but you need your community work to be highlighted. Don’t be dense.”

I roll my eyes. “I understand what everyone is trying to do, but what I don’t get is why? Look at Johnny Posey over on Harlem. He’s a wretched bastard that no one likes but he’s been on Harlem for fifteen years. No one is making him do shit to clean up his image.”

“Because he sticks his bat out and hits a home run. You, my friend, are barely hitting two-fifty right now when you’re a three-hundred batter. If your average was higher, your image wouldn’t be a concern.”

“Bullshit. I was hitting three-fifty earlier in the year and they were still on my case.” Lowering my voice, I say, “The Bobbies are the goody-two-shoes team and everyone has to metaphorically wear cardigans around their goddamn shoulders and hold their pinkies up at all times. It’s ridiculous.”

“There’s an image. Why do I think linen pants and a pink, collared shirt would look good on you?”

“Because you’re deranged.”

We turn into the locker room. There are a few players milling about, getting ready for the game tonight, mostly position players, while the pitchers are over in the weight room, getting some strength and conditioning in on their off days.

Ryot and I sit down in our chairs and relax into the leather, taking a load off. “I want this to be my home, but Jesus Christ, it’s not going to hurt the team to lighten up a bit. If I want to beat the shit out of a water cooler, let it happen.”

“If anything, it’s entertaining for the fans. You’re a GIF now.”

“See?” I throw my hand up in the air. “I’m a goddamn GIF, they should be happy about that.”

“Something tells me they wish you weren’t.”

Slouching, I say, “Probably right.”

Changing the subject, Ryot asks, “Besides your initial reaction of Kate being a bitch, what did you really think of her?” Ryot obnoxiously wiggles his eyebrows.

“She was okay,” I say.

Ryot roars. “You’re such a goddamn liar.”

I shrug. “I mean, yeah, she had a nice eyeball.”

Ryot throws a towel at me from his locker, still laughing. “Fuck you. A nice eyeball. Just one of her eyeballs is nice?”

“If I hit the ball tonight, it’s because of her right eyeball. Really got my juices flowing,” I deadpan.

“You’re such a shithead.”

“Nah, if I hit the ball tonight, it’s for one reason and one reason alone—because I worked my ass off in the cages today.”

Ryot rolls his eyes. “Always so fucking serious. Why don’t you romanticize your story a bit? Think about the media coverage you could get.” Ryot steals my bat, holds it up to his mouth like a microphone, and then clears his throat. “Walker Rockwell, you went three for four today with a homerun and three RBIs. What can you attribute to your success today?” He turns his hat around and scratches his jaw. Is that supposed to be me? “Her name is Kate, and her right eyeball enticed me so much, I found myself inspired to find my bat again. Shout-out to Kate Chapman and her spherical sense receptor for vision.” He winks and then shoots a gun at the “camera.” “Now that’s a story.”

I stare at him blankly.

Blink.

Shake my head.

“You need fucking help.” I turn toward my locker, where I start mentally preparing for the game.

Punch and push through.

I got this.

“TIME, BLUE.”

“Time,” the umpire shouts as I stand from my squatted position, my knees aching in the eighth inning, begging for a break.

Glove clutched in my hand at my side, I jog up to the mound as Penn digs his foot into the dirt, beads of sweat streaking down his face.

When I reach the mound, he removes his hat, wipes his brow with his forearm, and then settles his hat back on his head before holding up his glove to his mouth to talk. “Fastball.”

Even though I’m wearing a mask, I still cover my mouth, as well. “You’re barely throwing ninety right now. You’re not going to blow it by him with a fastball.”

“Fuck you, I’m throwing faster than ninety.”

“You’re lobbing them in.” I nod toward the scoreboard, which shows we’re winning by the skin of our teeth with second and third occupied and two outs. “You need this last out. Curveball outside.”

“Fastball,” the stubborn fuck says.

“Goddamn it, Cutler. You’re going to lose this game for us.”

I don’t even know why Coach has kept him in this long. One inning too long is a manager’s biggest mistake.

“Stop acting all high and mighty just because you’ve hit two singles tonight.”

Two singles that scored the three runs we have up on the scoreboard. But I don’t mention that. Instead, I get Penn to focus.

He’s tired. I can see it in his eyes. I’ve known this fucker for far too long and I can read him like the back of my own hand. He’s out of gas and toasted. We need one more pitch, and I’m bound and determined to make sure we get out of this inning unscathed.

But he’s not going to make it easy on me. He never has. Ever since I’ve known him, he needs to be right . . . about fucking everything. Drives me crazy because even when he’s wrong, he still acts right.

The rich, spoiled kid from my hometown.

The one guy who’s been a thorn in my ass ever since I met him.

The person who changed my entire life with one decision.

I hate him. I hate him so fucking much that I wish we weren’t so perfect together on the field. I wish we didn’t have this indescribable way of reading each other, being the engine that every successful clubhouse needs to succeed.

“One more pitch and then we bring in Harper to close everything up. Curveball outside,” I say, trying to reason with the nitwit.

“Fastball.”

“Curveball.”

“Rockwell,” the umpire calls out. “Time’s up.”

Backing up but keeping my eyes on Cutler, I repeat myself. “Curveball. Don’t fuck this up, dickhead.”

He works his jaw to the side, clearly not happy with me, but what the fuck do I care? I’ve studied up on every single player in our league. Ramirez is a sucker for an outside pitch and we’re about to deliver it to him in a curveball fashion.

Getting behind the plate, I squat and give him the sign for curveball outside, throwing two fingers down, then three, then one, and tapping the side of my leg, signaling to our teammates what we’ve planned.

I get into position, drop my right hand to the side, and hold out my glove. Cutler sets his hands, glances up at the runner on third and then back at me. Winding up, he lifts his leg high and then throws the ball at high voltage right into my glove, startling me since I was tracking for a curve. He startles Ramirez at the same time, who not only strikes out, but falls off balance trying to catch up with Cutler’s fucking fastball.

Jesus. Fuck.

I’m going to kill him.

With a tilt of his cap and a smirk on his face, Cutler jogs off the field.

Temper rising, I toss the ball away and head to the dugout, as well. As a catcher, when you’re expecting a curveball and get a fastball instead—traveling at the speed a fastball travels compared to a curveball’s speed—being unprepared can be dangerous, and that’s exactly what I was. Unprepared. A ball getting by an unprepared catcher could, with runners on third and second, lead to at least two unwanted runs scored.

When I reach the dugout, I head straight to Cutler, who’s picking up a towel and draping it over his back. I yank on his shoulder and pull him back so he’s forced to look at me.

“What the fuck was that?”

“A fastball.”

“I called curveball.”

“And I wanted a fastball.” He shrugs casually. I want to punch that smirk right off his face. “Don’t doubt me, Rockwell. Ever. If I want to blow a fastball past the batter, then listen to me.”

“Don’t pull that shit with me. You caught me and the entire team off guard. You could’ve lost that inning for us.”

“And yet, I got us out of it, so cool your balls.”

I get in his face, well aware of the attention we’re drawing, so I grip his shoulder and give him a quick smirk before saying, “Don’t fuck with me again.” We’re good at putting on a show, we’ve been doing it for years now.

He smirks back and speaks through his teeth. “Don’t doubt me again.”

“I can’t fucking stand you.”

“Feeling is mutual.”

With that, we part ways and head to opposite ends of the dugout. Ryot comes up to me, his hat backwards on his head and a water cup in his hand. “So, that wasn’t a curveball.”

“No. It wasn’t.”

“Glad you guys are on the same page.”

“Never have been, never will be.”

“And yet, you two perform magic on the field.”

Which is the most annoying part of my entire baseball career.

Chapter Six

KATE

“Good morning, Kate.”

I lift my travel coffee mug to Janet as a greeting. “Good morning, Janet. Love that blouse.”

She glances down at her black-and-red blouse as I walk by her. “Thank you. Got it at Nordstrom Rack.”

Nose scrunched, I enthusiastically say, “Great find.” I give her a quick parting wave and head back to my office, a little behind schedule today.

I had a hard time getting up and moving this morning. Yesterday was a long day, and I have achy legs from having to be in heels all day. Some of the ladies in the office bring slippers to wear around the halls, but I find that unprofessional, so I torture myself instead.

Maybe after a year of being employed by the Bobbies, I’ll consider it, but being freshly hired, I want to appear as professional as possible.

I switch on my office light and wake up my computer after setting down my coffee and morning bagel. Carbs were needed this morning, so on my way into the stadium, I stopped at Brobagel, ordered a pumpernickel and a large, dark roast coffee with entirely too much creamer. At least once a week I stop to get a bagel because they’re my crutch. Carbs are actually my crutch. It’s why I have thighs.

I can’t give up the carbs, no matter how hard I try.

When my computer comes to life, I go straight to my inbox, where I find an email from Roark McCool, Walker’s agent. I was expecting that.

There’s nothing in the body, just a typed-out demand in the subject line: Call me.

I’m not sure I’m ready for his Irish charm, especially after my conversation, or lack thereof, with Walker yesterday. It was like pulling teeth to get him to cooperate.

No doubt Roark is calling to smooth things over. That’s what he does, that’s what all agents do. Smooth things over.

Well, not with this girl.

I’m holding my ground, and everything I scheduled Walker to participate in I’m sticking to. They want to clear up his image—well, I’m going to make that happen.

Reaching for my phone, I quickly dial his number and wait a few rings before he answers in his Irish lilt. “Mornin’, Kate. How’s the day going so far for you, luv?”

Already bringing on the charm.

“Roark, how are you this morning?”

I can picture him in his high-rise office, leaning back on his leather chair, probably a huge smile on his face, ready to give me the runaround.

“Could’ve used a bigger cup of coffee, that’s for sure.”

I lift my cup to my mouth and take a sip. “Always go for the large, Roark. Always go for the large.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, my cup was gone after three sips. This is why you need to come work with me, to teach me all your secrets.”

It’s not the first time he’s told me to work with him and I’m sure it won’t be the last.

“Ordering a large coffee is a secret?”

“It is when you’re hopeless like me.”

I scoff. “Please. You and I both know you’re nothing close to hopeless.”

“Aye, ya got me there.”

I pick up a pen on my desk and weave it through my fingers while staring at my computer screen. “So enough with the chitchat, why am I calling you?”

“That’s why I like you, Kate, ya get down to business.”

I have a million things to do today and even though Roark’s voice is heavenly, I can’t stay on the phone forever.

“How did your meeting with Walker go yesterday?”

“Not as expected.”

“Was he a dick?”

“Somewhat,” I answer honestly, never one to sugarcoat things, although I hold back the thought that Walker was an epic dick. The way he tossed his phone at me, expecting me to enter in all his responsibilities. Yeah, he could go to hell, as that was not happening. These men have workers bending at their beck and call, but not me. I don’t put up with any crap.

Roark blows out a frustrated breath. “Of course he was.”

“Is he always difficult?”

“Difficult, no. Surly with a chip on his shoulder, yes. He’s a good guy, just set in his ways.”

A good guy? Huh, not sure I would classify Walker as a good guy. Then again, I don’t know him very well.

“He’s set in his ways as a hot head.”

“You think he’s hot?” Roark asks, teasing me.

I roll my eyes. “Hot head, as in having a short fuse. You know there’s a policy against fraternizing with the players.”

And yes, he might be extremely attractive, like . . . tongue-lolling-on-the-floor attractive with his burly shoulders, firing-off forearms, and his deep scowl, but he’s completely off-limits.

Not that I’m interested or anything.

“You can tell me if you think he’s hot.”

“Did you really ask me to call you to gossip?”

He chuckles and says, “Nah, just checking to see if I need to do anything to light a fire under his ass.”

“Just make sure he shows up, that’s all I ask.”

“Isn’t that your job?” Roark asks playfully.

“It is, but encouragement on your side would be good. We didn’t quite set ourselves up for best-friend status yesterday, so I know he’s going to give me pushback.”

“He gives us all pushback, Kate. Get used to it. I’ll talk with him, though. Thanks for setting things up.”

“Don’t thank me yet. Let’s see how the next couple of weeks work out.”

“Trust me, they’ll work out. Just stick to him, remind him who he’s representing and why. I’ll do the same on my end.”

“Sounds good. Thanks, Roark.”

“No, thank you, Kate.”

When I hang up the phone, I lean back in my chair and think about the meeting I had with Walker yesterday. Being a Bobbies fan, I’ve watched him play for a few years now, and his dominating presence on the field matches his intimidating presence in person.

Built and bulky, he looked like a giant in the chair next to me with his broad, carved shoulders and thick chest. I might have stared for a few heartbeats over the way his Under Armour shirt clung tightly to his pecs, outlining every muscle. And then there were his forearms. I’ve always been a sucker for a little arm porn and even though I don’t want to admit it, Walker has great arms. Just the right amount of sprinkled arm hair, with thick wrists and hands that look as if they’ve been playing in the dirt for years.

Incredibly sexy.

But it’s not the time he’s spent in the weight room that made me shiver in place yesterday when he sat down next to me, it was his piercing brown eyes that spoke nothing but the truth. From just his frank expression, I could tell what you see is what you’re going to get.

He doesn’t fuck around, and oddly, I like that about him.

“Hey, you free?” Vivian asks from my door with a knock.

“Yeah, come in.” I shake the thoughts of Walker out of my head. It’s time to get to work.

“I got your calendar updates. Did you realize you entered Walker in almost all of the events coming up?”

I nod. “Yeah, the team wants him more available.”

A sly smile passes over Vivian’s lips. “Does this have to do with the water cooler?”

I nod, causing her to laugh.

“I met with him yesterday.”

“You met him? What’s he like in person?”

“Exactly as you’d guess.”

“Mean?”

I shake my head. “No, just short-tempered. He was never mean, maybe rude at times, but more so trying to move the conversation along so he could leave.”

“And are his eyes just as sinister as they seem behind his mask?”

Whispering, I say, “Even more so.”

“Ugh, I knew it. Out of all the guys on the team, Walker seems like the type who bosses you around in bed, takes what he wants while giving you the most epic orgasm of your life, and then leaves you panting and begging for more.”

Can’t disagree with her there.

“Or he could be terrible,” I say, clearing my throat and tapping the pen in my hand on my desk. “But if you could add him to the promotional materials for the upcoming events, that would be greatly appreciated.”

“Not a problem. I’ll get right on that. Spending my day photoshopping him onto some graphics is going to be no hardship at all.” Vivian stands from her chair and heads toward my door. “Are you staying for the game tonight?”

I shake my head. “I have to clean my apartment and do some packing for the road trip to Colorado tomorrow.”

“You’re so lucky you get to travel with the team.”

“It’s not as glamorous as it seems, trust me.” I give her a quick wave. “Thanks for the help.”

Once Vivian leaves, I check through my emails again and see a message from Walker Rockwell with the subject line: Proof.

Interested, I open up the email to see a picture attached with one word in the body.

Happy?

I download the picture to find a screenshot from his Instagram. I hadn’t looked at any of his social media prior to our meeting yesterday, but that’s something I’ll do later. But I am surprised at what he sent. It’s a picture of him playing cards with an older man and a caption at the bottom that says: “Getting schooled by Colonel Jameson before the game tonight.” Walker geotagged St. Andrew’s Nursing Home and then offered up how to volunteer with the center.

The post already has over ten thousand likes and over one thousand comments.

I’m impressed.

Very impressed.

And I can’t help but smile to myself, because even though the conversation we had yesterday was less than stellar, at least I made an impact in some way. Maybe the least-liked player in baseball can be trained.

Chapter Seven

WALKER

“You really suck at poker,” Ryot says as he picks up the cards and starts shuffling them again. Since we’re on a plane, we don’t bet with anything besides chocolate-covered pretzels. It’s lame, but it’s all we have.

“Never said I was good.”

“You’d think you’d have learned some tools of the trade from Colonel Jameson.”

I pick up the cards Ryot dealt and start sorting them. “He couldn’t tell if he was holding a six or a queen when I played him.”

“Oh shit, really?”

“Yeah, but . . .” I pause, pushing a pretzel toward the center of the table as an ante. “He has some damn good stories.”

“And he might be the only person on the planet who doesn’t think you’re an asshole.”

“Nah, he still does.”

“Poker, don’t mind if I do,” Penn says, sitting down next to Ryot with a bag of carrots. He deals himself five cards straight from the top of the deck and tosses a carrot in the middle.

I blink a few times. Has he lost his goddamn mind?

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I ask.

“Being friendly.” He looks at my pile of pretzels, or lack thereof. “Shit, you suck.”

I toss his carrot back at him. “Leave.”

“Don’t be a child,” Penn replies, putting his carrot back into the center. “Plus, if Coach sees us playing poker together, he’ll stop riding my ass for a few seconds about you.”

I grumble but see his point, even if I don’t want to think it’s a good one. Coach hasn’t let up when it comes to my relationship with Cutler—it feels as if every week he pulls us into his office to ask how we’re doing. Cutler goes in with the fakest smile, slaps me on the back, and blabs on about our fantastic teamwork while I sit there, arms crossed, letting the idiot gab on as Coach eats up every word dripping from Cutler’s mouth.

Maybe a few games of poker in front of the team without fighting might make the old fart happy.

“How did this all start?” Ryot asks, interrupting the peaceful silence.

“What start?” I ask.

Ryot motions between the two of us. “This hatred for one another. I know you grew up in the same town and played together since you were young, but what happened during that time that made you two so angry?”

What happened? How can I even fucking answer that without breaking out into a cold, dead sweat?

Penn motions with his thumb at me, completely obtuse. “He’s the angry one.”

“You hate me just as much as I hate you,” I grumble, not wanting to get into it, and I lay down two cards, asking for two new ones.

“Yeah, but I don’t spend all my waking hours wasting my energy on hating you. I have better things to do with my life.”

“Don’t give yourself that much credit.”

“What happened?” Ryot repeats, growing irritated.

“Your typical shit,” Penn replies. “Saw each other in the locker room, my penis was bigger than his, he got jealous.”

“Fuck. You,” I answer, tossing in a pretzel.

Penn laughs and meets my bid with a carrot. “There was a rumor spread around in high school about Walker and he said I started it, which I didn’t.”

“You did fucking start it. I have three witnesses that said you did,” I answer, knowing that was what started my hatred, but not what solidified it.

“We butted heads way before that over the fact that you wanted to pitch but Coach Peters thought you were better suited behind the plate, which is exactly where he parked your ass.”

True, but I got over that quickly when I realized how good I was behind the plate.

“Hold up,” Ryot says, trying to understand. “You wanted to be a pitcher?”

“Desperately,” Penn answers for me as I try not to crush my cards in my hands. “But could you imagine Walker Rockwell as a pitcher? The dude is built like a brick house. He didn’t have the stamina or the range to be a pitcher.”

He’s unfortunately right.

“So, he had to settle for being the bridesmaid, not the bride.”

“The bride being a role you play very well,” I say, showing my pathetic pair of eights.

Ryot throws down a pair of tens while Penn smirks and presents two pair. The motherfucker. He scoops up his winnings and plops a pretzel in his mouth.

“Basically, what it comes down to is Walker Rockwell has been jealous of me his entire life.”

“Yup,” I deadpan. “That’s it.”

Or maybe I hate him because he’s a pompous jackass who’s had everything handed to him on a goddamn platinum platter.

“What was the rumor?” Ryot asks, shuffling the cards again.

Talking over Penn, I stare down at my two pretzels and say, “That I cheated on my girlfriend with some girl on the softball team.”

“Did you?” Ryot asks as I plop a pretzel in my mouth and stand from the table.

“No.”

I move past Penn, bumping against his shoulder, and make my way toward a secluded part of the plane. That rumor wasn’t even the worst of it all, it was just the tinder that lit the flame for my hatred of the man.

“LONG FLIGHT, HUH?”

I loll my head to the side just in time to see Kate Chapman sit in the empty seat next to me. Just what I fucking need. After Penn pissed me off, the last thing I want is this girl to come at me with her pretty smile and bubbly personality.

“What do you want?”

Not even flinching, she says, “Well, aren’t you a ball of sunshine. I can’t imagine why you’re having such image problems.”

I turn my head back to face the seat in front of me and close my eyes, hoping she gets the hint.

She doesn’t.

“Got your email. Loved your Instagram post.”

“Something you could’ve told me in an email reply, not in person,” I say, slouching in my seat, trying to get comfortable despite how uncomfortable Kate makes me.

I’ve had one other interaction with her, but during that interaction, it was as if she made my skin crawl. Not in a disgusted way, but in an unfamiliar way. The minute I spotted her, I felt my stomach flip from the sight of her beautiful, wavy hair stretching down her back, and the easy smile she wears, something I’ve never been confident showing off.

She’s gorgeous, has a very pretty face, and there’s something about her authoritative, take-no-bullshit voice that made me feel as if I shouldn’t be near her . . . at all.

“If I emailed you, then I would’ve missed witnessing your reaction in person to my praise, which I must say is just breathtaking.”

She’s a fucking smart-ass.

Another thing I like.

“What do you want?” I ask again, keeping my eyes closed, trying to tilt my head to the side so I don’t lean toward her neck and take in the sweet scent that’s filling the small space between us.

“Clearly, to talk to you, because the conversation is positively riveting.” There’s a bite to her tone. She pokes my arm and says, “Hey, a little respect, bud. Face me for a second so I can talk to you.”

Boy, did the Bobbies hire the right person for her job. Relentless, tough, and doesn’t take shit. I’m impressed.

Exhaling heavily, I turn my bulky frame in my seat to face her.

“What?”

She smiles. “Your conversational skills are endearing.” In a grumpy voice she tries to impersonate me by saying, “‘What? Look at me, I’m Walker and I’m unapproachable.’”

Jesus Christ.

I push my hand through my hair. “You’re getting on my last nerve.”

“Which is odd, since we’ve barely interacted. You must have a short fuse. Well, who am I kidding? You like to break bats over your thighs. Of course you have a short fuse. But don’t worry, I won’t be here very long. I just came by to see if you were going to accept any of the requests on your calendar that I set up for you.”

“What do you mean?” I ask as she lightly licks her lips, their pink sheen catching my eye for a second.

“You know, all those events we went over the other day?” she asks slowly. Is she fucking mocking me?

With the sass coming from her, I wouldn’t put it past her.

“Yeahhh,” I answer even slower.

“Well, you have to press the accept button.” She taps her finger against nothing, as if to show me what pressing an accept button looks like.

“I said yes to them, to you. I’m going.”

“And I appreciate the way you grunted out your disapproval for every one of those events while nodding your head, it made me feel enriched while completing my job, but I’m going to need you to accept the calendar invites so I know that you’re actually going to attend, not just verbally grunt a yes.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

She shakes her head. “I’m not. So, while you’re over here stewing to yourself, please go through your emails and press accept. Thanks.”

I reach for my phone and hold it out to her.

She tilts her head to the side and smiles. “Oh, Walker. It’s funny that you still think I’m going to do it for you. You’re a big boy, accept the invites.”

“Why are you a pain in the ass?”

She points to herself. “Me? You think I’m the pain in the ass between the two of us?” She laughs and then blows out a long breath. “Oh boy, do you need a reality check. It’s an easy accept button. Just press it so the calendar invite goes to your phone to remind you. It’s not that hard, Walker.”

“Maybe you should trust the fact that I’m a grown-ass man and when I say I’ll be there . . . I’ll be there,” I snap, while unlocking my phone and going to my email. I may not be a happy-go-lucky guy, but I never back out of something I’m committed to. Never.

I feel her eyes watch me as I open her calendar invites and start accepting them. Fuck, how many did she send? I don’t remember signing up for this much shit. But I’m not about to make a stink about it after, apparently, I already agreed to them. I must have blacked out during our first meeting.

Once I finish, I pocket my phone and turn away from her. “Done. You can leave.”

She shifts in the seat next to me, clears her throat, and says, “Thank you.”

I don’t respond; instead, I close my eyes and lean against the window of the plane, hoping she gets a clue.

She does . . . thankfully.

Chapter Eight

KATE

Take a deep breath and approach him with confidence, like you did on the plane. You owned that conversation, you held your composure, and you didn’t give in. Doesn’t matter that you were internally shaking like a leaf ready to blow away any second.

This is just like on the plane. No big deal. It’s not like he’s going to snap at you, like everyone else who’s approached his table this morning.

He’s a gentle soul.

A kind spirit.

A grumpy asshole . . .

Ugh, I’m not in the mood to be faced with those sharp eyes and wicked tongue again.

But I have official business that needs to be discussed. I have a reason to disturb the fuming peace that orbits him. Time to put up that shield of confidence and face the beast.

In my highest of heels, I make my way through the crowded tables in the banquet hall the hotel sectioned off for the team and head to the back where Walker sits by himself, phone in hand, fork in the other.

Without an invitation, I take a seat next to him and place my tablet on the table in front of me.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he scrolls through the Twitter feed on his phone and asks, “What do you want?” before shoveling a forkful of eggs into his mouth.

So pleasant.

“I wanted to make sure you were prepared for your meet-and-greet today.”

“What’s there to prepare for? Shake some hands, sign some shit, move on.”

He didn’t read my email. Should I be surprised after the whole calendar invite debacle?

Knowing his personality, at least enough about it to know I have to be vigilant in my demands of him and to never back down, I steel myself for the conversation we’re about to have.

Gathering up my nerves, I place my palm over his phone screen and flatten his hand to the table, earning his attention with a raise of his brow.

Go in for the kill.

“It’s not as simple as you make it out to be. The meet-and-greet is with an Army veteran who used to be a catcher in the minors. He was on the fast track to being called up to the majors when his brother passed away during a deployment. That night, he decided to leave the team and join the armed forces. A few months ago, his convoy was attacked and he lost both of his legs. He’s throwing out the first pitch tonight, but since he looks up to you, we thought it would be a great opportunity for you to show your support for the armed services.”

The anger in his eyes fades as his brow starts to unknit. He pushes his hand through his unruly hair that never seems to be tamed and lets go of his phone as he leans back in his chair.

“What’s his name?” Good. Connection.

“Lieutenant Drake Gordan. He’s stationed here in Colorado.”

Walker slowly nods and then forks some more eggs into his mouth, silence passing between us.

Is that it?

Is he not going to say anything?

I wait a few more seconds before the tension starts to build. Does he always have tension like this with everyone?

“Are we done here?” Walker asks finally, keeping his eyes on his plate.

We are, technically, but there’s something about Walker that makes me want to stay, that makes me want to dive deep.

But hours before a game isn’t the time or place, and that’s why the next words out of my mouth completely and utterly shock me.

“No, we’re not. We still have a lot to talk about. Dinner, tonight, six. In the hotel restaurant. Don’t be late.”

He slowly cocks his head to the side.

“What?”

I cross my arms over my chest. “You heard me.”

“Dinner? Is that necessary?”

“Yes.”

“Doesn’t seem like it. An email will be fine.”

“Clearly it’s not since you didn’t read my email this morning but instead trolled your Twitter feed.”

“I wasn’t trolling,” he mutters and turns back to his plate.

I gather my tablet to my chest and stick my chin in the air, hell-bent on making this man break for me. “So, six. Make sure you shower beforehand. I don’t want to smell gross catcher pads at dinner.”

I stand from the chair, waiting for a reaction, but when I don’t get one, I walk away, hoping he doesn’t stand me up.

“PICK UP, PICK UP, PICK UP,” I say while pacing the hallway of the hotel.

“Hey, girl. How’s Colorado?” Vivian asks, her voice cheery.

“Vivian, I asked him out.” I wave my iPad in front of my face, trying to control the sweat that has broken out over my face.

“Asked who out? Why do you sound panicky?”

“I asked Walker out.”

“Wait. What?” she practically shouts. “Kate, you can’t ask out players, it’s against the rules. I know we joke about how hot he is and the muscles on that man, but no fraternizing.”

“Not romantically. On a business outing. I asked him to dinner, so I can get to know him. Well, I didn’t really ask him, I forced him. Didn’t give him the choice to say no. I don’t know what got into me. I got so frustrated with his brush-offs that I couldn’t take it anymore, and I laid down the hammer, but I don’t have a hammer, I’ve never had a hammer, Vivian. But all of a sudden, I’m sitting there, staring at his boorish eyes, and then this hammer appeared in my hand, metaphorically of course, but there it was, and before I knew it, I slammed the hammer on the table and told him what was what.”

“Dear God,” Vivian whispers and then is silent for a second. “What color was the metaphorical hammer?”

“Vivian!”

“I’m sorry, you’re right, this is a moment and you’re rambling. Let me get this straight. You approached him—”

“At breakfast. He was alone.”

“And he was ignoring you like usual and being short with you.”

“Exactly.”

“You lost your cool,” she continues. “And then bam, hammer.”

“Precisely. Bam, hammer.”

“How did he take it?”

I look over my shoulder just to make sure no one is near me. “Honestly, I’ll be surprised if he shows up tonight. He doesn’t seem to be one who follows the rules of someone else bringing the hammer.”

“No, he seems like the hammer dropper, not the other way around.”

I press my back up against the wall. “That’s exactly what I was thinking. God, Vivian, I’m feeling so embarrassed.”

“Why? Don’t feel embarrassed.”

I slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the floor. “I’ve never had to work with someone like him before. Someone so temperamental. I know my professional experience is limited to five years, but I don’t want him to walk all over me—which I think is what he expects, to be able to get what he wants and not have to do much in return. I’m not going to let that happen, and I think this overwhelming sense of needing to stand up for myself took over and I told him he’s meeting me for dinner.”

“It’s a good thing, Kate. It’s why they hired you, because they know you can handle yourself when it comes to the players and their unpredictability. Be proud of yourself, not embarrassed.”

“You don’t think he’s back in the locker room, telling the other guys about what an ass I made of myself?”

“Well, first of all, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t talk to anyone in the locker room besides Ryot. And also, you didn’t make an ass of yourself. You were assertive and did your job.”

“You’re right.” I perk up. “I was doing my job.” I would’ve hated the fallout for me, the Bobbies—for Walker—if he wasn’t interested and polite to Lieutenant Gordan. To me, okay, but not to someone who’s served our country. Sacrificed. Even Walker must get that. “In order to help him change his image, I need to get to know him and that’s what this is about.”

“And if you get a little eye candy while eating—”

“This is strictly professional, Vivian.”

She laughs. “I know, I know. You’d never risk your job like that.” She sighs. “Do you feel better?”

“I do.”

“Good. Now, I must hear all the details when you’re done meeting with him, all the way down to what he smelled like and if he knows how to talk with more than one-word answers.”

I chuckle. “I’ll be sure to debrief you later.”

“Much appreciated. Keep rocking it, girl. You’re doing awesome.”

Chapter Nine

WALKER

“Hey, pal.”

I stiffen as Penn’s signature scent of covered-up hangover wafts past me. Minty breath with a hint of Scotch; it’s a sensory combination that’s been engrained in my brain since high school. Back then, I thought it was him trying to just be like some of the other guys on the team, drinking the night before to see how well they can perform—fucking morons—but it seems to have carried with him.

I’ve seen Brad—one of our relief pitchers and Penn’s best friend—peel him out of his hotel bed and drop him in the shower minutes before we had to leave for the stadium.

I’ve watched him pitch hungover.

I’ve watched him pitch drunk.

I’ve watched him throw up in the trash can in the dugout, blaming it on a quick virus—but I’ve always known the goddamn truth.

He’s an alcoholic. I’ve known for a while. I’ve been a victim to his drinking choices and the fucker is still one of the best pitchers in the entire league. What I don’t understand, is why? He had everything growing up, a life of ease. He went to UCLA, playing college ball as a starting pitcher. Into the minors after junior year, like me. Never. Lacked. For. Anything. So, why the fuck turn to alcohol? It’s never made sense.

Penn grips my shoulder as tension builds in my back. Not looking at him—not needing to because I know I’ll find sunken, red-rimmed eyes, I ask, “What are you doing here?”

“I ran into Kate in the elevator. She told me about your meet-and-greet today. Thought I’d crash it.”

My head whips to the side, and that’s when I finally catch a glimpse of him. Freshly shaven, eyes clearer than normal, that ever-present smirk on his face. He’s looking fresh, but I can still smell the booze on him. “This isn’t about you and your ability to soak up all the attention. This is about Lieutenant Gordan.”

“I’m not a fucking dipshit. Of course I know what it’s about. It’s the reason I’m here. I want to thank him for his service.” Penn goes to give both my shoulders a massage but I push him away quickly, slamming him into the wall.

He laughs, the sound maniacal as he rights his disheveled hair.

I give him a quick once-over and then ask, “What’s your angle, Cutler?”

He smirks, looks me up and down as well. “Being a goddamn good person. That’s what it is.”

“The fuck you are. You’re here for the media attention.”

His smirk fades as he says, “I’m here because I want to be, which is more than I can say for you.”

Growing more irritated and wanting this piece of shit out of my face, I try to end the conversation and say, “I’m here because it’s mandatory.”

The moment the words slip past my lips, Lieutenant Gordan and Kate enter the room with media following closely behind them. They both pause in the doorway as fear creeps up my back.

Oh fuck . . . did they hear that?

From the shocked look on Kate’s face, I’m going to guess yes.

I’VE HAD some pretty shitty days during my thirty-three years of life. Some devastating days, life-altering days, soul-defining days. They’ve shaped me into the person that I am.

Even though I’ve seen tragedy—breathed it—I can honestly say today has got to be in the top five worst days of my life. Not because I got my ass handed to me by my manager after the game, but because of the way Lieutenant Gordan’s face fell the minute he heard me say it was mandatory for me to meet him.

And I didn’t even fucking mean it.

I wanted to meet him. I wanted to thank him for his service and offer my condolences for his brother. I wanted to have a genuine conversation about baseball and catching. I wanted so much more but the minute Cutler showed up, he sent my mind into a tailspin where all I saw was black. All admirable intended interaction went out the window.

Why the fuck was Cutler there?

To fuck with my head? To throw me off my game? To gain just a little bit more attention because the idiot thrives off it?

I swear it’s his mission in life, to slowly destroy me piece by piece.

I apologized profusely to the lieutenant, but it was no use, his excitement faded and the meet-and-greet was awkward and filled with tension.

To top it all off, I went zero for four today with three goddamn strikeouts. My head wasn’t in the game, and it’s why I couldn’t throw anyone out at second either. We wound up losing two to six, and I’m hanging this loss on my shoulders.

Coach was right when he said the atmosphere in the dugout was tense because of me, that the players feed off me, and when I’m secluding myself in the corner, they do the same.

I’m nowhere near the oldest on the team, but I’m the catcher and hold the responsibility of commanding excellence. I set the rhythm for the game, I prepare the field for the incoming pitch, and I’m the grounding unit the pitchers rely on to carry through their game. When I’m not delivering excellence myself, how can I demand it from them?

I have no right.

My phone rings for the fifth time since I’ve sat down. I send it straight to voicemail, not in the mood to talk to Roark, or anyone for that matter.

If only I could keep it that way . . .

The sound of heels clicking across the polished tiled floors of the hotel, headed straight toward my table.

Right on time.

I glance up to see Kate approaching me, wearing the same outfit she wore this morning at the meet-and-greet but instead of a smile like when she walked through the door this morning, she’s wearing a scowl.

Fuck.

She plops her files and tablet on the table and sets her hands on her hips, a warrior stance. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Not giving me a chance to answer, she takes a seat across from me, anger rolling off her in waves. For some reason, I don’t like it. I normally don’t care about other people’s reactions to the dumb shit I do, but there’s a small—and I mean small—pang of guilt piercing me as I watch her jaggedly jerk her papers around. I didn’t mean to disappoint her.

“Why are you making this so hard?” she finally says when she’s settled. “You had one job—make this man who’s given up so much for our country feel special. And instead, you made him feel like an obligation.”

And the guilt grows. Not like I wasn’t already eating myself alive over what happened, but hearing it from Kate intensifies the feeling that’s gnawing at my inner walls.

“It was a mistake,” I grumble.

“Yeah, no shit,” she seethes, setting her tablet in front of me. “It was a huge mistake.”

I take in the headline of the article pulled up on her screen. It paints me in a very ugly light. “Thanking a Wounded Veteran Mandatory for Rockwell.”

Fuck.

I drag my hand over my face. “Why was Cutler there?”

“Are you really going to blame this on him?”

“I’m not blaming it on anyone. I just want to know why he was there.”

“I don’t know,” Kate says in a sarcastic tone. “Maybe because he wanted to sincerely thank a veteran for their service. You know, make their day special.”

Through clenched teeth, I ask, “Was he invited? Because if he was, I need to be told that shit.”

“Are you seriously getting angry at me right now? Are your nostrils really flaring in my direction, Rockwell? Because if they are, I suggest you take a deep breath, because the only person you’re allowed to be angry at right now is you.”

She’s right, I have no one else to blame but myself. Yes, Cutler did his normal Cutler thing by riling me up and getting under my skin, but I’m a grown-ass man and should be able to control my emotions.

There’s no one to blame but myself.

Instead of saying anything, I take the tablet and skim the article, looking over all the hateful things people are saying about me in the comments and wondering when it got to this point. When did I paint myself as the least-likeable person in baseball rather than the kid who used to love walking out on the field and feeling the dirt beneath his cleats?

Probably when fame got involved. All the fanfare surrounding me and Penn, the team drumming up our relationship. The shirts, the merch made for when Penn and I are in command on the field. This all came tumbling down when the team started to monetize the “magic” we create on the field.

What a goddamn mess.

I’m about to ask Kate what she wants me to do next, but before I can, she asks, “Why are you like this?”

“Like what?” I ask, barely looking up at her.

“Such . . . such . . .” She pauses, trying to find the right word. “Such a bastard.”

For some reason, the shock in her statement combined with the way she insulted me elicits a smirk.

“Are you smiling?” she asks, irate.

Oh shit.

I wipe the smirk off my face and shake my head. “Must be seeing things.”

“No.” She points. “There was humor in your face. I saw it. Do you think this is funny?”

Jesus Christ, after everything that’s happened today and my shitty performance, the last thing I want right now is to have to deal with a hysterical woman who’s analyzing every last one of my facial expressions.

“I don’t.” I push the tablet toward her and lean back, my hands gripping the armrests of my chair. “I don’t think any of this is funny.”

“Good, because this is really bad, Walker. Really, really bad.”

“Yeah, I know.” I scratch the side of my jaw, succumbing to the truth and what rests in my future. “What do I need to do to make this better?”

Surprised by my eagerness to agree with her, she pauses for a few seconds, gathering herself. She looks through her papers and I think it’s all for show, because she doesn’t spend more than a few seconds on each piece before moving forward. “We have a lot of damage control to do first. Public relations have been handling the media the best that they can. We asked Lieutenant Gordan if he’d like another meeting with you and he declined.” Fuck. “But we—”

“What’s his contact information? I want to reach out to him personally, without media. Just man to man.”

“But media would help—”

“Media would make it seem set up, like I was forced to lick my wounds. I owe one apology and that’s to Lieutenant Gordan. Email me his information.”

Chapter Ten

KATE

He really is a bastard.

So rude and has zero bedside manner.

“You know, a please wouldn’t kill you,” I mutter while I pull up Lieutenant Gordan’s information and forward it to Walker. Once I’m done, I open up the calendar on my phone only to look up and find him with the smallest of smirks . . . again.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

The humor in his face drains as he shifts in his seat, securing his mask of indifference again.

“I’m waiting on you,” he answers, his voice gruff.

“No, you were smiling again.”

“Jesus Christ, is this what the meeting is going to be about? You pointing out a tick in my mouth?”

“You know”—I fold my arms over my chest—“it would be nice if you had a meeting with me where you didn’t have something crawling up your ass.”

“Cute,” he deadpans.

“I’m serious. If you really want to make this better, if you really want to save your image, then try being a touch less dickish to the people willing to help you.”

The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them. I don’t say things like this in a professional atmosphere, but his attitude is getting to me. He’s pulling out my immature side.

I work for the Bobbies, but the players are the cash crop, while I’m a measly garden rake in the grand scheme of things, but I’ve always been taught that in the workplace, you need to be equals with everyone else, even if they bring in a different-sized paycheck.

Which means I’m not letting up on Walker, nor am I making concessions for his behavior. If he wants a change, then he’s going to have to work for it.

With a pinch in his brow and slight remorse in his eyes, he picks up his water glass and takes a swig before setting it back down again. “Sorry,” he says quietly, nearly shocking me right out of my thong.

I’m not one to gloat, but if I were any less of a professional right at this moment, I would be asking him to say that a little louder.

What was that, Walker? Were you trying to apologize?

I spare him.

And I hope he doesn’t forget that.

“Apology accepted,” I reply with my chin tilted up and a smile begging to pass over my lips. It’s one of my most challenging moments. “Now, let’s get down to business.” He reaches for his phone again but I stop him with a shake of my head. “No, I don’t want to go over our schedule. I want to get to know you.”

“Why?” he asks skeptically.

“Because I think there’s a big disconnect between us, and if I’m going to truly help you out, then I think we need to get to know each other. It’s like talking to a stone wall when it comes to you. If I know you better, then I’ll be able to do my job better.”

“Can’t you just look shit up on the Internet?”

Of course that would be his comeback.

“Try talking to me in person and see what happens first. If that doesn’t work, then maybe I’ll resort to stalking you on the Internet.”

He lets out a long sigh and then looks around the restaurant, scoping out the place. Finally, he turns his attention back to me and gestures toward the back of the restaurant, where there’s a fireplace and comfortable chairs. “Want to sit back there? Less out in the open.”

The smile that wanted to appear earlier sneaks over my lips. “I think that’s perfect.”

He stands from his chair abruptly. “Claim a spot. I’ll order some food to be sent back there. Good with burgers and fries?”

“Perfect. And a Coke Zero, please.”

He gives me a curt nod and heads to the bar to place our order. I make my way to the fireplace, victory vibrating off my every step.

Burgers and fries with Walker Rockwell. We’re diving deep tonight and I’m finally going to crack open this hard nutshell Walker seems to bury his feelings under. Vivian is going to die!

I situate two Windsor chairs side by side, close enough so we’ll be able to hear each other but not so close that I’ll be sucking down his cologne the entire time.

Because he’s wearing some.

And it smells really good.

I rest my papers and tablet on the coffee table in front of the chairs and take a seat just in time for Walker to return with a drink for each of us in his hands. He takes a seat, his large frame eating up his chair.

Staring at the fire, he takes a sip of his water, keeping his eyes trained on anything but me. “What do you want to know?”

Always straight to the point.

“How about your favorite place to eat in Chicago?”

Slowly he twists his head and raises his eyebrow. “How is that getting to know me?”

“How is it not? Did you expect me to ask about all the deepest and darkest secrets of your childhood first?” I shake my head. “We have to build trust between each other first before we can move forward, and you build trust by slowly getting to know someone. So, let’s start easy. Where do you like to eat in Chicago?”

His jaw slowly works back and forth as he mulls over his answer. Finally, ending the silence that painfully stretches between us, he says, “Eleven City Diner.”

“A diner? That’s actually a little surprising.”

He twists his cup on the armrest of his chair. “I don’t do fancy. I like simple things.”

“I can agree with you on that. Fancy scares me and the portions are tiny with outrageous prices. Thank you for my pea that’s apparently worth two hundred dollars.” I laugh. He doesn’t. Ohh-kay. “What’s your favorite thing to order there?”

“Depends,” he answers, his voice so deep that it almost feels as though it rattles my bones. “Breakfast, I always order the French toast. Any other meal is a pastrami sandwich with Matza ball soup and red velvet cake.”

God, I should not find that answer adorable, but I do.

Matza ball soup?

Red velvet cake?

His answer softens the jagged edges that surround him, sanding them down, if only slightly.

“Oh, a sweets man. I would never have expected that.”

“Only at Eleven.” He turns back to the fire and sips his water.

How . . . cute.

That this big, strong, intimidating man likes to sit down in a diner and eat cake. The thought warms my heart when it really shouldn’t.

“I’m a carrot cake kind of girl myself.”

His brow raises. “Really?”

I nod. “There’s something about having a vegetable in my cake that makes me feel much better about eating it. Plus, cream cheese frosting is my jam.”

“Red velvet cake has cream cheese frosting.”

“But no carrots. That’s a very important factor, and if you really want to get crazy, some of the best carrot cake I’ve ever had has also contained nuts and coconut. A total delicacy.”

He slowly nods but doesn’t say anything, just stares at the fire in front of us.

“Have you ever had carrot cake?” I ask lamely. Of course he has. Any grown human would probably have had carrot cake by now.

“I have.”

“Did you like it?”

His eyes connect with mine. “Eleven has carrot cake. Sometimes I get that instead of red velvet.”

I gasp dramatically and press my hand to my heart. “Oh dear, Walker, did we just become cake pals?”

He turns away and says, “No.”

“Of course we did.” I reach out and poke his arm, his very muscular and stiff arm. His eyes land on the spot where I touched him and then lift up to me. Good God, don’t touch him, Kate. “Or maybe we can hold off on the whole ‘cake pals’ thing. Might be too much, too fast.”

“Good call,” he says.

“Have you ever made a cake?” I ask, desperately reaching for any topic of conversation.

He studies me for a few breaths and then asks, “Is that what you really want to ask me? If I’ve ever made a cake?”

God, he must think I’m so stupid. But since I’m already here, I might as well keep digging that hole of stupidity. “Yeah, it’s a simple question you should be able to answer.”

“Why is it a question that needs to be answered?”

“Shows me what your domestic capacity is, you know, in case something ever comes along where we need a Bobbie player to bake a cake.”

“When has that situation ever come up?”

I shrug, keeping up with this idiotic rabbit trail. “You never know. With today’s social media and the attempt to go viral with everything you post, baking a cake could bring us the kind of viewership we’re looking for.”

His sharp eyes look away and he lifts his glass of water. He takes a sip, swallows, and then says, “Yes, I’ve baked a cake before.”

I rub my hands together. “Oh yeah, this is good stuff. Now we’re getting somewhere.”

He turns to me, his eyes serious when he says, “Don’t even think about having me set up shop behind home plate to teach people how to bake a goddamn cake.”

I snort and quickly cover my nose from how dead serious he is. “I would never.”

“Yeah . . . sure.”

Chapter Eleven

WALKER

I wish I could read that smirk of hers better. Is she laughing at me or is my answer entertaining?

And why the fuck did I mention the red velvet cake?

Maybe because the minute I thought of Eleven, my mouth began to salivate. I wasn’t lying when I said I wasn’t a sweets man, but for some reason, their cakes get me every goddamn time.

Things Kate Chapman doesn’t need to know.

Or maybe she does.

Who fucking knows at this point? I’m still lost as to why I’m sitting in front of a fireplace with her, eating burgers and fries and talking about random crap rather than business.

But being the recluse that I am, the company is nice. In fact, when was the last conversation I had with a woman not baseball related?

The waitress dropped off our food a few seconds ago so I pop a fry in my mouth. I’m not completely inept when it comes to social interactions. I know how to hold a conversation, pretty good at it, actually, but when I’m around Bobbies staff, I feel awkward. Uncomfortable. Angry. I don’t want these people to get to know me. I don’t want to be their friends. Only a few choice people actually know who I truly am, what I’ve been through.

Kate is putting off the vibe of wanting to be one of those choice people. Which—sorry, babe, not going to happen. But from the eagerness in her eyes and the lean of her body language, I know I’m not going to get out of here without engaging in conversation, so I try to ease the tension building up inside of me and ask, “What about you? Where’s your favorite place to eat in Chicago?” I’ll pretty much ask anything to steer away from the ideas I know are forming in her head over the damn cake baking.

“I thought you’d never ask,” she replies with a dreamy look in her eyes. “The Meaty Legend deep dish from Gino’s.” She fans her face. “Lord Almighty, I could take down an entire pie by myself.”

“So, not a vegetarian,” I say, making her laugh, even though a second ago I watched her bite into her burger.

But that laugh . . . throaty and sexy. So sexy.

She nudges my foot with hers. “You can joke, imagine that.” I roll my eyes. “Totally not a vegetarian. I love meat way too much.”

“Gino’s is good. The ratatouille deep dish is my favorite.”

“Really? I would’ve pegged you as a Meaty Legend kind of guy.”

“A legend in the meat department for sure,” I answer, taking a bite out of my burger.

Kate’s mouth falls open. “Wow,” she says, blinking a few times. Hell, I don’t blame her. I’m surprised the comment flew past my lips too. Weirdly, Kate is making me feel comfortable, something I need to be acutely aware of. “And here I thought you weren’t as conceited as the other guys on the team, just a dick.”

Starting to feel more at ease, I say, “If you’re not a little conceited as a baseball player, then you’re never going to make it.”

“So, you’re saying it’s your job to be full of yourself?”

“Yeah.”

“Then how come you’ve been hanging your head in the dugout lately?”

Insightful. Not sure I like it.

“What happened to skimming the surface?”

“You’re right,” she answers and clears her throat. “That’s too deep of a question. We’ll get back to that question at a later date.”

Or we won’t.

“How often do you go on vacation?” she asks casually.

“Not enough.”

“Do you leave Chicago during the off-season? Your social media presence is lacking.”

“Because I couldn’t care less about posting shit about my life.”

“I could tell when you sent me that screenshot of you at the nursing home. After I got the email, I looked over your profile and saw your last post was from three months ago and it was a leaf you found on the ground that, in your words, had a striking resemblance to Ed Sheeran.” She scoffs. “I didn’t see it.”

I internally chuckle. That fucking leaf had Ed Sheeran written all over it. It was a popular fucking post.

“Clearly you didn’t look hard enough.”

“It was an absurd post that weirdly made me laugh.”

“Then why are you hating on my leaf?”

“Because you need to post more things like that. Like when you’re on vacation, post seashells you find that look like Ryan Reynolds.”

“Fans don’t need to know where I am every waking hour of the day.”

“No, but a small post or story here and there will humanize you a lot more than you think.”

“There were a lot of likes on my Ed Sheeran leaf.”

“More than I expected.” She laughs. “It was good.” She leans forward and takes a bite of her burger. Not an ounce of shyness as ketchup clings to the side of her mouth. That’s refreshing. “But back on topic—where do you like to go on vacation?”

I pick up a napkin and reach across to snag the drop of ketchup off her face. Surprised, she shyly takes the napkin I hand her, her eyes trained on me.

I look away.

Clear my throat.

“When I go on vacation—which is rare—I like to go up to my cabin on Fox Lake.”

“Oh, it’s gorgeous up there. I’ve been a few times with friends. You know, a wino weekend with the girls. You familiar?”

“Yup.” I down the rest of my water. “Always going on those wino trips with the girls.”

She wags her finger at me. “I knew you were. Seriously, though, do you drink wine?”

“Not much of a drinker at all,” I answer.

She doesn’t respond right away; instead, she tilts her head to the side and studies me. “Let me guess—the decision not to drink comes from something deep-rooted in the marrow of your bones that has shaped your soul over time, something you’re not interested in talking about over burgers and fries with your community events coordinator.”

I tip my drink toward her. “Perceptive.”

She dusts her shoulders off like a geek. “You know, I do tend to pick up on things pretty quickly. But, you know, if you ever want to dive deep into that conversation, I’m always here.”

“Never going to happen.”

She holds her hands up. “Now, now, now, never say never. We’re cake pals, after all. We could very well become confidantes.”

“We are not cake pals.”

“That’s what you say now, but after all of this is said and done and you’re upstairs in your hotel room recollecting our conversation, the smallest of smirks will tilt up your lips, and in your head—because you’ll never mutter the words out loud—you’ll admit that you are in fact cake pals with Kate Chapman.”

“Are you always this hyper?”

“You think I’m hyper right now?” She shakes her head. “This is me relaxed.”

“Jesus,” I mutter. “Then you’re a lot to handle.”

“I would actually say I’m an optimistic, positive, glass-half-full kind of girl. You know, the empathetic person you always cling to in your life because their heart is warm and you find comfort in that. Do you have someone like that in your life?”

“Can’t say that I do,” I answer, knowing damn well that I used to—my sister, Dawn.

“Well, see, now you can say that you do. This dinner might be the best thing that ever happens to you. Cake pal, warm-soul friend, convenient conversationalist, that’s me. I’m your girl. And since I know that you’re a glass-half-empty kind of guy—don’t even deny it, it’s written in the scowl on your forehead—I know that I can be quite an attribute to your arsenal. You’re going to want me on your side, Walker Rockwell.”

“You’re awfully confident.”

“So, it’s okay for you as a baseball player to be overly confident and cocky, but a measly community events coordinator like myself can’t have an ounce of confidence? Hmm?” She folds her arms over her chest and playfully stares me down.

“Where the hell did the Bobbies find you?” I ask, taking another sip of my water.

She smiles brightly. “I take that as a compliment.” She leans forward. “And I found them, they didn’t find me.”

Chapter Twelve

KATE

Color me shocked.

SHOCKED!

Walker Rockwell, Mr. Cranky Pants himself, has a sense of humor.

And a good one.

Why doesn’t he ever show this off? If marketing knew Walker was actually a good time, they would be eating that up. They always do. It’s why Cutler constantly has a lot of the spotlight on him. He’s personable and the type of guy everyone wants to be friends with.

If only the front office saw this side of Walker, they wouldn’t be thinking twice about trading him, as they’d be busy capitalizing on his personality in the best way possible.

The grumpy good-time guy.

I chuckle to myself, imagining Walker wearing a shirt with that slogan on it. He’d hate it, which would make it even funnier.

“Do you fish?” he asks, breaking me out of my thoughts.

“I do, and I’m absolutely terrible at it. I think I’ve caught five fish in all my years of trying. Fly-fishing is the hardest. I always end up tripping and filling my waders up with water, rendering them useless.”

“I might have tripped a time or two.”

“Not the almighty Walker Rockwell?” I feign shock.

He lightly shakes his head and says, “When I was a teenager, not now.”

“Of course not now. There’s no way you’d experience an ounce of humiliation at this time in your life.”

He lifts his brow, a get real look on his face. “I went zero for four today, striking out like a sorry motherfucker, and horribly shoving my foot in my mouth in front of a respected soldier. Humiliation runs through my veins on a daily basis.”

“Well . . . when you put it like that, that is humiliating.”

“Not going to sugarcoat it for me?”

“Not my job. I tell it like it is, and you sucked today.”

He leans back in his chair, eyes trained on me. “Can’t argue with you on that.” The side of his jaw ticks and I can’t tell if he’s content or if he’s angry at my admission. If he’s angry, it wouldn’t be the first time. “One of the worst things about playing baseball is everyone is a critic when it comes to your job.”

“But the millions in your bank account make up for that criticism.”

He chuckles and, oh my God, it’s one of the best sounds I’ve ever heard.

“The stacked bank account does help.” He shifts his large body, the chair squeaking beneath him.

“And you know criticism only makes us stronger.”

“Or it gets in your head and eats you alive,” he counters, head lowered. Oh. That’s . . . that’s very real.

“Don’t let it,” I answer in a matter-of-fact tone.

“It’s not that simple.”

“It can be. You just overcomplicate things.”

His brow raises in question. “Giving baseball advice now?”

I pretend to examine my nails and say, “I’m all kinds of helpful.”

“And you thought baseball players are cocky,” he scoffs.

“Looks as if you guys are rubbing off on me.” I wipe my hands on my napkin and turn toward Walker, bringing my feet up on my seat, a position the goliath of a man next to me would never be able to sit in. “If you could have dinner with three baseball players, past or present, who would they be?”

The smallest of smiles peeks past his lips as he rubs his palm along his cheek.

“Easy. Mickey Mantle, Derek Jeter, and Lou Gehrig.”

“Bit of a Yankees fan growing up?”

“Grew up in Indiana but fell in love with the Yankees. I was that kid.”

“Any particular reason why those three? Mickey Mantle was known for drinking too much and womanizing, while Derek Jeter was one of the hardest working, clean-cut players of his generation. Quite a contrast.”

“All Hall of Famers.”

“So, have you always admired Mickey Mantle?”

He shakes his head, surprising me. “He was magic on the baseball field, but that’s not why I want to have dinner with him. I want to ask him why.”

“Why what?”

The intensity in Walker’s eyes is electric, addicting, as he talks. He’s a man of few words, but when he does command the conversation, it’s like he commands your soul.

He shifts in his seat. The usual pent-up tension in his shoulders has eased and he actually looks as if he’s relaxing a little. Finally.

“I want to know why he spent his nights wasting away his talent. Why he didn’t stay healthy. Why he didn’t make the most of his talent.”

“Oh . . .” I scan the room around us and then lean forward. “Do you think he’d tell you?”

The lightest of chuckles pops out of Walker’s mouth as he shakes his head. “No, I don’t.”

“Wasted dinner invite, then.”

“Guess so.” He twists his water glass again, a tendency I’ve noticed. “What about you—who would you invite to dinner?”

“Honestly?”

He nods.

Unapologetically, I say, “Giancarlo Stanton, Bryce Harper, and Kris Bryant.”

Silence.

He blinks.

His brows pinch together.

“Why those three?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” I wiggle my brows at him, which grants me the biggest eye roll of the night. “They sure know how to wear a uniform well. You know what I mean?”

“You’re one of those girls—a cleat chaser.”

“I take offense to that.” I lift my chin in defiance. “I am not a cleat chaser. I just know when an athlete wears his uniform properly.”

“And what’s properly?”

Getting comfortable, I start ticking off my responses on my hand, one finger at a time. “First of all, the jerseys should never be too baggy. I hate when players step up to the plate with these blousy tops partly undone. What’s so great about Giancarlo is his jersey is tailored perfectly to his chest and arms, giving us the perfect snapshot of what he has on underneath. And then there are the pants. Baggy pants look like sweatpants, therefore, they look sloppy. And every baseball player should wear their pants at their knees.”

“Not all of those guys wear their pants high, and I don’t either.”

“I know. It’s why you don’t win an award in the jersey department. Wearing your pants at your ankles is a blemish to your overall appeal.”

“Appeal?” His brow arches. “I lose appeal over not pulling my pants up around my knees?”

“Easily. And what about the whole ‘slump’ thing?”

“What ‘slump’ thing?” he asks, looking more agitated than before.

“You know, when a player feels as though they’re in a slump, they decide to change something up, like shave their beard, get new batting gloves . . . wear your pants high.”

He mulls that over, his fingers raking over his five o’clock shadow. “Not everyone believes in slumps.”

“Do you?”

Another thoughtful pause. “If I didn’t, then I would think I lost all my talent overnight.” He sighs. “Hell, sometimes I do believe that.”

“You know that’s not the truth,” I say, seeing an ounce of vulnerability past his tough exterior. “We all have our moments.”

“Yeah, I’ve been having a moment all season. Not sure it’s referred to as a moment when it’s lasted for months.”

“Maybe you need to switch things up, then.”

“What do you mean?” he asks. “Hit left-handed?”

I chuckle. “I mean, if you really want to throw everyone a curveball—see that baseball reference?” I wink, and he rolls his eyes. “Then by all means, hit lefty, but I was thinking more of your routine. What do you currently do?”

“As a routine?”

I nod. “Yeah. Wait.” I hold up my hand. “Let me guess. You wake up, and instead of dragging your body to the coffeemaker, you prefer a cold shower instead.” His face remains neutral. “And then you make some kind of pre-workout drink because, not that I’m looking or anything, you have a lot of muscles, and muscles usually come along when you do things like that.” I hold up my arm and flex, showing off nothing. “See, no pre-workout drink, no muscles.” The corner of his mouth lifts and I find such great joy in such a small movement. “After you suckle your drink—”

“I don’t suckle.”

“Good to know.” I pretend to write a note in my hand because I’m nervous, and when I’m nervous I do stupid things. “Walker Rockwell doesn’t suckle—noted.” I close my hand like a notebook and say, “Then you work out and probably have some form of post-workout protein drink followed by another shower, drive to the stadium, more training, maybe a meeting, more training, then getting ready for the game, more workout drinks . . . am I pegging you correctly?”

“You have me showering too much.”

I tap the side of my head. “Saver of water, I like that.”

He shakes his head in humor, almost as if to say that he can’t take my ridiculousness, and I don’t even care that I might be making an ass of myself, because he looks relaxed, he looks open, ready to talk. He doesn’t look as if he’s about to shut me down any second. And that, my friends, is a giant improvement, something I can be incredibly happy about.

Chapter Thirteen

WALKER

“Have you always been a big baseball fan?” I ask. I’m impressed with how much she can talk about the sport.

I’ve run across my fair share of cleat chasers, some I’ve gotten lost in on occasion until I learned my lesson, but none of them have ever had the kind of insight that Kate has when it comes to baseball.

It’s interesting. Makes me appreciate her as more than just someone to help me clean up my image. She’s cool to talk to, something I never thought I’d think when I first met her, given her fierce business persona, but I guess she needs to be cold when dealing with dicks such as myself.

She’s warmed up, though, and a small part of me likes it.

“Grew up loving the sport. I have two older brothers and one younger who played but were never good enough to move past high school. But we’d spend our allowance on going to games. We’d always sit in the nosebleeds, bring our binoculars, and have the time of our lives. When this job became available, I knew I had to apply.”

“Where did you work before?”

“The Children’s Hospital outside of Chicago. I did special events there. We actually met three years ago for a brief second. You were touring the facilities and handing out signed memorabilia with some of your teammates. It was a brief passing and quick handshake, but we did meet before.”

“St. Francis?” I ask, not being able to picture the pint-sized beauty in my head.

She nods. “Yup. Worked there for a few years until I moved over to the Bobbies. I still can’t believe I got the job. I feel as though I have to pinch myself every morning to remind myself this job isn’t a dream. I love it.”

“You like working with temperamental jocks?”

“You’re the only one who gives me gruff.”

I sit taller in my chair. “Kaysen Wagner is the shyest guy on the team—he’s easy to work with?”

“Mm-hmm.” She nods. “He’s so shy that he just does what I say. It’s nice. Trust me, you’re the most difficult.”

I pick a piece of lint off my pants. “Well, someone has to make part of your job hard.”

“Yeah, thanks for that.”

“Anytime.” I lean back and study her—the smile crossing her face, her freckles that peek past her makeup, makeup she doesn’t need.

She’s beautiful. Curvy with deep brown eyes and a sexy laugh . . . Christ, I’ve never thought a laugh could be sexy before.

Nor have I sat down for hours just talking to a woman.

Not anymore.

Not after I realized being a professional baseball player has its drawbacks, and one of the biggest ones is trying to decipher who’s genuine and who isn’t. There are so many women out there trying to trap you that it makes it tough to date. So, when I meet a woman who can actually hold my attention, converses with me easily, it feels . . . incredible.

“If you weren’t playing baseball, what would you be doing?” Kate asks, interrupting my thoughts and bringing me back to the conversation.

“Not sure. Never thought about anything else.”

“Okay, so if your leg breaks in half tomorrow from someone sliding into home, what do you do next?”

“Knock on wood,” I say, leaning over to the coffee table and giving the hard surface three knocks with my index finger knuckle. She chuckles and waits for my answer. I give it some thought and then say, “Live a simple life on all the money I’ve saved and invested.”

She lets out an irritated sigh and asks, “What if you didn’t have money to fall back on?”

“Then I didn’t listen to my dad well.”

“You’re starting to make me angry.”

“I can tell. Your nostrils are flaring.”

She slaps the armrest. “Can you just play the game? Is that too hard to ask?”

That temper, just like mine.

I fucking like it.

But unlike me, attached to the temper is a softer side, a compassionate side. She listens, she responds. She’s genuinely interested in getting to know me. Not the baseball side, but just me, Walker. Not sure I’ve ever sat down and chatted with someone like her before.

“I haven’t thought about it. It’s always been baseball. Even if it’s not fun anymore,” I add, trailing off.

“Not fun anymore?” Her feet hit the ground. “How can you say that?”

I grip the back of my neck, my palm getting sweaty from my stupid admission. “Too deep. Skim the surface.”

“But if our catcher doesn’t like playing baseball, then that’s a problem. We need to fix that.” She stands and looks around, almost unsure as to what she’s going to do next.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to get you to love the game again.”

“Not necessary.”

“Walker—”

“Kate, don’t fucking ruin this by digging too deep.”

“I’m not trying to ruin anything, but maybe that’s the problem. Maybe you’re having a hard time because you don’t love it.”

“Of course that’s the problem, or one of the problems. Doesn’t take a psychologist to figure that out. If you’re doing something you don’t love, then you’re not going to be able to perform as well as if you do love it, unless you’re some sort of phenomenon.” I stand as well and pocket my phone. “It’s late. I should get going.”

“So, how long has it been since you stopped loving it?”

“Long enough.”

“Are you really going to short answer me now?” She smirks and bats her eyelashes in a joking way. “We’ve come so far. Think of all we’ve talked about tonight, from cake to baseball, to fishing, to . . . uh . . . what else did we talk about?”

“How to wear my uniform.”

She snaps her fingers at me. “Yes, your uniform. We’ve conversed on a gauntlet of topics. Don’t you want to touch upon this one? It would just add to the camaraderie we’ve developed.” She bats her eyelashes more.

It does nothing to break my wall.

“No.”

She smacks the back of the chair in frustration. “God, you’re annoying. Don’t you see I’m trying to help you? If we figure out the source of your displeasure, then—” She pauses, as if a lightbulb has just turned on in her head. “Oh my . . . is it”—she leans forward and whispers—“girl problems?” She winces and cringes at the same time.

“No,” I answer in an exasperated tone.

“Is that the only word you know?”

“No.” I hold back my smirk.

“Okay, so no baby mama drama or creepy, trolling, lingering ex we need to worry about?”

“No. I don’t have time to deal with any of that shit.”

She bobs her head up and down. “Cool, cool. And no children that you know about?”

“What the hell are you doing? Writing up a dating profile for me?”

“Would that be something you want me to do? Because I’ve done a few for my friends and, dare I say, I have a knack for it? Three out of four of them are happily in relationships while the fourth is living her best life looking for fun rather than love. But they all give me credit because of my brilliant profiles. Interested?” She wiggles her eyebrows.

“No.”

“Ugh.” She flops back in her chair. “God, you’re no fun.”

“Sorry to burst your misconception about me.” I start to move away.

“Hey, where are you going?”

“To bed.”

“But we’re not done here,” she challenges as I take a step back.

“We are.”

I start to walk away when she says, “We are so not done, Rockwell.”

We really are.

Without letting her get in another word, I walk away, shutting down whatever she was going to do next.

This was stupid, sitting down with her, letting her get to know me like that, but then again, did I really have a choice? My career is hanging on by a thread at this point. If I was actually hitting the goddamn ball, this probably wouldn’t be as big of a deal as it seems, but having a bad reputation and not performing is two strikes—one more and I’m fucked.

When I reach my room, I shuck my shirt and pants and head to the bathroom, where I quickly brush my teeth and take a piss. It’s nine o’clock, way later than I thought. Did the time really go by that fast with Kate?

Once I’m ready for bed, I drop my boxer briefs and climb into yet another stark hotel bed. I pick up my phone to torture myself and scroll through the negative comments about me when my phone rings.

Roark.

“What?” I answer.

“And here I thought that maybe you were dead. Good job ignoring me.”

“Wasn’t in the mood for a lecture.”

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t in the mood to deal with the shit storm you laid down today either. Christ, man, what the hell were you thinking?”

“Clearly, I wasn’t.” I let out a long breath. “Cutler caught me off guard, got under my skin, and I snapped.”

“You seem to be snapping a lot lately.”

Because I’m tired, aching, and can’t seem to find the joy of going up to the plate anymore.

“I’m working on it.”

“What can I do to help?”

“Ease the fuck up.” I drag my hand over my face. “I just need everyone to ease the fuck up. Give me space, let me figure this shit out.”

“I can do that, as long as you promise me you’re going to put on a smile for the camera and not say another goddamn negative thing.”

“Fine.”

“Fine? How about a promise?”

“I said, fine.”

“I don’t want to be a dick to you, Walker. I’m doing my damnedest to make sure you stay with the Bobbies. I need you to give me a little help.”

“I know.” I take a deep breath. “Working on it.”

“Good. Now get some rest and finish up this away trip with some hits. I’ll touch base with you when you’re back in Chicago.”

Get some rest. Get some hits. Get along with Cutler. Get your attitude in gear. I’m so fucking sick of being told what to do. And now, I have a five-foot-five community events coordinator telling me I need fixing.

I just want them all to leave me alone, and then maybe, maybe I’ll work out how to fix it myself.

Chapter Fourteen

KATE

Ugh.

I squeeze my eyes shut while my hands stay clasped together.

Come on, Walker. You’re better than that.

He steps out of the batter’s box and angrily adjusts his batting gloves, undoing them and then strapping them back together. He takes a deep breath, holds his bat up in front of him, and stares at it for a few seconds before stepping back into the batter’s box.

Three and two, two outs, and the Bobbies are down by one. The last pitch Walker chased out of the strike zone would’ve been ball four.

Nerves build up in the pit of my stomach as if they’re playing game seven in the World Series rather than a regular season game.

Ever since the long conversation I had with Walker, I’ve felt this weird connection with him and I can’t seem to shake it. I saw a slice of vulnerability in his eyes when we were talking, and I fear he doesn’t show that side of himself very often, which is the reason why I have this overwhelming need to cheer him on, to want to see him do great things despite his surly attitude.

The pitcher winds up and delivers the pitch, a high fastball that Walker swings at and misses.

Fuck.

“Kate, can I speak with you?” Audrey, my boss, asks.

I spring from my seat and answer enthusiastically, “Of course.”

I join her on the couch in the back of the visitor’s press box where she’s set up, looking over all of her events.

I take a seat and try to erase the nauseated feeling I have over Walker once again striking out. At least he has an RBI under his belt tonight, a deep fly to left center that scored a run, but even after that hit, I could tell he wasn’t happy from the scowl on his brow.

Something needs to change and I have an idea on how to make that happen.

“Okay, want to talk about the Firefighters Ball?”

“Sure.” I fold my hands on my lap. “I’d love to.”

“Are you familiar with it?”

“A little,” I answer honestly, wishing I’d had more time to research the event. I wasn’t sure Audrey was going to bring it up since she’s taken the lead on the event.

“Not a problem.” Did I mention how nice Audrey is? One of the best bosses ever. “Every year the Bobbies host a ball at the Navy Pier Ballroom. Have you visited that space before?”

“Yes, it’s breathtaking. We did an event there for St. Francis once and I couldn’t get over how beautiful the space was. And the staff was a pleasure to work with.”

“They truly are. We have a little over one thousand people attending, from baseball players to firefighters to some of the most prominent people in the city. It’s invitation only and all the proceeds go to the firefighters and the families who’ve lost a loved one while in service. We have a silent auction and the plates are one thousand dollars a head.”

“Wow.” I feel my eyes widen. “That’s a lot of money.”

“It is, but it’s worth it. We’re auctioning off memorabilia from past and present players, season tickets, and luxury box seats. Our partners have also offered some wonderful auction items that will raise a lot of money. Our goal is to raise one million dollars.”

“That’s a hefty goal.”

“It is, but we hit it every year. We make it fun for the attendees, making sure it’s not stuffy but actually entertaining. We always do a casino night, which goes over very well. We bring in professional casino dealers, set up all sorts of games, and add live music, performers, and delicious food. It’s one of my favorite nights of the year. Plus, it’s black tie, which makes it that much more fun, at least for the ladies, since we get to dress up.”

“Sounds like so much fun. What can I do to help?”

A smile pulls at the corners of Audrey’s mouth. “I was hoping you were going to ask that. Since you’ve been developing a close relationship with all the players, I would love for you to be the athlete liaison. We not only need to figure out who’s attending, but we’re also going to need some of them to make speeches, as well as be introduced personally to some of our important donors.”

“How many players would you like to attend?”

“Ten. They must be high-profile players.”

“So, the starting lineup and maybe a pitcher or two.”

“For the most part, yes. Coach Hopkins’s father was a firefighter so he’s always a huge supporter of this event. We tell him who we want at the ball and he makes it happen, no questions asked.”

“That’s amazing. So you won’t really need me after all.” I wink, letting her know I’m joking.

She chuckles and starts tapping away on her tablet. “Oh, we need you. You probably have the most important job—getting the guys to follow directions. It’s going to be like herding a bunch of toddlers, especially once they start drinking.”

“I’m up for the challenge. Do I need to worry about speeches?”

“Those will be written up for the players, but we do need to choose a few speakers from the bunch. Maybe drum up some interest, see who’s willing to stand in front of a podium. If none of them, I say we play a little Russian roulette, speaker edition.”

“Oh, I like that idea a lot. Is it bad that I’m hoping to pull the trigger on one of these guys and slap them with a surprise speech?”

Conspiratorially, Audrey leans in. “I’m hoping for it too. After being with the Bobbies for so long, you realize you find great pleasure in torturing the players. It’s one of the many perks.”

“A very good one, at that.” The crowd erupts into a cheer after the crack of a bat echoes into the box. That can’t be good. I glance up at one of the monitors and note a batter from the opposing team on second. Come on, boys. “What’s with the team lately? It’s almost as if they’re all tired.”

“Happens every year as we near the All-Star break. The team gets burned out, but then after a week of rest, they come barreling out of their beds ready to play.”

“I sure hope so. I would love to see another pennant win.”

“We all would, Kate.”

“YOU KNOW, I’m starting to get offended,” I say as I spot my friend waiting for me by the door.

Dan plasters on his charming smile and says, “I’m a busy man.”

“Too busy for your dear friend?”

He grabs me by the shoulder and leads me to the bar. He called me up at eight and asked if I wanted to meet him for a few drinks and late-night mozzarella sticks. Needing the break after my long days, and wanting to see how he was doing, I took him up on the offer, even though it meant peeling my pajama pants off and putting on a pair of jeans. He’s lucky I like him.

“Never too busy. That’s why you’re here with me right now.”

“Always the charmer.”

He pulls out my bar stool for me and motions to the seat. “Milady.”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t be corny.”

Dan motions to the bartender, who quickly comes over. He doesn’t even flinch at the sight of Dan, which makes me laugh, because either the guy is obtuse as to who’s sitting at his bar, or Dan is a regular and has established an affinity with the guy.

“Two orders of mozzarella sticks, a Coke Zero for the lady, and a water for me.”

“Water?” I ask, a tilt to my brow.

“That, you question? Not the two orders of mozzarella sticks?”

“No, because I know that I have no shame in consuming at least ten sticks. Two orders will barely suffice.”

He chuckles and shakes his head. “Just don’t hog all the marinara sauce.”

“Can’t make any promises.” I bump into his shoulder and he returns a smile.

“So, how’s the job? Are the players all being dicks to you?”

“No.” I shake my head, even though I want to say yes about one specific guy. Although, he did turn a new leaf the other night. “They’re pretty cool. Some need a little extra shoving, but for the most part they all show up and never let me down.”

“Even Rockwell?” Dan asks with a raised brow.

I chuckle. “He’s gotten better.”

Dan scoffs and shakes his head, but doesn’t say anything else. “What about being in the city? Are you liking it? It’s different than the outskirts.”

“I am. It’s started to feel like home rather quickly. I went to this hole-in-the-wall restaurant the other day for a gyro pita and it was so good, I went back for dinner.” I bite on my finger as Dan laughs. “They might know me by name now.”

“That quickly?” Dan asks with a raise of his brow as our drinks are placed in front of us.

“Let’s just say I’ve gone more often than I should. But in my defense, it’s right next to my apartment building and I haven’t had much time to go to the grocery store.”

“Have your personal assistant go to the store for you. That’s what I do.”

I snort so hard I feel a little bit of snot at the tip of my nose. I pick up a napkin and wipe. “Oh, sure, let me just ask my imaginary personal assistant to go grocery shopping for me.”

“Oh, yeah.” Dan scratches the side of his cheek. “Kind of forgot you’re a mere peasant compared to me.”

“You’re an asshole.”

He laughs and grabs me by the shoulder, pulling me into his familiar warmth. “Want to borrow my assistant?”

“No. I really don’t.”

“She’s good.” Dan takes a sip of his water. “She leaves mints on my pillow.”

“Before or after you fuck her?” I give him a cheeky grin.

“Hey now.” He turns to me. “I only fucked my assistant once and after that night, we both agreed we’d keep it professional.”

“How noble.” I sip my drink just as the mozzarella sticks are placed in front of us. “How is it not awkward around her?”

“Oh, I never said it wasn’t awkward. Just that we’re professional about it.”

“You need to make better life decisions.”

“You’re right,” he sighs. “To this day, you’re probably the best life decision I’ve made.”

“Are you getting sentimental with me?” I ask, hand to chest.

He picks up a mozzarella stick and dips it in the marinara sauce. He studies it for a second before taking a bite. “You know, you’re the only friend of mine that’s a girl that I’ve never fucked.”

“I’m honored.” I chuckle and then ask, “Are my thighs too thick for you?”

He tilts his head in my direction and rolls his eyes. “You know your body is slamming, Kate.” He turns in his seat completely to face me, resting his feet on one of the rungs of my stool. “I think I just realized the value of our friendship and don’t ever want to fuck that up. You helped me through college, one of my darker moments in life. Now, that’s not to say I never thought about fucking you, because I’m a man and we think about shit like that, but I never had the urge to actually put a foot forward on the thought and it’s because I don’t ever want to mess up our friendship. It’s far too valuable to me for a quick fuck.”

I wipe the grease off my fingers and place my hand on top of Dan’s, remembering those challenging college years. The many nights I had to peel him off the floor from drinking too much, the conversations we shared over his rough childhood, the fame he quickly found, questioning if people actually like him or if it’s because he was a celebrity on campus.

Then, when my youngest brother died, he was by my side when he could be, taking time off for me.

We’ve had each other’s backs through the ups and downs of life.

“Always there for each other,” I say.

He takes my hand in his and replies, “Always.”

I smile and pick up another mozzarella stick. “So, we’re both aware that there will be no fucking in our future. Tell me, any lucky ladies crawling around your bed?”

“Nothing long lasting,” Dan answers.

“What happened to wanting to settle down?” I ask. “Remember all those long conversations in college, hovering over a pint of chocolate ice cream with chocolate sprinkles, talking about how you want kids and a house with a treehouse that you can pretend is for the kids but it’s really for you?”

He chuckles. “The wife would never know that treehouse would really be my man cave.”

I nudge him with my toe. “Exactly. What happened to that?”

“Popularity got in the way. It’s hard to settle down right now, you know?”

“I could see that. But you could still try.”

“Worried about me?” he asks, brow raised.

“You know I’m always worried about you,” I say, growing serious. “Sometimes I think you need to slow down, take a breath, find peace.”

He motions to the bartender. “Whiskey, neat.” He turns to me and grins that contagious grin that tells me while everything on the outside is good, on the inside, everything is not. “What makes you think I haven’t found peace?”

“From the mere fact that you just ordered a drink when I pointed that out.”

“Didn’t expect for you to get serious with me. You know I need something heavy to get me through such conversations.”

I give him a look. “I’m serious.”

“What do you want me to say, Kate?”

“I want to make sure you’re not lonely.” I reach out and place my hand on top of his. His eyes glance at the connection. “Are you lonely?”

He glances up at me. “Are you?”

I give it some thought. “I’m not sure I have time to think about being lonely. And I’m content with where I’m at, but I know you’ve always thrived off having people around you.”

The bartender drops off Dan’s drink and he takes a large swig before setting the cup down. “I have my moments, but then I’m on to the next location and don’t have enough time to spend alone in my apartment.” He tips my chin up with his finger. “But that’s why I have you close to me now, to fill those empty nights.”

“You know that’s not going to happen. I’ve seen you twice since I’ve moved.”

He smirks. “Then I’ll just have to make a better attempt at seeing you.” He downs the rest of his drink and asks for another.

Chapter Fifteen

WALKER

I peel my jersey off my shoulders and slouch into my locker. What a fucking game. We ended up winning in the ninth thanks to Ryot knocking the ball over the fence. It was a much-needed win.

“Good game, Ryot,” Penn says as he walks by. “Didn’t Littleton know not to hang a curveball where you’re concerned?”

“I think he forgot that memo,” Ryot says as he hands out some more high fives.

Retreating back into my locker, I drape a towel over my head and clasp my hands in front of me. What a fucking shitty game . . . for me. In all the years I’ve played this game, I never would’ve expected to have such a hard time up at the plate for this long, nor would I expect to have such a hate for the game.

But I hate it. Day in and day out, I feel this weight of disdain piling on top of me.

Over the last month, my last name has traveled farther down the lineup, no longer in the fourth position, but holding steady at number eight, which is a fucking disgrace in my eyes since I’ve always been the cleanup hitter.

Can’t unload the bases if you can’t even make contact with the ball.

“Cutler, Rockwell, put your jerseys back on,” Coach calls out. “We have a paid meet-and-greet.”

Hell . . .

Snapping to stand, I fit my arms through my jersey and fix my hat on my head as Penn does the same, a smile on his face. He pitched a pretty good game. He started to fade in the sixth, his drive-through suffering. I approached him on the mound, called him a few choice names, lighting a fire under his ass, and he demolished the next inning, giving our relief pitchers a great setup. I caught his eye in the dugout before he went to ice his arm. I could see faint appreciation, or at least that’s what it looked like until he flipped me off and walked away.

Buttoning up my jersey, I walk toward the locker room exit and meet Penn there. Before walking through the door, he turns to me and says, “Don’t say anything stupid this time.”

“No shit,” I tersely reply.

Flashing that annoying smirk, he says, “Thought you might need the reminder.”

Ignoring him, I push past the bane of my existence, knocking his shoulder in the process, and head into the hallway, where I stop abruptly at the sight of a curvy figure walking toward us. Brownish-blonde hair, freckles . . .

“Thank you so much for doing this, boys.”

Fuck, she’s gorgeous.

I’ve forced myself to forget just how gorgeous she is, especially after spending an evening with her, which, let’s be honest, was a really bad fucking idea. I learned things about her—not just surface things—which only made me want to get to know her more. She was easy to talk to, she listened intently, and she asked stupid, but thoughtful, questions. She made this brick of a man feel something, and that was more terrifying than anything.

Seeing her now brings back all of those feelings.

I tug on the bill of my hat and mumble, “Yeah, no problem.”

I can feel Penn studying me, the soft tone in my voice, the way my gaze slides over Kate. And from the corner of my eye, I see that annoying grin spread across his face. He can see it, my body language, my unease. Nothing slips past him, especially where I’m concerned. He knows I fucking like her. The only question is, what’s he going to do with this information?

“Follow me,” Kate says, completely oblivious. “A quick background—they’re a father and son combo who moved away from Chicago a year ago and are diehard fans. They love you two and are pretty much bursting at the seams to meet you.” She stops in front of the door where the fans are waiting and turns toward the both of us. “Do you have any questions?”

“What are you doing after this?” Penn asks with a sly grin that grates on my nerves for an entirely different reason.

Before I can stop myself, I slap him in the stomach. “Be a goddamn professional.”

Chuckling, he asks, “You want me to be a professional? Pretty sure I was the one who carried the meet-and-greet on my back last time because you’re an idiot.”

“Hey, focus,” Kate snaps. “We need smiles on both your faces. Go in there, do your thing, and for the love of God, don’t talk to each other. It’s easier that way.”

“Sure, Kate,” Penn says, brushing by me.

When he’s out of the way, I glance at Kate, who looks at me sternly, those eyes eating me up on the spot. How much does she know about my rivalry with Cutler? Because from the way she just spoke to us, it seems as though she’s at least vaguely familiar with our hatred.

But how familiar?

I EASE into the ice bath, a sharp hiss escaping past my lips as my entire body lights up with needles prickling every sore muscle inside of me, which is everywhere.

We have an off day today, but even though they say it’s an off day, it really isn’t. Not for me. I just spent the last two hours in the cages, focusing on my swing, taking hits off the tee and hitting ball after ball from our hitting coach.

My swing felt good.

My focus was there.

And my mechanics seem to have connected in all the right ways.

Thank God Ryot belted one last night to win the game and take the series. We need the momentum moving forward, and even though my bat wasn’t where I needed it to be, I threw out two motherfuckers at second and made a diving play at the plate. Defensively, I was doing my job, just need my offense to pick up.

I’m almost desperate enough to get a hit at this point that I’m considering raising my pants to my knees for a change. Wouldn’t that just make Kate’s fucking day?

“How do your hands feel?” Ryot asks as he walks into the icing room in only his boxer briefs, just like I did.

“Fine.”

“Are you sure? I would’ve sworn your skin has peeled off with as many balls you’ve been hitting lately.” He lowers himself into the ice bath next to me. “Motherfucker,” he says in a strangled voice.

“Hands are fine.”

“Maybe you need an actual break. You haven’t taken a day off in weeks. You’ve got to be dead tired, man. Ask Coach for a rest day.”

“Never.” Not now, not when I need to prove myself.

“We all take them, Walker. You need a mental health day every once in a while. It’s a long season.”

“I know.” I lean back, letting the ice hit my neck as my arms stay propped up on the sides of the bath. “I think I had a breakthrough this morning, though. Everything felt right. My swing, my grip, the connection of the bat with the ball. It just clicked.”

“Good. So, take the rest of the day off.”

“Plan on it.”

Just then the doors to the ice room open up and the sound of heels click across the floor. I glance up to find Kate wearing a killer pair of black pants that smooth tightly over her legs and curvaceous hips. The red top she’s wearing is tucked in at the waist with the top few buttons undone, showing off a lacy undergarment.

Fuck . . . she’s hot.

And that lipstick looks good on her.

She pushes her long, silky hair behind her ear and holds her ever-present tablet close to her chest as she looks up. At first her eyes go to my chest, curiosity taking over her gaze as she studies my defined muscles. But before she spends too much time staring, she snaps her gaze up to my eyes and smiles bashfully.

“Um, sorry for interrupting, but I wanted to catch you before you left. I was wondering if I could have a minute with you when you’re done?”

“Why?” I ask, my voice sounding harsher than intended.

“I have some events to go over with you.”

“Read them off to me right here. I’m not doing anything but icing.”

She shifts on her feet and sticks her hand in her back pocket. “I have something I have to do right now, but when you’re done, can you meet me in the players’ suite?”

“Upstairs?”

She nods. “Yeah. I’ll be waiting. Thanks.”

She quickly turns on her heel and heads out the door, giving me a brief glimpse of her ass before she vanishes.

Ryot must catch me staring because he says, “Dude, could you be any more obvious?”

I sink lower into the ice bath. “Obvious about what?”

“About wanting to fuck her.”

“I don’t want to fuck her.”

Ryot scoffs. “Okay. Keep telling yourself that, but the minute she walked across the tiled floor, your eyes narrowed in and never once stopped trying to strip her down to nothing.”

I shrug. “Her shirt was nice.”

Ryot barks with laughter. “Hell, you liked what was under her shirt.”

From the small glimpse I got . . . I did.

It’s not a secret that Kate is hot and all kinds of my type. Not only is she beautiful with her mysteriously dark eyes and the little freckles that dot her nose, but she’s the type of girl you hope to come home to after a long road trip. A good girl. A relationship girl. A smart and intelligent girl who knows better than to risk her job to do anything with me.

“Whatever,” I answer maturely.

“Are you going to do anything about it?”

“About what?”

“Your obvious feelings.” Ryot makes a production of rolling his eyes dramatically.

“There are no feelings, and even if there were, she’s off-limits.”

“Bet you can get away with a quick fuck in a conference room.”

I would be lying if I said the thought hadn’t passed through my mind a few times, but I always quickly tamp it down.

Trying to get out of the “hot seat” I ask, “Did you see that Redding got pegged last night? He’s out for ten days.”

“Changing the subject about an opposing player? You’re pathetic, man.”

Yeah, pathetic, that’s exactly what I am. My entire body has settled into a state of numbness, not just from the ice, but from my goddamn life. How much more of this agony? I check the clock. Fuck. Ten more minutes.

“We don’t have to talk at all,” I suggest while closing my eyes.

“And now you’re shutting me out. Real cool, man. You’re making it hard to be your best friend.”

“Who said you were my best friend?” I ask, a small smile pulling at my lips.

“Fuck you,” he huffs. “If I have to put up with your grumpy ass on a daily basis then I’m claiming the title.”

“Do whatever the fuck you want.” I take a deep breath and let it out, trying to focus on what’s to come when I’m done icing down.

The players’ suite is for large parties and season ticket holders to grab a drink before a game. There would be no reason for us to meet there. What is Kate up to?

Chapter Sixteen

KATE

I lean against the wall right outside the ice room and press my head against the hard surface while clutching my tablet to my chest.

Oh.

My.

God.

When the trainers told me Walker was icing down, I didn’t think much of it. That’s why I marched into the ice room to ask him to meet me, not expecting to see him without his shirt on, hair all mussed up, and his scruff thicker than yesterday.

And, of course, all I could look at was his chest, the definition in his thick pecs, the perfect circle of his nipples. Then there were his arms with his carved-out shoulders and boulder-like biceps that popped even when he wasn’t flexing. When I said he was a mammoth of a man, I wasn’t kidding. He’s huge, which only makes him that much more devastatingly handsome.

Gathering myself, I push off the wall and head up to the players’ suite. I’ve no clue how much time Walker has left in the ice bath, but I want to make sure I’m ready for him.

Today is the perfect day to have a little fun. There aren’t a lot of people in the offices, the players are taking the day off, and the day-to-day operations are minimal given there’s no game tonight, so I couldn’t have found more perfect timing.

I press the up button to the elevator and luck out when the doors open right away. I hit the button for the suite level and hope and pray Walker is going to be receptive to my idea.

The elevator doors open and I head straight to the large players’ suite.

I hope I didn’t push him too hard the other night. I felt as though we had a breakthrough, and the last thing I would want is for him to go back to being his cantankerous self around me.

Although, wasn’t that what he was back in the ice room? Short with me? Cantankerous?

Possibly, but the fact that he was wet and shirtless while using his clipped tone somewhat excused his brusque attitude. I could handle it better because I saw his nipples.

Man nipples that were all tight and pointy from the cold water. Maybe weird, but I thought it was really hot. He has great nipples . . . really great.

Flickable.

Just . . . lovely.

The air conditioner in the room kicks on, startling me from my thoughts of nipples and causing me to laugh quietly to myself. Daydreaming about a man’s nipples. Honestly, is this how far I’ve really come? With a shake of my head, I survey the way I’ve set up the room.

It looks . . . cheesy. And for the first time today, I’m second-guessing my idea.

Is he going to hate this?

Probably. He’s going to see what I’ve set up and walk right back out the door he came in. He’s not one to spare someone’s feelings, it seems, so there’s a really good chance of him taking one look at the room and leaving without a parting word.

Despite the looming rejection that I can feel heavy in my chest, I don’t want to back down.

I don’t ever want to back down from him because I bet people back down from him all the time, given his intimidating presence. But not me—I refuse.

I’m going to help him whether he likes it or not.

I take the next few minutes to make sure everything is in place and then sit down on a stool and wait for him to show up.

I’m in the midst of typing out an email when I hear the elevator ding down the hall. My nerves skyrocket into overdrive. Deep breaths. It’ll be okay.

I turn in my seat to see Walker stroll in wearing a pair of black sweatpants, a Bobbies shirt and matching baseball hat. Since Walker wears a backwards catcher’s hat most of the time with his catcher’s mask, I don’t get to see him in a regular hat very often. It does things to my already rapidly pounding heart.

No wonder there’s a no fraternizing with the players policy—people would be doing it like bunnies in the hallway any chance they got.

Walker strides toward me and sets his keys, wallet, and phone on the counter as he takes a seat. “How long is this going to take?”

Brusque, unfriendly . . . surly. Looks as though our little night of talking didn’t stick. Too bad for him. I’m relentless and I’ll get him to open up again.

“Have a hot date?” I ask him, wiggling my eyebrows.

His gaze sears into me as his brows sharpen above his deep brown eyes. “No.”

Clipped, angry . . . annoyed.

“Oookay,” I answer and hop off the chair. I go to the door, shut it . . . and lock it. From the click of the lock Walker raises a brow in my direction so I quickly say, “I don’t want anyone to disturb us.”

“What the hell do you have planned?”

Realization hits me of what he must be thinking, and I quickly recover by saying, “Not naked stuff. I didn’t lock the door because of naked stuff. No, clothes will be staying on the whole time.” I point my finger at him. “So, keep your pants and panties fully secured.”

He stares.

Unwavering, stoic . . . like a stone.

This is harder than I thought it was going to be. I spent four years dealing with hospital CEOs, opinionated, overworked doctors, and dedicated RNs, and have now spent plenty of time with the other Bobbies players. I should be able to handle Walker, but there’s something about him that eats me up and spits me out. Maybe it’s his brisk responses or the way he so intently focuses on me. Either way, it has me scrambling to find my words.

Unable to stop from being nervous at this point, I twist my hands together in front of me and say, “Remember the conversation we had the other night?”

He shifts on his stool to face me and nods.

“Well, I was thinking about how we talked about you not having fun anymore—”

“I didn’t mean to say that.” And just as quickly as he arrived, he hops off the stool and grabs his items. He’s retreating.

I quickly catch up to him and place my hand on his forearm before he can get too far. “Please don’t leave. Just give my idea a chance.”

He works his jaw back and forth, the muscles ticking on rapid-fire as he mulls over his decision. I can see slight vulnerability in his eyes as I stare up at him, as if he wants to stay but doesn’t think he should. Oddly, I hold my breath, waiting for his response. And I realize, I don’t just want to help him, I want to spend more personal time with him.

Finally, he walks away from me and toward the counter, puts his items back down, and asks, “What do you have planned?”

Oh, dear Jesus, he’s giving in. Talk about excited relief.

And even though I’m trying to remain professional here, I clap excitedly and then kick off my heels, making me three inches even shorter than his already towering height.

“We’re going to have some fun today, Walker. I hope you’re ready.”

“We’ll see,” he answers while crossing his arms over his bulky chest.

“Is that a challenge?” I ask as I head to the center of the room, him following closely behind.

“It’s a ‘don’t disappoint me.’”

And why do I find that response adorable? Maybe because coming from a man who’s notorious for not smiling, it’s cute to see him keep up the act and not budge.

“You know, I love a good challenge, Walker. Care to make a wager?”

“You want me to bet?”

I pop a hand on my hip. “Not on a real game, but on this little activity. Come on, if you don’t have fun you can make me do something, and if you do have fun, then I win and you have to do whatever I say.”

“Those are terrible terms.”

“You get the idea, though.” I poke his arm. He doesn’t flinch. Goodness he’s . . . hard. “Are you afraid you’re going to have fun and lose?”

From under the bill of his hat, his eyes narrow. “Fine. If I don’t have fun, you have to replace me on that Build-a-Bear bullshit of an event with Ryot.”

“Throwing your friend under the bus?” I chuckle, thinking about the event Audrey tossed in my direction, needing a representative to unveil the new Bobbies “bear.” I signed up Walker, just trying to get as many events on his calendar as possible, not realizing how terrible he was for the job. Fuzzy, teddy bear shop for a man who looks as though he eats teddy bears for an appetizer. Not smart.

“Okay, that’s fair. But if you prove to have fun, you have to wear your socks high tomorrow night.”

“No fucking way.” He shakes his head.

“I agreed to pulling one of your events off your plate. Wearing your socks high isn’t even bad. Remember what I said about it being good luck? The change might be exactly what you need.”

He grumbles something and drags his hand over his face. “Fine.”

“Fine?” I excitingly ask.

“Yes, fine. Now let’s get on with it.”

“Whoa, don’t start having fun too soon,” I say sarcastically while holding up my hands. “Wouldn’t want you to do that, now would we?”

He shakes his head and goes to pick up his wallet and keys again when I stop him, laughing.

“I’m kidding. Now come here.” I drag him by the arm to the center of the room, where I’ve set up a mini baseball field, using pillows as bases.

“What’s this?”

I walk over to the wall where I have a foam bat and ball resting. I pick them up and ask, “How about a little one-on-one baseball?”

“One-on-one?” He stares down at the bat. “You realize to play the game you need nine players, right?”

“Not when you’re playing foam ball. The rules are simple. We pitch to each other and for every pillow we touch, we get points. To get the out, you have to be hit by the ball or tagged, like dodgeball. If the ball is caught in the air, you’re automatically out. Three outs and we switch. Five innings. Think you can handle it?”

He takes the bat in his hand and tests its weight. I can’t help but giggle because it looks like a little toothpick compared to his size.

“What’s so funny?”

“You’re just so . . . big for that bat.”

“It’s not regulation, that’s for damn sure.” He looks at me and says, “Fine, let’s get this over with. Are you home or away?”

“Flip a coin?” I hold out a quarter and flip it in the air before he can disagree.

He calls it in the air. “Heads.”

I catch it and flip it over on my hand, revealing heads. “Damn. I’m guessing you want to be home.”

“Damn right.” He hands me the bat and takes the ball from me. I step up to the makeshift home plate and give it a few taps as he stands a few feet away, ready to pitch. “For the record, I’m not very athletic. So, if you can—”

He winds up and throws a screaming pitch right past me. He holds up his hand and says, “Strike one.”

Uh . . .

I blink a few times as the ball hits the cushion I have behind home plate for a backstop and rolls back toward Walker.

“That was inappropriately fast.”

“Did you think I was going to take it easy on you?”

“I mean, at least let me—”

Another pitch whizzes past me that looked more like a blur than anything.

“Strike two.”

“Excuse me,” I say, hand on my hip now as I point the bat at him. “You’re being quite rude right now. You need to give me a second to—”

He winds up and throws the ball again, but this time, without me even moving, the ball hits the bat and bounces into the “field.”

“Did I just hit that? Did I hit the ball?”

He chases after the ball and turns toward me, a sinister look in his eyes.

Oh shit, I need to run.

Screaming like a lunatic, I cover my head as I quickly trot to first base, but I’m pegged in the back before I can even make it halfway.

“One out,” he calls out in his deep timbre.

I spin toward him, my hand on my back from where he pelted me, and say, “What ever happened to chivalry? You could give a girl a chance. I’m going to have a welt on my back.”

“It’s a foam ball, you’re fine.”

“Your compassion is inspiring,” I deadpan as I pick the bat back up and settle myself next to home plate. I grip the bat and look up just as another pitch sails by me.

“Strike one.”

“Hey!” I snap, tossing the bat on the ground and charging the mound. I poke him in the chest with my manicured finger and say, “Stop being a dick and give me a chance or else I’m going to make sure the next time the Bobbies need a fill-in for the mascot, you’re nominated.”

He doesn’t react, doesn’t even crack a smile; instead, his chest rises and falls where my finger is pressing into his shirt and the side of his jaw ticks back and forth. Yikes, he looks as if he’s about to crack his molars.

Swallowing hard, I say, “Give me a chance.”

“This isn’t a charity game.”

“Nor is it a brutal bloodbath, you psycho. I get you’re a professional baseball player but at least let me get ready before you throw the ball.”

“Fine.” He nods toward the batter’s box. “Hurry up. I have things to do today.”

What a sweetheart.

Annoyed, I walk back to the plate, pick up the bat, and hold out my hand for him not to pitch until I’m ready. I stick my ass out, hike up the bat, and get into position.

Brow raised, he asks, “You ready?”

I tap the plate and raise my bat again. “Give me the good stuff.”

Shaking his head, he brings his arm back and throws the ball. I swing and completely miss.

This might be harder than I thought, and I’m not just talking about playing this ridiculous game, but cracking a smile from Walker Rockwell.

Chapter Seventeen

WALKER

“Ahh,” Kate screams and ducks as the ball she just pitched bounces off my bat and soars right back at her. I take off toward first as she scrambles to find the ball. I hold back the laugh that threatens to leave my throat as she mutters swear words, turning in circles, looking for it.

I round second and head to third as she finally spots the ball. She picks it up, whirls around, and chucks it . . . right into the ground as I hit home plate.

I pick up the bat and say, “Thirty-two to zero.”

Her hair’s a mess, and her sleeves are rolled up past her elbows. Fucking adorable. “Is that the inning cap?” Fuck, she’s cute.

I nod and hand her the bat. After the first inning that would never end, we put a run cap on each inning so we weren’t here all night. It was a smart move, because she’s lobbing the balls and I can’t help but annihilate each pitch.

That last one, though, I felt kind of bad about. It almost hit her right in the face.

“Looks as if I need to step up my game for this last inning, huh?”

“I don’t even know why we’re still playing.”

“Because.” She taps the plate again, something I find far too cute. “I don’t ever start something I can’t finish. So, we’re finishing this game.”

“All right.” I wind up and toss the ball at her, underhand this time since the game goes by faster when she can actually hit the ball. When I was striking her out every up at-bat, it was taking too damn long, plus it looked as though she was about to blow a gasket, so I eased up . . . just a little.

She swings and hits the ball right back at me. I catch it with one hand and say, “One out.”

Huffing, she taps the plate again. “You don’t have to be so cocky about it, you know.”

“How is calling the outs cocky?”

“It’s not what you’re saying, it’s how you’re saying it.”

“This is how I normally talk.”

She whacks “home plate” hard and says, “Just pitch the ball.”

I toss it at her, and this time, she pops it up in the air. I take a few steps forward and catch it. She doesn’t even bother to run to first base because she knows there’s no point.

Irritated, she says, “Two outs, I know.”

“Last chance to score a run.” I hold up the ball, maybe finding a tiny amount of joy in our game.

“Yeah, you better watch out.” Instead of getting in her batter’s stance where her cute ass sticks out in the air, she walks up toward me and reaches up on her tiptoes to turn my hat backwards.

“What are you doing?” I ask, feeling caught off guard from the way the smell of her perfume invades my space.

Was not expecting that.

Nor was I expecting to like how she feels so close to me.

“It’s rally hat time.”

Fuck, she’s adorable.

Regaining my composure, trying not to show her how much she just rocked me, I say, “You have to flip the hat inside out as well in order for it to be a rally hat.”

“Well, then flip it.”

“Never. I respect my hat. I don’t treat it like shit.”

She stands back, a smile on her face. “Oddly, I respect that. The backwards rally hat will have to do.” She struts back to the plate, a little sway to her hips before she gets into position. “Okay, this is it, watch out, Rockwell.” She points the bat at me. “I’m coming for you.”

“Let’s see what you’ve got, Chapman.”

A huge smile crosses her face as she hunkers down and wiggles her butt.

Christ, that’s one hell of a distraction.

Zeroing in on the strike zone, I toss the ball, only for her to connect with it at just the right time for the ball to come back and hit me square in the head.

Boof.

“Oh my God. Are you . . .” She laughs and covers her mouth as I stare her down. “Are you okay?” More laughter.

Instead of answering, I chase after the ball, which causes her to squeal and start running toward first, laughing the whole way.

I pick up the ball and chuck it at her back, getting the last out to end this ridiculous game.

Bending over, hands on her knees, she laughs . . . hard, before lifting up and bringing her hand to her chest, humor taking over her body. “Oh God, I got you right between the eyes.” She waves her hand over her face as tears start to stream down. “You should’ve seen the look you gave me.” She does a horrible impression of someone getting hit and walking backwards, unbalanced. “Oh, that was priceless.”

I let her laugh a little longer, all the while mocking me, until finally I say, “You lost.”

“Big time, but the bet wasn’t about who won, it was about having fun.” Calmed down from her laughter fit, she walks toward me and wiggles her finger in my direction. “Admit it, you had fun.”

I turn away from her and head to the counter to stuff my wallet in my pocket and pick up my phone and keys. “I’m out. Make sure you email Audrey about Build-a-Bear.”

“What?” She runs up to me as I head for the door. “Wait, you can’t tell me you didn’t have fun.” She stands in front of me now, blocking my exit. “We joked, we teased, we played a very rousing round of baseball.”

“You joked, you teased, you lost. I’m getting a pizza and going home.” I move past her, not wanting to see the look of disappointment that I know is about to cross her features.

As I make my way out the door, I hear her quietly say, “Well, I had fun.” And that right there almost does me in.

I squeeze my hands into fists and continue walking. Keep moving, Rockwell.

Fuck . . . I had fun too, Kate. For the first time in . . . a decade—since my life went to shit—I had fun, too.

Chapter Eighteen

KATE

Feeling a little deflated.

No, that’s a lie.

I’m feeling VERY deflated and maybe slightly embarrassed.

Okay, I’m feeling very deflated and very embarrassed.

I thought yesterday was going to be so much fun and maybe get Walker to relax, loosen the stiffness in his shoulders that he carries every day, but the entire game, he was a stone wall. A very agile and athletic stone wall.

He didn’t crack a smile.

He didn’t laugh.

He didn’t look amused at all.

Instead, he went through the motions of playing the game I set up and, in the end, walked out. To say I was disappointed is an understatement. I thought that maybe at least I’d get something from him, anything, but instead, he grabbed his things and left. Oh, it was such a punch to the gut.

I don’t know why I expected more from him, though. After our conversation by the fire where it felt as if he was willing to open up and make a change, I had a feeling that I could really help turn around his career. But you can’t help someone change if they’re not willing to change themselves.

Walker isn’t willing.

Which is sad, because he’s truly loved by some of the fans—for some reason—and he’s become a Bobbies staple. I would hate to see him leave because he’s a stubborn mule.

“Hey, there you are,” Vivian says, running into me in the hallway. “Audrey wanted me to hand you the layout for today’s ceremonies. The wife of Staff Sergeant Conwell is throwing out the first pitch in honor of her husband tonight, who’s overseas.”

I take the paper and read it over. “Okay, anything special I need to tell Walker since he’ll be catching the ball?”

“Yeah, he’s not catching.”

“What? Did Hopkins pull him from the lineup?”

Vivian shakes her head as a big smile plays over her entire face. She leans forward and says, “Her husband is here, got here last night. He’s on leave and wanted to surprise his wife. He’s going to catch the pitch and then reveal himself after.”

I press my hand to my chest. “Oh God, really? That will make me cry. Damn it.” I snap my fingers. “I didn’t wear waterproof mascara today. Why didn’t Audrey give me the heads-up?”

“She wasn’t sure if he was going to make it or not, but when she got the call this morning that he arrived, we started spreading the word. Just make sure Mrs. Conwell doesn’t find out. We’re going to keep them in separate spaces. Staff Sergeant Conwell is going to meet some of the guys and then come out on the field.”

“Okay, great. Do I need to do anything?”

“I have it under control. Can you just let Walker know about the switch?”

Of course I have to go talk to him. I’ve been working with quite a few guys, helping Ryot with hospital visits, and Knox and Carson have been teaming up with local high schools and helping them with basic skills, but my interactions with them are email, over the phone, sometimes in person. For some reason, Walker is the only player I have to keep interacting with face to face.

I plaster on a smile. “Sure. Anything else?”

“THAT’S IT.” Vivian makes an excited noise. “Oh, this is going to be so great. Hopefully it goes viral on YouTube. Everyone loves a good coming home story.”

“It’s true. Okay, I’ll go let Walker know. Thanks for keeping me in the loop.” We give each other a corny high five and then part.

The last thing I want to do is talk to Walker after yesterday’s “fun,” but it looks as though I don’t have a choice.

Steeling my shoulders back and trying to look as confident as possible, I make my way to the cafeteria. Walker, Ryot, and Gerry Fowler—the first baseman—all like to have a quick snack before the game. It’s tradition, and they never change it up, so I know exactly where to find Walker.

As I approach, I hear their voices trail through the hallway. See? Creatures of habit.

Before walking in, I adjust my shirt and pants, wanting to make sure everything is in place. This morning when I woke up and looked in the mirror, I had to do some heavy-duty primping before coming into work. I had dark circles under my eyes from tossing and turning all night. My hair was an absolute disaster and I looked dead tired.

I spent two hours trying to wake myself up and make myself presentable. Thank the good Lord for concealer, hydrogel under-eye recovery pads, and hot showers. I felt like a new woman when I walked out of my apartment. Now if I can only muster some of that confidence at the moment.

“Eavesdropping?” a voice says from behind, startling me. I turn around and see Penn leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.

“You startled me.” I chuckle.

He smiles that charming smile of his and says, “Then I did my job.”

Taking a small step away, I ask, “Are you ready for the game?”

“Never been more ready.”

I don’t believe him. His eyes are bloodshot and he has the faintest smell of alcohol on his breath. I give him a quick smile and move toward the cafeteria door. “Are you sure? Looks as though you had a bit of a rough night.”

He chuckles and pulls on the back of his neck. “Yeah, maybe I went a little hard, but I feel okay. Just need to drink some more electrolytes. I have a bottle in my locker waiting for me.”

“You have to pitch today and you kind of look like death.”

He wiggles his eyebrows. “Worried about me, Kate?”

Rolling my eyes, I start to walk away, but I call over my shoulder, “Good luck today.”

He pushes off the wall. “Don’t need luck, just talent.”

And boy does he have talent. So much talent that it almost feels unfair. He walks back toward the locker room without another word. So cocky.

I turn the corner into the cafeteria, where Walker, Gerry, and Ryot are dressed in their uniforms and eating apples and pretzels. The sight of them makes me inwardly laugh. Here are three grown-ass men, all hunched over a small table, delighting themselves in a preschool snack.

“Oh, good, Kate is here. She’ll have my back,” Ryot says when he spots me.

Head tilted down, Walker slowly lifts his eyes, his intense gaze shooting a wave of nerves up my spine.

Clearing my throat, I ask, “What’s going on?”

“These two jackasses are telling me that sending flowers to a girl every day of the week is creepy, not romantic.”

“That’s not creepy at all, it’s sweet.”

“They went out once, two weeks ago, and it was just for drinks,” Gerry points out.

Well . . . when it’s put that way . . .

I can’t hide the cringe. “Um, that might be a little desperate.”

“Told you,” Gerry says while laughing and standing from the table. He chugs the rest of his water and throws out his cup. “Come on, boys. Time to warm up.”

Ryot follows closely behind, and just as he starts to pass me, he asks, “You really think it looks desperate?”

Sadly, I nod. “Sorry, but maybe just call her instead. You might scare her away with all the flowers.”

“He already scared her away when he put his hand on her thigh within the first five minutes of the date,” Gerry shouts from the hallway.

Ryot chases after him. “She had a piece of lint on her pants. It was distracting.”

They’re absurd. Smiling, I turn back around to find Walker still sitting at the table, but now leaning back in his chair, his arm draped behind the back of his seat. His jersey stretches across his broad chest, the top few buttons undone, revealing his Under Armour shirt clinging tightly to his skin.

He tugs on the brim of his hat and asks, “Is there something you need?”

“Uh, yeah.” I clear my throat. “The first pitch today is going to be caught by someone else.”

“What?” he asks, shifting in his chair, his hand falling to the table and his forearm rippling with anger. “Who the fuck told you that?”

Yikes. His temper really does skyrocket, doesn’t it?

Fumbling over my words, I say, “It’s a soldier coming home, not a position player or anything, just a soldier.”

His face softens immediately as understanding passes over him. “Oh, shit.” He looks away. “Sorry. I . . . uh, I thought you meant something else.”

“No, it’s okay. I should’ve started that sentence differently. We have a soldier surprising his wife and he’s dressing up in a spare set of catcher’s gear. After she throws the first pitch, he’s going to reveal who he is to her.”

Walker pulls on the back of his neck. “Makes sense.” He’s silent for a second before standing. “Better get going.”

When he pushes out of his chair and rounds the table, my mouth nearly hits the floor from what I see.

Socks.

I see socks.

Long, blue socks.

He’s yanked the legs of his pants up to his knees, wearing his socks high.

Oh my God, I might cry. I know it’s ridiculous that I’m getting emotional over socks, but this means . . . this means he had fun. At least, that’s what I’m hoping. My head snaps up and I search his face, but I’m met with a man who’s completely avoiding me, looking anywhere else but at me.

“Your socks,” I say, emotion clogging my throat. For the love of God, Kate, don’t cry. Not over socks.

And pants.

Oh Jesus, socks and pants are going to make me lose it.

But it’s so much more than just a pair of socks and pants, it’s the meaning behind the way he’s wearing them. He’s telling me he had fun without actually having to say it.

Oh God, my heart.

It pounds rapidly, my pulse picking up as I think about the statement he’s making, of what I was able to do yesterday. That stone wall I thought was impenetrable . . . it cracked.

It’s a small crack, but it’s the first step.

“You’re wearing them high.”

“Well . . .” He clears his throat. “A deal is a deal.” He rights his hat, walks toward me, and stops right before he passes. Head tilted down, barely leaning toward me, he quietly asks, “Did you cancel that Build-a-Bear bullshit?”

A rush of lust shoots through my veins, pulling and tugging on my body, igniting a wave of need through my muscles. It’s terrifying and thrilling at the same time, wanting to touch this man, but knowing I can’t. Wanting to hug him, tell him “thank you,” cry into his chest from the relief that’s taking over me.

He did have fun . . .

Why does that realization make me want to crumble to the ground and cry? I’ve had many incredible breakthroughs with tough men and women over the years. Hundreds. And yet, this man, knowing that he rarely gives anyone outside of his circle the time of day, let alone shows them something more than his cold façade . . . I’m breathless.

“Working on Build-a-Bear,” I say, my breath catching in my chest, his proximity turning every muscle into mush.

“Good.” He glances at his legs. “I’m holding up my end of the bargain.” Playfully he nudges me with his shoulder. “Now it’s your turn.” Oh God, he touched me.

WALKER. ROCKWELL. JUST. TOUCHED. ME.

But not just touched me—playfully touched me. As if we’re friends. As if he actually wants to be near me.

Mark it on your calendars. Today is the magical day when Walker Rockwell nudged me.

“Ha, okay. Yeah, sure. Uh-huh. Yup, will get right on that. Ha. Okay. Sure,” I answer like a lunatic as my stomach performs somersaults. And then the most monumental thing happens.

More monumental than the nudge.

I mean, I thought DAY MADE with the nudge, but guard your loins because just as he starts to move away, he grins at me.

GRINS!

Oh, be still my heart. I don’t think I can handle all of this attention. What did I do to deserve a nudge and a grin? My little round of baseball wasn’t that good, was it? I mean, I did allow him to peg me with a foam ball on multiple occasions. Maybe he appreciates my will to not let him go easy on me? Or he just appreciated getting out some pent-up tension. Who knows, but whatever it is . . . I AM HERE FOR IT.

Lord Almighty, am I here for it.

“Catch you later, Kate.”

Tongue-tied, unsure where this change came from, I quickly say, “Good luck today. Picture me pitching.”

He pauses and keeps his carved back toward me as he looks over his shoulder. “If I did that, I’d be too damn distracted.”

Boom . . . rattle . . . rattle.

Did you feel that?

That was my jaw smacking into the ground.

Umm . . . say what?

Too distracted?

As in . . . I’m a distraction?

Where’s a fan when you need one?

He doesn’t give me a chance to respond before he’s halfway down the hall, headed to the locker room. And even if someone gave me a million dollars to look away, I wouldn’t be able to. My eyes are fixed on his backside, completely and utterly stunned.

Oh, sweet Jesus.

Was he just flirting?

No, he couldn’t be.

Could he?

I bite my bottom lip and squeeze the tablet I’m holding to my chest, a thrill of excitement beating through me.

Oh hell, this is bad.

This is really, really bad.

But Walker Rockwell nudged me and grinned at me today.

Chapter Nineteen

WALKER

“Are you fucking hungover?” I ask Penn, who’s drenched in sweat, beads tumbling down his face. It’s a night game and it’s not that goddamn hot out.

“No,” he says, his eyes glassed over, his face pale.

It’s the bottom of the sixth inning. We just squeezed out of the inning with only one run scored against us, tying up the score. Penn has pitched like shit all night and if it weren’t for some key plays from Knox, Carson, and Gerry, the scoreboard would be reading like a different story.

“Don’t fucking lie to me,” I say, stepping up in front of him, blocking the cameras from seeing how trashed Penn really looks right now. “I might hate you, but you’re still my pitcher and I need to know what’s going on.”

“Nothing is going on. Just a bad day.” He wipes his face with a towel and leans against the side of the dugout wall, about ready to pass out.

“If you’re going to fall asleep, get your sorry ass into the locker room, not here where everyone can fucking see you.”

“I just need to rest my eyes for a second.”

Enraged, I call over our pitching coach.

Baskin observes Penn and asks, “What’s going on?”

“He’s done,” I answer, not getting into why. This wouldn’t be the first time Penn pitched a game while completely hungover, nor will it be the last.

“I’m not fucking done,” he mumbles from under the towel. “Just give me a goddamn second.”

I turn to Coach Baskin and say, “He’s lobbing the balls in. He’s toast. Warm up Torres. Cutler can’t go another inning.”

Hands on his hips, Coach Baskin gives Penn one more look before shaking his head and saying, “Training room, now, Cutler.”

“What?” Penn rips the towel off his head, his red eyes cutting to me before he stumbles off the bench to chase after Coach Baskin. “I said just give me another goddamn minute. I can finish this game.”

“You’re finished now.”

The crowd roars and I look out toward the field to see that I’ve missed Ryot getting on base, as well as Gerry. Fuck, I’m on deck.

Penn is out, so now I can focus on batting, but as I go to get my helmet, he yanks my shoulder back, twisting me around so I come face to face with him. I steady myself and shoulder up, not wanting to back down from his approach, but also not wanting to look like the instigator, since there’s no doubt in my mind that there are at least two cameras pointed in our direction.

“Fuck. You,” he says, the disdain for me dripping off his tongue.

“Is that all you have to say?” I ask.

“Don’t fuck with my game, Walker. You had no right—”

“I had every goddamn right,” I say through my clenched jaw. “I’m in charge of that field, and if someone isn’t performing, or looks as if they downed an entire bottle of whiskey last night, then I have every right to say something.”

“You’re letting the team down by having me taken out of the game.”

“No,” I reply, getting in his face so our noses are millimeters apart. “You let the team down because of your shitty choices. Get your act together, Cutler. Don’t be a waste of talent.”

“You have no fucking idea what I was doing last night.”

“I don’t have to guess. I can smell it on you,” I sneer back just as I hear a crack of the bat. The crowd erupts, only to die back down. “I’m up.” Not giving Cutler a second thought, I snag my helmet from its cubby, put my batting gloves on while keeping my bat tucked up in my armpit, and make my way to the batter’s box.

I look up at the scoreboard. Two outs, runners on first and second. We need these runs. Hell, I need a hit.

I’ve scored an RBI tonight, grounded out, and earned a walk. I’ve made solid contact with the ball, now I just need to put the ball in play.

One foot in the batter’s box, I stare at my bat, tap the side of it, and then step in, situating my feet just right as I swing the bat to my shoulder.

Reynolds gets into position, glances over at Ryot, and then whips his arm right at me, sending me dropping to the ground as the ball sails over my head and to the catcher. The crowd roars as a bead of sweat cascades down my spine.

Holy fuck, that was close.

My initial reaction is to get up and charge the mound. I have history with Reynolds, and I wouldn’t put it past him to try to plunk me to get to our rookie in the lineup.

But I stay put as Ryot and Gerry round the bases, putting them at second and third now.

“You good, Rockwell?” the umpire asks as I rise to my feet. Dirt sticks to my sweaty forearms and stains the white of my already dirty pants.

“Good.” I brush the batter’s box dirt back and forth a few times, step back out, and take a deep breath as I stare out at the field. Reynolds pulls on the brim of his hat and checks on Ryot again, avoiding eye contact. The motherfucker did that on purpose.

But the problem with not hitting me the first time is now he has to be cautious with his next pitch. He can’t afford to let a run in.

He sets his hands in front of him, lets out a deep breath, and then winds up, sending the ball to the outside of the plate. I hold back just enough to let the ball travel through the strike zone, punch my hands through the outside corner, and connect with the ball, sending it sailing to the opposite side of the field, down the right side and barely over the wall.

The crowd goes wild, and for the first time in weeks, I can feel the anger and frustration that’s been building up finally start to ease.

Home run.

Fuck yes.

Keeping my head tilted down, I round the bases, staying at a steady jog and giving my first and third base coaches fist-bumps as I pass them. At home, Ryot is waiting for me. He gives me a pat on the helmet and says, “That was some good hitting, man.”

It was.

It was some really good hitting.

High fives are distributed as I make my way through the dugout and straight to the cooler, which I jokingly pat, letting it know even though we’ve had some differences, I still appreciate its hard work.

It might be a little show for the camera and the fans, but hell, I’d do just about anything right now to add some credit to my personality while I have a positive light on me. And bringing my team to a three-run lead is one hell of a positive light.

“How’d that feel?” Ryot asks, coming up next to me.

I grin at him as I take a sip from my cup of water. “Fucking amazing.”

“IT WAS A GROUP EFFORT. Our relief pitching held us to zero runs after the sixth, we strung together some hits, and ended up with the win. Fundamental baseball was played tonight with a tight defense and an explosive offense all at the right times. We plan on jumping on this winning momentum and sweeping the series from the Blue Sox.”

“We’ll have our brooms ready,” Kelly, our on-field correspondent, says. “Thank you for your time, Walker.”

“Of course.” I give her a quick tip of my hat and make my way through the dugout to the locker room, where my teammates are pumping up the music and acting like a bunch of idiots who just won a game. And for the first time in a while, I feel as though I can join them in the joy of a win because I actually feel as though I contributed.

I was able to get one more at-bat in the eighth and hit a single up the middle. I wasn’t hit in, but peeling hide off the ball today felt damn good.

I reach my locker and start taking off my jersey. From a couple lockers down, Cutler spouts, “Looks like the grump got his groove back.”

I don’t even bother to engage in conversation with him because I’m in a good mood, I don’t need it ruined by Cutler’s instigating. Nor do I need to start anything with him. I had my words with him in the dugout, and I want to leave it at that.

Ryot, on the other hand, has a different opinion.

“Worry about yourself, Cutler.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Penn shoots back.

“Drop it,” I mutter under my breath to Ryot, but he must not hear me because he continues.

“Instead of picking a fight with Walker, how about not getting drunk the night before a game.”

“I wasn’t drunk,” Penn fumes. “And I don’t have to answer to any of you pricks.” He tosses his towel to the ground and puts on a pair of boxer briefs.

“Give him a break,” Daniel, the douche of the bullpen, says. “He was up late last night with Brenn. She was demanding as fuck and wouldn’t let him go to sleep. Wanted that dick.”

Penn slides into his chair with a Cheshire cat-like smile on his face. “Can’t blame the girl for wanting what I have.”

I roll my eyes and sit in my chair, where I take off my cleats and listen to the annoying and pompous diatribe of Penn Cutler.

“Brenn has this thing with her neck—if you move your lips along the column in just the right way, she’s putty in your hands. She came over last night, I barely said a word, and she jumped me after walking through the door and instantly peeled off her clothes.”

“When do we get to meet this elusive Brenn?” Daniel asks. “Are things even serious?”

A bunch of gossiping hens. I roll my eyes and toss my cleats. Socks are next.

“They’re as serious as I want them to be. I send her flowers—lilies, they’re her favorite—and make sure to eat her out every time she comes over, because she likes nothing more than my mouth on her pussy.”

Jesus.

Thank God all the reporters are gone. I get up from my seat, sick of the conversation. If Penn had any sort of respect for the girl he’s been seeing, he wouldn’t be saying shit like that to everyone else. It’s as if he’s trying to gain merit from the guys. It’s not the first time he’s said something about Brenn. Their “relationship” has been going on for a few weeks now. Just from overhearing his conversations, I feel as if I know so much about the girl, almost too much.

Makes me wonder . . . is she even real?

Wouldn’t that be fucking perfect if she was made up and Penn was spouting off like a moron about a made-up girl?

Fuck, I actually wish that was the truth, because that would be hilarious.

I take my time in the shower, letting the game play over and over in my head as I scrub my body down. I envision each pitch, each swing, each hit. I hear the crowd, the cheers, the chants from my teammates. I hate to admit it, but Kate was right—I had to find some joy in the game, and I did. It might be a nanosecond of joy, but today was a brief reminder why I started playing baseball in the first place.

I towel off and wrap the terrycloth around my waist before I head out to an almost deserted locker room. Just a few players are milling about, gathering their things before taking off. Penn is thankfully gone, so I don’t have to deal with his bullshit.

Up all night with Brenn? Bullshit. He was drunk last night, probably indulging way too much like he always does. And even if he doesn’t want to tell the truth, I saw it all over Brad’s face. I know Brad has had conversations with Penn about his drinking—he’s told me himself—so when I saw how angry Brad was, I knew exactly what the issue was without having to get close enough to smell the idiot.

And the really shitty part of all of this is not only is he letting his team down by not taking care of himself, but even when hungover, or drunk for that matter, the man is still a legend on the mound. And I’m the last person who wants to admit it, but it’s true. It’s almost as if he’s taken a page from Mickey Mantle’s playbook and has learned how to perform when not at peak physical fitness.

It’ll catch up to him at some point, just like it did to Mickey.

I slip on my clothes, going for a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved Henley. I push the sleeves up, still heated from the shower. I leave my hat in my locker, opting for a quick swab of styling pomade through my hair. I couldn’t care less what I look like, but Coach always likes us to be somewhat presentable after a game in case we run into any press.

Hungry and ready for my bed, I head out of the locker room and am making my way toward the players’ exit when a throat clears behind me. I glance over my shoulder to find Kate Chapman standing against the wall, her purse draped over her shoulder and a beautiful smile gracing her delicately freckled face.

She quickly gives me a once-over and says, “It was the socks.”

I can’t help it, I let out a low chuckle while slowly shaking my head and turning toward her. Hands in my pockets, I say, “It wasn’t the socks.”

Her mouth drops open in disbelief as she approaches me. “It was so the socks.” She points her finger at me. “Don’t even deny it.”

“It was all my practice.”

“Yeah, practice with me. Just admit it, Rockwell, you had fun last night, the socks were a good luck charm, and you played your ass off tonight.”

I don’t believe in superstitions, which is unheard of when it comes to a baseball player, but I’ve never geared my play around being a habitual player, either. Instead, I do what feels right. So, believing in socks having a special power and helping me gather some hits tonight—nah, not real. But I will say this—having my socks up reminded me why I was behind that plate. It reminded me of being small again and taking joy in the little things.

Was it the socks? Maybe.

Was it the thought of the girl standing in front of me? Maybe a little more.

“It wasn’t the socks.”

Her head falls back as she groans. “You’re so stubborn.” She makes eye contact with me again. “Do you realize that?”

“Yeah.” I rock on my heels, trying not to stare at her too much.

Just picture me pitching to you.

When I said that would be too distracting, I meant it. With her softly curled hair and her gorgeous smile that doesn’t seem to ever falter—unless I’m a total dick and walk out on her—she’s caught my eye.

She’s starting to imprint herself on my brain.

She’s starting to make me feel shit I shouldn’t be feeling.

“Well, I’m—”

“What are you doing right now?” I ask out of the blue, surprising myself, and her.

“Uh, I was going to give you a hard time and then go home?” she says with a hint of question at the end.

I nod at her. “Hungry?”

She eyes me suspiciously. “Starving.”

“Want to get some food?”

She chews on her bottom lip, thinking about her answer, and I know it’s not in a joking around way, but more so she’s afraid. Afraid of me, possibly. Afraid for her job, most likely.

So, I add, “You know, to discuss business.”

It’s against team policy to fraternize with the players. I know that, she knows that, but, for the life of me, after seeing that infectious joy on her face, I had to ask her. I had to try to spend more time with her.

“Well, if it’s business . . .” She smiles brightly and then nods behind her. “Follow me.”

Unsure what she’s up to, I do what she says, trying to keep my eyes off the perfect sway of her hips and the way her pants wrap around her ass perfectly, enticing me to make some bad decisions.

We make our way up to the suite level of the stadium, down a hallway to the last suite on the level. She takes out a keycard and opens the door. I follow her in to find an empty space that looks out over the stadium. I’ve been in a few suites, but I’ve never really taken the time to observe the view.

I go to the outdoor seating and take in the field below. The lights are dimmed, only a few at ground level lighting up pathways for those still working. It’s peaceful, the sounds of the city filtering past the historic walls.

“You get to play on that field,” Kate says, walking up beside me. “Is it hard to believe?”

“Most of the time, yeah.” My stomach grumbles and Kate hears it.

She laughs and says, “I hope you don’t mind, but I asked the chef to whip me up a pizza really quick. Does that work?”

“Yeah, I’m cool with that.” I take a seat and prop my legs up on the bar in front of me, soaking in the moment. “Where do you watch the games?”

“Everywhere,” she says, taking the seat next to me, her shoulder briefly bumping into mine. “Just depends on where they need me. Sometimes I miss the game completely.”

“Where’s your favorite place to watch it?”

“Even though these suites offer a great view with an all-you-can-eat buffet, I prefer to watch in the press box on the field. It’s rare when I get to sit there, but when I do, I soak it up as much as possible. It almost feels as if I’m part of the game in a weird way.”

“I could see that.”

“What about you? If you weren’t in the dugout, where would you want to watch the game?”

I scratch the side of my jaw, thinking about it for a second. If I weren’t playing baseball, where would I want to watch a game? I know where I could easily afford, but to me, sitting up front isn’t the best seat.

“If I weren’t playing, I would want to sit right behind home plate—”

“Of course you would. Where’s the originality in that?” She crosses her arms over her chest.

I face her, my broad shoulder bumping against her slight one. “If you’d have let me finish, I was going to say in the upper deck.”

“Oh.” She laughs nervously. “Well, that makes a difference. Why would you want to sit up there?”

“You can see everything,” I answer without having to think about it. “You’re not distracted by vendors because not as many go that high, you get a feel for the whole field, you can look into the dugouts, and you can yell obscenities at the umpire and not get thrown out.”

That last part makes her chuckle. “Have you ever been thrown out of a game for yelling obscenities?”

I hold up three fingers. “Three times. Two were me, one was Ryot, but the umpire thought it was me. I got tossed.”

“What, he can do that?”

“Yup.”

“I hope Ryot made up for it.”

“Brought me a cupcake the next day.” I hold back my smile, thinking about the card that was attached to it stating next time he’d use more prolific swearing so he doesn’t make me sound like a jackass.

“What flavor?”

“Chocolate cake, vanilla frosting. My favorite.”

“Not red velvet?” she asks, surprised.

I shake my head. “Not in cupcake form.”

“Huh. You know, I would’ve pegged you for a chocolate cake kind of guy.”

“Why’s that?” I ask, tempted to drape my arm over the back of her chair.

“The least-liked player in baseball type seems to float more toward chocolate, that’s all.”

“You really believe all that bullshit least-liked player stuff?”

It’s just the media drumming up ways to drive traffic to their websites. Roark warned me that the first time I showed my true competitive colors, the media was going to eat it up. And they have. My face has been plastered under the headlines more times than I can count.

“I don’t have to believe it, I see it.”

“You see what you want to see.”

“Not true.” She shakes her head. “I know what I see, and when I watch you play, I see a man who goes against what’s expected of him, which is to sit behind the plate and catch. I see a man who sticks his neck out on the line for his teammates, who puts them in their place when they’re out of line, and of course . . . the dark eyes with matching scruff.”

“That’s such a stereotype.”

“Are you saying you’re a big softy instead?” she counters, challenging me.

“Nah, my heart is as cold as steel and black like my soul.” It is now. Once upon a time, in much simpler—carefree—times, it wasn’t. Once, I laughed with my family. I used to study hard, train hard, but also work hard at home too, knowing my parents appreciated the extra help. I loved being the son they relied on. Trusted in. Laughed with. But those days are gone. I sigh.

Turning away, she pushes her hair behind her ear and I follow the movement of her delicate fingers threading through the silky strands. What would it feel like to have her hand in my hair? Her fingernails scraping over my scalp? Fucking good, I bet.

“Why do you put up such a front, Walker? I know there’s a softer side beneath this tough exterior. Why don’t you show it?”

“There really isn’t. What you see is what you get.”

“Not true. You do a lot of volunteering on your own time. If you were as coldhearted as you claim you are, you wouldn’t be spending your time at nursing homes playing cards with old men.”

“I like to take their money,” I try to joke, but it falls flat.

“Stop hiding, Walker. If you let people in, you’d be surprised with how much could come of it.”

“I don’t want to let people in. I’ve seen strong men get destroyed in this profession by letting people in. I’m a catcher, my career is on a short timeline, and I need to make the most of that. I need to keep my head down and focus on getting as much out of these years as I can.”

“But when you keep your head down, you miss out on so much,” she replies while pushing her finger under my chin and forcing me to look her in the eyes.

Deep chocolate, almost black, her eyes are mysterious, gorgeous, eyes any man could easily get lost in.

Any man . . . like me.

“Try opening up, Walker. You never know what might come of it.”

And that’s what I’m afraid of—because if I open up to this girl who’s already starting to get beneath my skin, nothing good can come of it.

She’s off-limits.

I’m off-limits.

We need to leave it at that.

Because I’ve learned to live as an island.

I’ve learned it’s better to guard your heart than give it away.

I’ve learned it’s much safer than loving and then losing someone.

Chapter Twenty

KATE

For the love of God, do not touch him again, Kate.

I don’t know what has gotten into me. Frist, I touch his chin, then when the pizza came, I gripped his thigh to make him aware that dinner had arrived.

Totally unnecessary.

Especially since all I can think about is how strong his thigh felt underneath my hand. Like solid rock, no cushion whatsoever.

“I hope you like pepperoni,” I say, flipping open the box and trying to shake the feeling of his leg from my palm.

“It’s my favorite,” he says with zero excitement. Normally, when someone says something is their favorite, they have a certain inflection in their voice, but not Walker. It’s almost as if you really have to impress him to get some excitement out of the impenetrable wall that he is.

I hand him a plate and say, “I feel as though things got a little deep a few minutes ago.”

“You could say that,” he answers, keeping his head down while he grabs himself two slices.

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

“Don’t apologize.” He grabs a napkin and a water bottle and heads back to the seats that overlook the field.

Okay. Don’t apologize. Simple as that.

But I have a need to apologize, because I feel as though every moment I interact with this man, I’m wavering on a thin line of being accepted or being pushed away. Not that we’re best friends by any means, but I feel as if I’ve developed a friendship with this man and I don’t want to lose that. Not after having to claw my way through his tough exterior to barely scratch the surface.

I grab two slices of pizza as well, because I’m not that girl who shies away from stuffing her face in front of a guy, and join him on the balcony seats, but put a seat between us this time. When I sit down, he gives me a slow once-over and then lightly shakes his head.

Confused, I ask, “What’s the head shake for? Are you judging me for taking two pizza slices?”

“No.” He folds his pizza and takes a large bite.

“Then what?”

He chews for a few beats before swallowing and asking, “Can’t sit next to me now?”

Oh.

The corner of my mouth curves.

My stomach flutters.

And even though my heart rate picks up, my brain is screaming at me . . . NO!

“You have broad shoulders. You take up a lot of space. I didn’t want to bump into you while I annihilate this pizza.”

“Annihilate?” His brow quirks up.

“Yup.” I take a huge bite and smile at him while chewing.

He turns away, but before he can fully mask himself, I see the smallest of smiles peek past his lips. Oh, it’s so sexy.

He’s so sexy.

Everything about him. From his short brown hair, to his perfectly sculpted arms, to the brown in his demanding eyes. There’s a reason why he’s pinned to every Pinterest board out there labeled Hot Guys. Walker Rockwell is incredibly attractive, tempting, and mysterious. His deep voice sounds like Jason Momoa, but he looks more like an unsmiling, thicker Mariano Di Vaio. Sexy.

Once I swallow—the pizza, not my tongue—I ask, “So if you had to choose, would you go with New York-style pizza or deep-dish?”

“New York, every time.”

“What?” I ask incredulously. “But you live in Chicago. Your allegiance should lie with the deep-dish.”

Unapologetically, he shrugs. “I like thin crust.”

“Judas,” I mutter and take another bite.

This time, he chuckles, and I just about keel over from heart palpitations. That sound, so deep, rumbling over my skin like an earthquake, shaking up everything I ever thought I knew. Ooo, I need to hear it again.

And again.

“You like deep-dish over New York-style?” he asks casually, completely unaware of how he’s heated up every vein in my body.

I chew quickly and then answer, “Born and raised here in Illinois, so of course I like deep-dish. I’m a loyal human being, through and through. That goes for hometown favorites, people, and teams.”

“You value that—loyalty?”

“Very much so. I take pride in people being able to trust me with their deepest and darkest secrets.” I lean over the seat and wiggle my eyebrows at Walker. “Want to reveal some dirt to me? Get anything off your chest? My mouth is like a steel trap.”

When I mention my mouth, his eyes fall to my lips, and he stares, wetting his own lips, his eyes not straying. Fixed on me, a carnal expression materializes over his features—need. Want. With each second that passes, not a word is spoken, but rather a silent exchange of possibilities, and every cell in my body lights up from his blatant staring, the silence stretching.

I wait for him to break the spell, to drop his eyes, to shake his head and turn away, but when he doesn’t, I have this overwhelming urge to lean in closer. What would he do? Lean in too? Wet his lips one more time, drop the pizza, and thread his fingers behind my neck to grip me tightly and bring my mouth to his?

I know I shouldn’t have these thoughts, but I also can’t seem to catch my breath whenever I’m around this man.

Chapter Twenty-One

WALKER

Look away, damn it.

I reprimand myself for staring way too damn long, but the gloss on her lips, the fullness of them . . . hell, I want to know what they feel like against my mouth.

Does she taste sweet like the way her personality portrays?

Is she shy at first, but demanding once she’s comfortable?

Do her hands travel when her mouth parts, looking for more?

Fuck.

I blink, finally breaking the trance, and retreat back to looking at my gooey pizza. I pick up my water bottle and take a sip as I try to cool the inferno building inside my stomach.

This woman is doing crazy things to me, to my body, lighting me up and making me yearn for something I haven’t wanted in a really long time.

And what’s really fucked up is I probably wouldn’t have taken a second look at her in the hallway—not because she’s not gorgeous, because fuck, is she hot—as I always have my blinders on. It’s getting to know her that’s been my downfall.

I can’t remember the last time I got to know a woman. Ever since I hit the big leagues, I haven’t even tried to develop any kind of personal relationship with the opposite sex. Too much time I don’t have.

But Kate is different. Her personality intrigues me, her willingness to not give up on me, her ability to pull a laugh or smile out of me . . . it’s different.

It’s nice.

It’s soothing.

Fuck. She soothes me.

The raging anger that twists and turns in the pit of my stomach every day seems to cool whenever she’s around. In its place is a stirring of something else—desire.

I take another big gulp of my water and then finally say, “No secrets.”

She must be caught off guard too because she doesn’t respond right away. Instead, her gaze is fixed on the field in front of us, causing a quiet to settle over us. I don’t blame her. I just made things incredibly awkward.

“I have a secret, want to hear it?”

Not really.

I don’t want to know another damn thing about this woman. I want to put up a shield of protective armor around me so she can no longer penetrate my walls.

But I answer like a damn idiot. “Sure.”

She puts her legs up on the bar in front of us, just like me, and scoots down in her chair. “You can’t tell anyone, not even Ryot.”

“I don’t gossip.”

“Oddly, I believe you. Maybe it’s because your answers and statements are clipped and short.”

“Why waste time with words?”

“Because words can be the secret to unlocking a soul,” she says, her eyes scanning over my lips this time.

Fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Those eyes, curious with a hint of desire, will be my undoing.

Look away.

Do not look at her lips.

I take a deep breath and will myself to stare out at the field, my jaw clenched tighter than I ever thought possible, my fist opening and closing at my side, the urge to reach out and touch her too goddamn tempting. Is she as soft as she looks?

“Anyway,” she continues—thank fuck, “I lied during my job interview.”

I wasn’t expecting her to say that. I was thinking more along the lines of pizza confessions.

“How?” I ask.

“I really wanted this job. I was working at the children’s hospital before this, helping out with fundraising events. I thought I owed it to my younger brother to work there, to dedicate my time to a place that tried so desperately to save him.”

Save him?

Jesus.

“Did your brother pass away?”

She nods, her face turning somber. “Passed away from leukemia when he was twelve. I was eighteen when he died. I won’t bore you with the details, but he was in the hospital for six months fighting for his life. The staff was amazing and made the horrible process of watching my baby brother slowly wither away a little easier. I wanted to give back, to be a part of making someone’s day in that dreary, white-walled facility a little better. But after a while, I couldn’t get past the dreaded feeling I had of going to work, having to pass by the room he spent time in. It made me physically ill. The memories, the pain—they were prevalent every day, and I felt my spirit start to fade. I needed a new job, and fast.”

I want to reach out, take her hand in mine, comfort her in any way I can, but I don’t.

I can’t.

“When I found out about this job, I did pretty much everything it took to score it, not just because I love baseball and the Bobbies, but because I needed to be set free. So, I lied during my interview. They were small lies here and there, telling them I had experience in areas I had no clue about, but I just told myself I would fake it until I made it.”

I’m silent, unsure of what to say, or how to react. Does she want my sympathy? Does she want me to ask about her brother? Does she want me to tell her about the sister I lost? Does she need a goddamn hug?

I have no idea, so instead of reacting, I sit there, frozen and unsure.

Of course, she takes my silence wrong and sets her feet on the ground. She shyly pushes her hair behind her ear and says, “I’m sorry I brought it up. I don’t know why I said that.” She stands with her plate in her hand, but before she can move, I take hold of her wrist and tug her into the seat next to me. Her uneaten pizza slides off her plate and onto the ground, but I don’t care. I need to make sure she’s okay.

Knowing it’s a bad idea, I lift my hand and gently push loose strands of hair behind her ear, my eyes trained on hers. “What did I tell you about apologizing?”

“Don’t do it.”

“Exactly. Don’t apologize.”

Her eyes flutter down, her teeth roll over her lip, and she says, “You’re just so hard to read. I don’t know if I’ve spoken too much, if I stepped over a line, if I’ve overshared. I don’t know where I stand when it comes to you.”

Hell, I don’t know where she stands either, but there’s one thing I know for sure—I want her at least standing next to me.

“You overshare,” I say, and her face falls. “You speak way too much.” She looks away. “And you’ve crossed the line far too many times.”

“I’m—”

“Do not fucking apologize.” I grip her chin with my thumb and index finger, forcing her to stare me in the eyes. “Don’t.”

Eyes wide, she nods as I release her from my grip.

“You might overshare and cross the line, but I like it.”

“You do?” she asks, her lip trembling. An ache inside makes me want to reach out and run my thumb over her lip, soothe the nerves racing through her. Up until this moment, I’ve loved how she’s always been ballsy. Tenacious. But I also like this softness.

“I do,” I answer honestly. “I like it too goddamn much.”

Her chest rises and falls, the fabric of her blouse stretching across her breasts with each breath she takes. The temptation to rip her shirt open and expose those beautiful tits is strong. Kiss them. Suck them. Rub my rough scruff across her soft skin, marking her . . . claiming her.

“And I’m sorry about your brother,” I continue while reaching out and turning her hand over. I draw a small circle across her palm. Her breath hitches in her chest as her eyes shoot up to mine in question. “I have experience when it comes to loss of a sibling. But that’s a story for a different day.”

“You do?”

“Another day,” I say more sternly. I continue the pattern on her hand, my blood pumping, my need for her driving to the head of my cock.

This is stupid. Really stupid.

I shouldn’t even be touching her, let alone be in a suite with her where anything could happen. Where anyone could catch the way I look at her or the way I’m currently touching her.

Silence stretches between us as we both stare at my finger tracing over her palm. Small circles, over and over again, her silky skin soothing my ragged soul.

It’s as though she breathes new life into me, into the part of my body that’s felt dead and overworked for years.

“Wh-what are you doing?” she asks, breaking the silence—and the connection—between us.

I slip my hand away and run it through my hair, gripping the deep brown strands tightly. “I don’t know,” I grumble, then stand. “I don’t fucking know.” I move past her and into the suite, pacing the small space. “I should go. This was a bad idea.”

“Hanging out with me is a bad idea?” she asks, gathering our plates and throwing them out. Her voice sounds more hurt than I would hope for.

“We shouldn’t hang out at all, Kate.”

“Why? Because you’re a professional athlete and I run community events?”

“No,” I say, insulted she’d think that. “Because . . .”

Because why?

You like her?

You want to get to know her better?

You want to hear all about her brother?

You want her to know about the deep pain you suffer daily because of your sister?

You want to know if the rest of her skin is just as smooth and delicate as her palm?

Yes. That’s exactly why, because she’s a temptation I can’t have.

But I can’t give her those reasons. I won’t. Instead, I say, “Because I have a busy schedule.”

Her forehead furrows as she mockingly repeats, “You have a busy schedule? Did you really just say that to me? You realize wherever you go, I go, right?”

“I don’t want people getting the wrong idea.” I swing my hand to the side. “What do you think someone would’ve said if they walked in on us right now? Rumors would spread. Do you want that?”

Crossing her arms over her chest, looking as though I just slapped her across the face, she says, “Clearly you don’t.”

She picks up her purse from the counter and drapes it over her shoulder before walking toward the door. I stop her before she can go any farther. “You know that’s not true,” I practically whisper.

“Actually, Walker, I don’t know anything about you despite how much I’ve tried to find out.”

“Why are you mad?” I ask, knowing it’s a stupid question, but not wanting to let her go right away.

“Why am I mad?” She faces me. “Because I’ve gone out of my way to help you and your career, to polish your image—”

“I never asked you to.”

“It’s my job,” she shoots back. “It’s my job to connect you with the community. The least you could do is not be a jerk about it. You run so hot and cold, Walker. I never know what side of you I’m going to get, and honestly, I don’t know why I try, because you always end up saying something that hurts me. Why do I want to be your friend? I have no idea, but I think I’m done trying.”

With that, she moves away from me and walks out the door.

Fuck, how did that escalate so fast?

I lean up against the wall of the suite, my head knocking the hard surface a few times. One minute I’m stroking her hand—being open, honest . . . vulnerable, and the next, she’s leaving.

Giving up on me.

Which makes sense. I’m an ass. I’ve pushed her away, just like I thought I would.

But why do I feel cold? As if the sun has gone?

And why do I want to chase after her right now?

Chapter Twenty-Two

KATE

“What an asshole,” I mutter once I shut the door to my apartment, still fuming over Walker.

What was that, even? That entire interaction—what was that?

I’ll tell you what that was—it was a certifiable, well-placed mind fuck.

A blatant display of mindfuckery.

Twisted mindfuckery!

I place my purse on the hook next to my door, lock up, and walk straight into my bathroom, where I tear off my clothes one by one and toss them in the hamper.

What a tiring day.

No, more like what a tiring evening. My emotions have been run through the gauntlet. I went into the stadium tonight feeling upset, embarrassed, uncomfortable, and with the flash of blue socks, my heart sputtered in my chest.

He had fun.

That’s all I could think about during the whole game.

And then when he hit that home run, this might sound cheesy, but I got choked up, because when he rounded third, the cameras zoomed in on his face and what I saw took my breath away.

A smirk.

A very simple but overwhelming smirk from the man who’s been expressionless since I’ve known him.

He felt good rounding third, and the fans felt just as good, seeing this man succeed in the best way possible.

Knowing I had a small part in his success did all sorts of things to my emotions. So, when he asked to have dinner, I more than willingly said yes, because he was different, more open, and I wanted nothing more than to spend time with Walker.

Well, that was a huge mistake.

I think we can all agree on that now.

What was with all the touching?

That’s what I want to know. The pushing the hair behind my ear, the stroking of my palm. I don’t think my stomach has ever somersaulted as much as it did when Walker Rockwell was running his calloused fingers over my skin.

And just as quickly as it started, his touch vanished and his mask fell back into place, morphing him back into the emotionless man that I’ve come to know.

I was so upset with myself for thinking there could be more to our interactions that I just left.

I get it—there could be nothing more between us than friendship, and maybe it was a good thing that he abruptly ended our evening, because with my feelings so heightened, who knows what I might have done, but still . . . I can’t help but feel hurt.

Just in my bra and underwear, I wash my face and brush my hair out before slipping out of my undergarments and sliding into bed just as my phone vibrates with an unknown number.

Needing a distraction, I click on the message.

It’s Walker.

That’s it . . . just, it’s Walker?

How does he expect me to respond to that?

Should I even respond at all? I kind of don’t want to respond to his curt message. I don’t want him thinking I’m ready and willing to fall at his feet whenever he makes an appearance. Before I can dive too deeply into a response, my phone buzzes in my hand.

Walker: I’m sorry about tonight.

Okay . . . well . . .

I read his text three more times before my anger starts to fade away.

Damn it.

I’m well aware that any kind of relationship with this man is a big no. So, all of these thoughts and feelings shouldn’t mean anything. I shouldn’t be fighting a war of the worlds in my head with conflicting sides crashing together so violently.

I need to keep this casual.

These emotions that well up inside of me when I see him need to be pushed to the dark.

Trying to act as free-spirited as possible, I type back a response.

Kate: I thought we weren’t supposed to be apologizing.

There. Fun, lighthearted, easy.

Walker: When one of us is being an ass, an apology is expected. I was an ass to you, therefore, I’m sorry.

Well, when he puts it like that . . .

Kate: I’m used to your asshole tendencies by now.

Walker: Doesn’t mean you deserve them.

Kate: It’s really fine. Things got . . . weird. I think it was the pizza.

Walker: It wasn’t the pizza.

Kate: Yeah, I know.

I sigh, biting on my lip as the sheets slowly graze over my hardened nipples. Even reading his texts does something to me. Stirs an inner longing, so deep, so palpable that I can practically smell his fresh cologne wrapping me up in a warm hug. I’m a pathetic mess.

Kate: Thank you for reaching out. I appreciate it.

Walker: Couldn’t go to sleep without saying something. Also, thank you.

Kate: Thank you for what?

My lungs draw quick, rapid breaths, my pulse hammers in my ears. If only he was saying this in person, if only I could see his soulful eyes that carry the weight of the world in his chocolate-colored pupils.

Walker: Thank you for pushing me to be better.

Heart stuttering in my chest, my eyes squeeze shut as I take a deep breath. What is he doing to me? He’s enigmatic, unreadable, and I should not want more than a loose friendship with him. He’s a work colleague, not a potential boyfriend. So, why? Why him? Why does his darkness, his quiet pensiveness, draw me to him? I like fun people. I’m from a large family, so I like noise and silliness. And yet . . . he’s slowly erasing every reason I have to keep my emotional distance. But that’s what I need to reinstate.

I lift my phone back up and type out a response.

Kate: I’m just doing my job.

It’s not what I really want to say, but the professional side of me stepped up and took action.

Walker: Right.

Crap. Cue the shutting down. I should let it happen, though.

Kate: Was there anything else you needed?

Walker: Nope. Have a good night.

I set my phone down on my nightstand and bury my head in my pillow, willing this twisted situation to disappear.

Chapter Twenty-Three

WALKER

“With the trade deadline fast approaching, what are your thoughts going into the All-Star break in a couple weeks?”

“Just focusing on every game, one day at a time,” I answer, hating every second of this press conference.

“But you must have some thoughts, given the rumors of you being traded.”

I scratch the side of my jaw, my traps growing tighter with every question. “Winning, that’s all I care about right now.”

“The Bobbies have been talking to Phoenix a lot in the last few weeks. Are you nervous about being traded to a team that hasn’t been in a playoff run for over fifteen years?”

Yeah, fucking terrified, actually.

Keeping my composure and trying not to flick my bottle cap at this reporter’s head, I say, “I’m a Bobbie, and as long as I’m a Bobbie, I’ll do whatever it takes to help take this team to the postseason. Thank you.” I stand, done with this conversation, and head off the stage. Penn takes my spot, a huge smile on his face, and wearing a dumb-as-shit paisley jacket draped over his shoulders.

The guy’s such a douche.

Before I’m even out of the room, I hear someone ask, “Penn, are you still blaming Rockwell for your last rocky start?”

What? Blaming me? What the hell for?

Instead of moving out of the room, I stop in place and turn to listen. Penn looks to the side, spotting me. We exchange glances and I silently warn him that he better not say something stupid.

Holding my breath, I listen carefully.

“Walker had nothing to do with my performance on my last start, but the restaurant I got dinner from the night before does. A good case of food poisoning took its toll. I’m just glad Walker was there behind the plate, motivating me to do better.”

Oh, what a load of glittered-up bullshit.

“If that’s the case, why did you two share words in the dugout?”

Yeah . . . good question.

I cross my arms at my chest and wait for a response.

Penn smiles that winning smile of his and says, “He wanted me out of the game, I wanted to stay in. Simple as that. He knew I wasn’t feeling well, and I didn’t want to let the team down. In the end, if I’d stayed in, I would’ve let the team down. I didn’t see it like that at the time, but now I do.”

Wow, and the Oscar goes to . . .

My phone buzzes in my pocket, giving me the perfect escape for not having to hear Cutler spin shit for the press anymore.

I step into the hallway and answer, “Hello?”

“Walker, you have a second to chat?” The Irish voice of my agent comes through from the other end.

“Yeah.”

I walk farther down the hall toward the locker room just in case there are any eager ears to listen in.

“Spoke with Chuck Skaggs and asked him flat out what the team is thinking when it comes to your future with the Bobbies.”

My breath pauses in my throat as I continue moving forward. Chuck Skaggs is the general manager of the Bobbies and has had a love-hate relationship with me ever since I was signed. Loves my talent, hates me as a person. My career rests in his hands.

“What, uh, what did he say?” I try not to show how nervous I am to hear the answer, but I don’t do a good job of it.

“They don’t plan on making any moves before the trade deadline.”

I let out an audible sigh. Thank fuck.

“But they’re still not sure about extending your contract at the end of the season or pushing a forced retirement on your end. They wouldn’t give me an answer. So, all I can say is keep busting your ass and instilling in the Bobbies that you’re a fan favorite. And do me a favor—spice up your goddamn interviews.”

“What do you want me to do, sing them a song after I’m done talking?”

“At least a jig, for fuck’s sake.”

“Fuck off.” I chuckle while pulling on the back of my hat.

“Just maybe smile on occasion.”

“I don’t smile.”

“Well, start practicing in the mirror. I need you showing your best self, and that includes on and off the field. Did Kate talk to you about the Firefighters Ball?”

I think back to what we scheduled, but I honestly don’t recall any of the events, since I didn’t pay attention to what she was saying. I was honestly too focused on the way her mouth formed words and how her hair floated across her face so delicately, almost as if it were a silk ribbon.

Jesus Christ . . . a silk ribbon?

What the fuck is wrong with me?

“No, she didn’t.”

“Talk to her, today. As you know from recent years, this event is huge, and I want you at the podium, reading a speech. Talk about your dad’s experience as a volunteer firefighter and how touched you are to be at an event honoring men just like him. Show everyone you’re a goddamn person and not just a body with a catcher’s glove.”

“I’m not outgoing.”

“I know, trust me. But give me a little, and I guarantee you I can get you a lot. Okay? Don’t even meet me halfway, just a quarter of the way, and I can do the rest.”

“I’ll talk to Kate.”

“Thank you. Do it before you suit up so you don’t forget.”

“I’m not a child.”

“I’ll be the judge of that. Have a good game, Walker.”

Roark hangs up, and I stare at my phone, taking a deep breath before I go see Kate.

I’m just a job to her, that’s all. She made that quite clear last night, so I should treat her like a job, as well. I got lost over the last few interactions with her, but after our texts last night, I understand where we both stand.

Colleagues, if that.

Chapter Twenty-Four

KATE

“Damn, girl, that dress on you is sexy.”

I glance down at my black wrap dress that accentuates my waist into an hourglass figure and shows off a decent amount of cleavage. I paired the dress with purple high heels and curled my hair in long waves, giving my hairdo a pretty, textured look. I might have thrown on some extra mascara and perfume, as well, because why the hell not?

Last night was both eye-opening and frustrating. I stepped over the line and I got myself burned. I can’t do that again. I also realized that there’s no harm in looking nice for your job.

I smooth the fabric down my sides. “Thank you. I got it from Anthropologie. On sale, of course.”

“I never find anything worth buying on sale there. I always end up paying for things full price because I have no self-control,” Vivian says while handing me a folder. “Today’s events. Nothing spectacular. John Young Elementary is singing the national anthem on the field but there’s no meet-and-greet. They do have a special section in the stands devoted to them and their families. But that’s it. So, easy day for the girls.”

“Good,” I say, quickly scanning through today’s schedule. “I need some time to plan out some of my upcoming events. I don’t feel organized at all.”

“You might think that, but you’re at least ten times better than the girl who had your position before. Trust me, we’re all so happy you’re here.”

“Thank you.”

Knock. Knock.

I look toward the door to my office, where Walker stands, hands in his jeans pockets, wearing his Bobbies shirt like it’s his own skin. The hat on his head makes his eyes darker and more devastating.

“Have a second?” he asks, his voice rumbling over me, sending a shrill chill right up my spine.

“Yeah, sure.” I turn to Vivian. “Thank you for this. Meet you up in the suite to go over a few things before the game begins?”

“Yup. I’ll save you some of those mini quiches you love so much.”

My face burns red. Things he doesn’t need to know . . .

“Thank you.” Once Vivian leaves, I ask, “What can I help you with?”

He takes another step toward me and shuts my office door, sending me on high alert. “My agent wants me to do a speech at the Firefighters Ball.”

“Oh?” I lean on my desk. I was possibly expecting a different topic, but we can roll with this. “Do you want to make a speech?”

He grips the back of his neck, his bicep bulging against the fabric of his shirt. There’s something so sexy about the way he dresses—casual, not really caring—but it works so well with his rugged, athletic look.

See, there I go again, checking him out. Do I have no self-control?

Growing very serious, he says, “My dad was a volunteer firefighter in our small town. He’s retired now, but I’ve never shied away from helping out those who’ve served. I feel personally close to this cause.”

“Did Roark tell you he wanted you to make a speech?”

“Yeah.”

“I see.” I move around to my desk, where I sit down. “I have Cutler and Torres making speeches right now since they’re the most prolific out of you boys. Do you really think you’re up for a speech?”

“I’m not completely laconic.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” I answer with more snark than intended.

He picks up on it, because he steps farther into my office and takes a seat across from me, his large frame slouching across the leather chair, his legs wide and creating a solid foundation for him. I know men like to sit with their legs spread, but why does it have to look sexy? If a woman does that, we look as if we’re trying to invite woodland creatures into our pants.

“Let’s just get it out there and over with,” he says, confusing me.

“Get what out there and over with?”

“You’re mad at me.”

Wow, he’s upfront.

Nervously, I fidget with things on my desk. “I’m not mad at you, Walker.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he says, throwing my words right back at me.

That’s fair.

“Fine, I might be irritated.” I move a pen to the inside of my desk.

“Hey,” he says sternly, and I immediately snap my eyes to his. “Stop fiddling with that shit and talk to me.”

I should’ve guessed talking with this man would be like this. To the point, no fucking around.

“Why are you irritated?”

If he wants to talk, then we’ll talk.

I fold my hands on my lap, square my shoulders and say, “You can be very hot and cold and hard to read. It’s difficult for me to effectively work with you when you’re so challenging.”

“Challenging? I’ve done everything you’ve asked.”

True.

Yes, he’s had words about the things I’ve asked him to do, but what’s this really about?

This has nothing to do with his professionalism and everything to do with the feelings building up inside of me and the personal connection I’ve tried to form with him. I can’t really hold him accountable for that when he doesn’t even know what’s running through my head.

Oh boy, I’m totally being a girl right now, expecting him to know what’s going on when he’s probably the most clueless man on the planet.

Might as well get it out in the open.

“Yes, you’ve done everything I’ve asked and I appreciate that.” I clear my throat, shifting a piece of paper on my glass-top desk. “I guess I’m just dealing with the small matter that is . . . um, I find you—” I pause, hating myself. “I find you to be the kind of a male type, that, you know . . .” I clear my throat. “That has a nice, uh . . . the sort of”—I wave my hand over my face as his lips curl up—“you’re of the more . . .” I cough delicately. “Um, nicer to look at kind of people.”

There.

I said it.

In a roundabout way.

“That’s one way to say you’re attracted to me.”

“Well, you get the point.” I pick up a pen and start fiddling with it. “And to add, it seems as if you have the same kind of attraction toward me, and if I’m way off base here, I’m sorry, I just—”

“Don’t apologize,” he practically growls.

My initial reaction is to say sorry for saying sorry but I hold back and take a deep breath. “I know you’re a professional athlete and probably have tons of women throwing themselves at you—not that I’m throwing myself at you or anything. It’s—”

“You’re hot, Kate. Really hot, and it’s distracting.”

Oh.

Well, there it is. He thinks I’m hot.

Do not smile.

Do not react.

The corners of my lips twitch.

DO NOT SMILE.

But Walker Rockwell thinks I’m hot. How could I not smile about that?

“Distracting, huh?” I ask, looking at anything but him.

“Very, and it’s why I’ve been so off and on with you, because I can’t seem to focus when you wear dresses like that.” He nods at my form-fitting wrap dress.

“It’s just a dress.”

“You know damn well it isn’t just a dress, and those skirts that frame your ass aren’t just skirts, either.”

“Okay, yeah, they’re pencil skirts.”

His eyes zero in on me, and for a second, I have a brief glimpse of what pitchers see right before they throw to him, an intense gaze that’s so incredibly intimidating.

“I don’t know what you want me to do.”

“Nothing.” He pulls his hand over his face while exhaling. “But we needed to get it out in the open. If I touch you, it’s not because I’m trying to confuse you, it’s because I’ve held back for so long that if I don’t reach out and feel your skin, I might combust.”

The blood in my veins heats up, warming my entire body.

The breath in my lungs is stolen from me, making it hard to breathe.

And the beat of my heart crawls up my throat, to my ears, making it almost impossible to hear anything else but my yearning for this man.

“Is that why you were touching me in the suite?”

He nods. “I couldn’t fucking take it any longer. There’s a strict no fraternizing with the players policy, and I get that, I respect it, but I want you to know where I stand when it comes to you.” He shakes his head, almost as if he doesn’t believe what he’s about to say. “You’re different, Kate. You struck a chord with me that I wasn’t ready for. I’ve never met a woman like you, and it’s hard for me to adjust to that.”

“You’re just infatuated because of my sock idea,” I joke, trying to lighten the mood.

But his face doesn’t crack a smile; if anything, it grows exponentially more intense.

“I’m infatuated because you’re the first woman to connect with me on a different level. The first woman who’s tried to help me rather than use me. I’m infatuated because when you look up at me with those chocolate eyes of yours, I can’t help but get lost in them.”

Wow.

Okay.

There’s something to be said for someone who doesn’t talk very much. When they speak, their words hold more of a punch than ever expected.

I blink a few times, unsure of what to say.

Is it weird to say thank you?

What about swooning at his feet? Is that acceptable?

I’ve never had a man blatantly tell me how he feels without some sort of pick-up line attached to it. Walker is throwing me for a loop.

“I . . . I don’t know what to say,” I reply honestly.

“You don’t need to say anything. Just know, that’s where I stand. When you get frustrated or irritated with me because one second, I’m pulling you in close, and then the next, pushing you away, that’s why. Because I want you but I can’t have you.”

He stands from his chair and heads to my office door. Facing me he asks, “Can you sign me up for a speech?”

“Uh . . . yeah,” I answer, feeling breathless. “I can do that.”

“Thank you.”

Without another word, he exits my office, leaving a tumultuous wake that shakes me to my core behind him.

What am I supposed to do with that information besides obsess incessantly over it?

Chapter Twenty-Five

WALKER

The locker room is buzzing with music as everyone gets ready for the game. It’s one of the more relaxing moments we have during our season, the moments before we take the field. While the fans hustle around the stadium picking up their food and drinks and playing mindless giveaways, we’re floors below them, fucking around and trying to ease the tension before going out on the field and giving it our all.

“What?” Brad laughs in the corner next to Penn. “What do you mean she’s ghosting you?”

His voice carries through the locker room, drawing the attention of everyone, even me.

“Say it a little louder next time,” Penn says, irritated.

“Please, we all have women problems. Check out Langston, for instance.”

Our outfielder looks up.

“His girlfriend is looking for a proposal and he’s not ready, but doesn’t want to lose her, either.”

Langston shakes his head. “Why can’t they just be fucking patient? I’m going to marry her. Just give me a goddamn second to establish my career.”

“And Gerry over there just got his baby mama pregnant with no intention of putting a ring on it,” Brad continues.

“She’s hot, but we have nothing in common.” Gerry grimaces. “My mom thinks we should still get married. I told her boning like bunnies isn’t a great foundation for a long-lasting marriage.”

“I think you have your priorities messed up.” Penn laughs. He leans back in his chair and observes the room, scouting out all our teammates. When his eyes land on me, a huge smile spreads over his face. “What about Rockwell?”

“I’m not sure,” Brad says, head tilted, studying me.

“He’s got something hidden in there. Walker has to have some kind of girl problem.”

At that moment, Ryot walks into the room, yogurt in hand, and absentmindedly says, “He totally is lusting after a girl he can’t have.”

The room erupts in “oohhhs” as Ryot realizes what he just said.

What the actual fuck?

“Rockwell wants a girl he can’t have, interesting,” Penn says, practically frothing at the mouth with excitement.

“Drop it,” I mutter while pulling up my socks and pants to just below my knees.

“Who’s the girl?” Penn asks, ignoring my muttered threat. Penn doesn’t wait and turns his attention to Ryot. “Who’s the girl, Ryot?”

“Uhh . . .” He looks between me and Penn and then says, “I don’t know.”

“Bullshit.” Penn laughs. “What’s the problem? Why can’t you have her?”

I stand and adjust the belt of my pants while asking, “Do you really think I’m going to talk to you about this shit? Drop it and move on.”

“Come on, I think all the boys here would love a little story time from you, am I right?”

Cheers erupt from around the locker room.

I shake my head. “You’re delusional if you think that’s going to happen.”

“At least tell us one thing about her,” Torres pipes up. “Gives us a little something.”

I tug on my jersey and button up the front. I concede with a huff and say, “One thing? Fine, if she were in the locker room right now, all of you sorry motherfuckers would be begging to have a second of her time.”

“Just like you, right?” Penn counters.

“If I truly wanted to make her mine, I would. Don’t doubt that.”

The boys all whistle out their warnings as I take off out of the locker room, toward the cafeteria. Ryot follows closely behind, looking guilty as hell.

“DUDE, I SAID I WAS SORRY,” Ryot says, chasing after me as I walk down the halls of the stadium, freshly showered and thankful for another win for the Bobbies. I went three for five with three RBIs and another home run. I haven’t seen the ball this well in a while. It almost feels as though the ball is the size of a beachball and I can poke it anywhere on the field that I want to.

But even though we had a win and I felt every crack of the ball off my bat today, I’m still fucking pissed.

What the hell was Ryot thinking?

When I asked him in the cafeteria, he had zero explanation other than he’s a dumbass. I agreed with that.

I told him about Kate the other day, not revealing her name or going into detail about her, because I wanted to protect Kate’s name in case Ryot had a slip-up—like today.

What an idiot.

“Are you really going to give me the silent treatment? You can’t do that. You saw how I hit today. We can’t be in a fight; it affects my game.”

“You should’ve thought about that before you said anything.”

“But I said I was sorry.”

I stop and turn to face him. “Cutler is never going to let this go. You realize that, right? You practically gave him gold in the locker room.”

“I know.” Ryot puts both his hands on his head, clearly distressed. “I’m really sorry, man. The last thing I want is for your life to be more difficult, you know that.”

“Yeah. I know.” I lean against the wall. “Fuck, why is he such a dick?”

“He’s only a dick to you. Everyone else loves him. It’s the history, the competitive nature in him to always want to be better than you. I think he’ll take your rivalry to his grave.”

“And I want nothing to do with it.”

“Maybe he’ll get struck in the head one of these days and forget all about it.”

I chuckle, imagining Penn taking a ball to the head. “Amnesia really is the only solution.”

“Hey, who knows, maybe you two could be friends if that ever happens.”

“Nah.” I shake my head. “I hate the guy too much even if he had amnesia. This rivalry stays in my bones. Forgiving and forgetting doesn’t come easy to me.”

“Even the forgiving part?” Ryot asks with a squint to his eye.

“You know I can’t stay mad at you, even though the temptation to punch you between the eyes is heavy.”

“Go ahead, punch me, I deserve it.”

I shake my head. “It’ll get back to the media somehow that I got in a fight with my best friend. Don’t need that shit.”

“Ah, I’m still your best friend.” Ryot opens his arms up and charges toward me. Before I can prevent him from making an ass of himself, his arms fly around me and he squeezes me tight. “I love you,” he whispers in my ear, taking this to next-level creepy.

A throat clears from behind us. “Am I interrupting something?”

Still in a bro embrace, we turn to see Kate standing in the hallway, looking fine as fuck, with her arms crossed over her chest.

I push Ryot away and say, “Nah, we’re good.”

“Are you sure? Because I can give you some privacy.”

“We’re good.” I push Ryot farther away. He looks between us and I’m pretty sure it clicks in his head, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Yeah, we’re good. A late-night dinner is calling my name. Catch you tomorrow, man.”

“See ya,” I say, stuffing my hands in my pockets, letting Ryot gain some distance before I ask, “Was there something you needed?”

“Nope.” She shakes her head with a smile. “Just headed out for the night.”

“Cool,” I answer lamely.

“We can walk out together, you know.”

“Yeah, sure,” I respond, feeling as though I’ve lost all of my swagger overnight.

Together—awkwardly—we make our way toward the players’ parking lot exit. Staff will park in the spaces occasionally as well depending on their credentials. Looks as though Kate scored a parking spot. She deserves one, having to deal with us on a daily basis.

“You played a good game tonight,” she says, breaking the bumbling tension between us.

“You got to watch?”

“Here and there. I might have stopped what I was doing to catch your at-bats.” Shyly, she looks up at me and smiles.

I grind my molars together, trying to keep myself from reaching out and touching her, from pushing her up against the wall and feeling the curves of her hips, or tasting that sweet mouth of hers.

“Did you cheer me on?”

“On the inside. Didn’t want to show favorites, you know,” she answers.

“I’m your favorite?”

She turns her head down and fiddles with her purse. “If you asked me that question a few months ago, my answer would’ve been different.”

“But now . . .”

She chews on the side of her lip and says, “I think you know the answer to that.”

“I want to hear you say it.” We reach the door to the outside, but instead of opening it, I keep my hand on the handle and wait for her to answer.

Slowly, her eyelashes flutter open and those expressive eyes connect with mine. “You’re my favorite Bobbie, Walker.”

“Damn right,” I say while opening the door and letting her walk through it first. I want to kiss her. I want to wrap my arms around her and kiss her senseless. You’re my favorite Bobbie, Walker. Fuck yes, I like that.

She pauses and looks up at me right before she passes through the threshold, her body vibrating with energy next to mine. “Thank you,” she says barely above a whisper before passing through, her sweet scent hitting me right in the gut.

Fuck, I want her.

Bad.

“What are you doing for the rest of the night?” she asks, walking backward while talking to me.

“Going home, sleeping. You?”

She faces forward, her hair floating over her shoulders as she spins. “Getting some ice cream.”

“Yeah? Where?”

“There’s this place right around the corner from here that’s open late and has the best soft serve I’ve ever had. Once a month, I treat myself. Tonight’s the night.”

“Sounds good,” I say, unsure of what else to say.

Smiling devilishly, she asks, “Do you want to join me?”

“I shouldn’t,” I answer automatically, causing her face to fall.

“Yeah, I don’t know why I asked.”

“Because you want me to go.”

She walks toward a white Toyota Corolla and pulls her keys from her purse. “It’s nice to have company.” She shrugs. “But I get it.”

She unlocks her car and I follow closely behind her.

“Have a good night,” she says and opens the door to her car.

Without saying a word, I round her car and open the passenger door. I squeeze myself into the small car, my knees hitting the dashboard.

Peeking her head through her door, a confused look on her face, she asks, “Uh, what’s happening right now?”

“I said I shouldn’t, not that I didn’t want to.”

The corners of her mouth curve up, showing off her brilliantly beautiful smile as she sits in her seat. If all it takes is an ice cream trip to garner such a sweetly innocent reaction from her, I’ll get ice cream every goddamn day.

“I’m buying,” she says.

“Only because I don’t think I can get in and out of this tin box more than once.”

She starts her car and says, “Don’t exaggerate, my car isn’t that small.”

“If you get in an accident, my knees will impale my belly button.”

“Who knew you were such a drama queen?” She pulls out of the parking lot and onto a main street.

“My knees are rubbing my nipples.”

“Promise a guy some ice cream and he loosens up, all of a sudden.” At a stop light she leans over, reaches between my legs—fuck—and then yanks up, sending my seat flying back and giving me much-needed leg room. “There, that better?” she asks, sitting back up.

“No. I think you need to reach between my legs again, but higher this time.”

Eyes wide, she slowly meets my gaze. “Oh my God, you did not just say that.”

“I’m a man, Kate. You can’t reach between my legs like that and expect me to think anything else.”

“But to say it out loud?”

“I don’t bullshit. I say it like it is. You should know this by now.”

She makes a left-hand turn and says, “I guess you’re right, given your last confession of thinking I’m hot and all.”

“Digging for compliments?”

“Well, I did wear this dress just for you today.”

“Did you?” I ask, surprised.

“No.” She chuckles. “But the satisfied look on your face was worth the lie.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

KATE

Carefully, I balance both ice cream cones in my hand and open my door, and a wave of Walker’s fresh soap smell invades my surroundings as I take a seat in the car. I hand the ice cream over to him, our fingers grazing.

“Thank you,” he says right before taking a big bite from the top of his vanilla-and-chocolate twist.

Good God, why was that so sexy to watch?

Mouth open, just takes what he wants. My mind goes to him biting me, my neck, down my chest, to my breasts. Him not asking, but just knowing exactly what I need in the moment, taking and pulling every last ounce of—

“I feel like a real dick that you got this and I stayed in the car.”

Get your head on straight, Kate. Sheesh.

Clearing my throat, I say, “If you left the car, we’d never have made it out of the store. It was easier this way. Plus, I got to treat you, which I’m sure doesn’t happen very often.”

“Not really, no.” He swipes at the ice cream with the tip of his tongue. And I watch his tongue closely. Swirling, flicking, enjoying the cold of the ice cream, almost as if he’s alluding to something else, something that I’m sure he’d be really good at. Something I haven’t had done to me in a long time. I clench my thighs together, willing my libido to please take a break.

“Do you ever wish someone would pop into your life and spoil you?” I ask.

I smile jokingly at him, but his face is completely serious when he says, “No, but I wish someone would pop into my life that I could spoil shamelessly.”

Oh.

I swallow hard. What would that be like? To be spoiled by Walker Rockwell?

Intense would be my guess. No, more than intense. The man is an elite sportsman, so having his focused attention, his spoiling, would be exceptional. Matchless. I’m almost wistful here.

Walker doesn’t seem to be the type who would show up with flowers and call it a day, but rather spoil his girl in other ways, with the hold of his hand, the heightened gaze of his dark eyes, or the well-thought-out words being whispered closely to her ear . . .

“Have you ever had a girlfriend?” I ask, thinking the question is really stupid. “I mean, of course you have. I don’t know why I asked that.”

“Not recently, not since going professional,” he answers honestly. “Once you start making a name for yourself, you start to realize how many ingenuine people you meet along the way. All they want is a piece of your fame, your money. They don’t actually want you.”

“I wish I could be surprised by that, but I’ve been around my fair share of people who make connections with other human beings just to get something they want. It’s the reality of the world we live in. When you meet fame, it’s hard to distinguish between the people who really care about you and the people who are just using you.”

“Yeah.” He leans against the door, facing me, his large body scrunched up in the tight space. He takes another bite out of his ice cream and says, “But when you meet someone who’s truly genuine, it’s hard not to become attached.”

His eyes meet mine and silently I read him—I’m talking about you.

And the thrill that one look gives me is dangerous. I shouldn’t be this excited to have him looking at me like that, to know exactly what he’s trying to portray without saying it. But it does excite me, because even though I’m walking a fine line that could cost me my job, for the life of me, I can’t stop myself from gravitating toward him.

“Are you attached, Walker?” I swallow hard, wondering what the hell I’m doing, but I can’t help myself when he looks at me with his eyes so soft, not their usually hardened and angry way.

Better yet, do I want to know the answer?

It’s not as if I can do anything about his answer.

But I also don’t think I can go without knowing the truth.

I’m playing with fire, I know this. I’m testing the waters, and I’m sure the outcome isn’t going to be in my favor. I’m going to end up getting hurt somehow.

But does that stop me?

With bated breath, I lift my eyes and wait for his answer.

He rests his head against the window of the car and lets out a sigh. “Yeah, I am. I’m attached and it’s fucking painful.”

Oh God.

My pulse picks up as I slowly wet my lips.

On a whisper, I ask, “Why?”

“You know why,” he answers, the veins in his neck straining.

I do know, but a sick, twisted part of me wants to hear him say it. I don’t know why I need the validation, I’ve never been that girl, but having Walker look at me the way he is, hearing him speak with such pain in his voice when it comes to me, feels too good to be true.

Quietly, I look down and say, “Because of my job.”

“Exactly.” He drags his hand over his face. “Hell, I shouldn’t even be here right now.” He glances out the window, as if someone is watching us. “I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

“I asked you to get ice cream, Walker. I can make my own decisions.”

“And you don’t need to fall on your sword for me.” He cleans off the top of his ice cream.

“We’re friends, that’s all. Friends get ice cream.”

“What else do friends do?” he asks, his eyes falling to my breasts.

A sharp intake of breath flows through my lungs. My body’s on fire from that seductive glance. The heat drastically turns up in the small space of my car and my arousal spikes as my nipples shamelessly poke against the fabric of my top, indicating exactly how he makes me feel.

“Um, friends go out to dinner,” I say, stumbling over my words.

“Yeah? What else?” He’s egging me on, his voice a naughty encouragement.

“See movies together.”

“What else?”

I swallow hard, my eyes landing on his lips. “They go to each other’s places to hang out. Play games.”

“What kind of games, Kate?” His tongue peeks out and slowly drags across his ice cream.

Oh.

My.

God.

His searing gaze, the intensity in his expression, the way his tongue swirls against his treat . . . I don’t know if I can handle him.

“Strip poker?” I ask with a gulp.

He zeros in on me. “Have you played strip poker with your friends before?”

“No.” I shake my head. “But I’m always open to new things.” I smile as his jaw works back and forth, his frustration with our situation evident. He’s not alone when it comes to being frustrated. “Have you ever played?”

“Never.”

“Me neither. And I don’t think we’re the type of friends who play strip poker,” I say, putting up a front, because if anything, I have to save some dignity.

But then he shifts, his chest flexing noticeably against the thin fabric of his shirt. “Nah, we wouldn’t need to play poker to strip, Kate.”

Oh, sweet Jesus.

Mother of God.

I’m in so much trouble.

I nervously laugh. “Oh, would we just strip and hang out naked? I’m not sure friends do that.”

“No, we wouldn’t just hang out.” His voice grows deeper. “We would fuck, Kate. All over my goddamn apartment.”

Okay.

This was a bad idea.

A very bad idea.

Any person in this situation would know I made the wrong decision taking this man out for ice cream. Secluding ourselves in this tiny car where the air is sucked out of the space the minute Walker starts talking about fucking isn’t wise either.

But . . . God . . . he’s probably phenomenal in bed.

An alpha.

Demanding.

Attentive.

Relentless.

Unlike any man I’ve ever been with.

I can see it in his strong hands, how his fingers lightly curl around his ice cream cone, the veins in the back of his hands popping. His grip would be powerful.

Possessive.

Addictive.

I could see myself craving his hold. Worshipping the way he’d demand nothing but my submission.

He finishes off his ice cream, popping the rest of the cone in his mouth, and stares at me, watching me closely as I take lick after lick of my cone, nervously attempting to tamp down the boiling arousal inside my body.

“So . . .” I say, unsure of what to say. “Was your ice cream good?”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

WALKER

Was my ice cream good?

I barely enjoyed it sitting next to Kate as she slowly licked hers up and down. Being the red-blooded male that I am, all I could think about was my dick in her hand instead of the ice cream and her perfect little tongue swiping over the head of my cock.

I’m hard.

Hard as fucking stone as she finishes up.

This wasn’t the most intelligent idea I’ve ever had, but a small part of me is happy I came along, because it means another moment to spend with her.

“Ice cream was good, the view is better,” I say, blatantly taking her in.

She shivers under my gaze, unsure of what to do with my overt staring, but also not shying away too much as her eyes wander themselves. I’ve crossed a line tonight. A line I’ve been tiptoeing around. A line I couldn’t fucking help but leap over.

I want her.

Badly.

And for the life of me, I can’t stop myself from letting that be known.

“You can’t say things like that to me, Walker.”

“Why not?”

“Because.” She sticks the rest of her cone in her mouth and chews before saying, “It does things to me.”

“Describe them,” I demand, wanting to know exactly how I affect her, if this rabid feeling I have for her pumping through my veins is reciprocated or if I’m running solo.

Her head turns down when she goes to answer but I reach out and force her to look at me while she confesses. Her mouth parts and her chest rises and falls. Our proximity’s suffocating.

With my thumb, I gently tug on her bottom lip, reveling in how soft it is before pulling away.

“What do I do to you, Kate?”

Her eyes search my face, worry in those beautiful features of hers. “Do you—” She takes a deep breath and starts again. “Do you think this is smart?”

“No. But I want to know.”

“You . . .” She bites her bottom lip and looks away.

“Look at me, Kate.” Her eyes snap back to mine at the demanding tone in my voice. When she seems calmer, her eyes less frantic, I repeat, “Tell me what I do to you.”

She doesn’t answer right away, almost as if she’s too scared, but then she relaxes into her seat, maintaining eye contact as she leans back against the headrest, and she finally says, “You make me want more than I can have. When you’re around, I think about making bad decisions. I consider giving up everything I’ve worked for just so I can know what it feels like to have your lips on mine, to know how it feels to have your hand grip my ass and pull me close so I can feel how hard you are.”

Fuck.

“When you stare at me, taking me all in as if I’m the most beautiful creature you’ve ever seen, it gives me confidence, makes me want to strip down to nothing but my thong to see what reaction I would get.”

I clear my throat, my bones aching, itching to make a move, to pull her in close.

“And when you lick your lips, all I can think about is how that tongue of yours would feel against my body, dragging up and down my slick arousal as I beg for you to get me off.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I drag my hand over my mouth and look away. I wasn’t expecting such honesty, nor was I expecting to be sitting in her Toyota Corolla, my cock harder than I’ve ever thought possible, begging for release with no relief in sight.

“Shit,” I mutter and turn away. “You were right, we shouldn’t have done this.”

“No, we shouldn’t have.”

She shifts in her seat, hands gripping the steering wheel as her words settle upon us. Not just her words, but her unspoken desires that she just confessed. It’s as if she unleashed a giant pink elephant and set it between us, driving up the tension to inferno levels.

The longer the silence eclipses us, the stronger the pull feels between us. I glance at her thigh, wondering what she’d do if I reached out and rested my hand on it. Would she swat me away? Have a heavy intake of air? Would she spread her legs . . .

Before I can tempt the idea, she starts the car and pulls out of the parking lot at a faster speed than when she pulled in. There goes that fantasy.

Looks as though she’s the level-headed one between us.

We drive in silence back to the players’ parking lot. She parks next to my car, the only one left in the lot, and cuts the engine. She leans her elbow against the side of her door and props up her head.

“Life isn’t fair sometimes,” she says, her expression sad.

“It isn’t.”

She sighs and asks, “It would just be a fling, right? Some passionate nights and that’s it?”

“Is that what you think it is for me? A solid fuck?”

“Isn’t it?” she asks, looking at me.

“I think you know the answer to that.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t. I see the way you look at me, Walker, the desire in your eyes, but isn’t that all there is between us—desire?”

“No.” I grip the handle of the door and say, “It’s not just desire for me, Kate. It’s so much fucking more.” I open the door and step out only to lean back in, hands gripping the top of the roof. I let her eyes roam my body for a brief second before I say, “Thanks for the ice cream and the company.”

I shut the door, then retreat to my car. I don’t start it right away; instead, I lean back and close my eyes, reeling from the last hour I spent with Kate.

My body thrums with need and my cock presses horribly against the zipper of my jeans, reminding me that it’s been a long fucking time since I’ve been with someone, even longer since I’ve been with someone I actually care about.

What does that say about me?

That I’m fucking nuts.

My phone buzzes in the console, and I glance down at it, seeing Kate’s name flash across the screen. I look out my window to see her still parked next to me.

I open up the text.

Kate: You scare me.

For a moment, I consider hopping back in her car to talk in person, but think better of it. The distance and barrier of two car doors might be just what we need.

Walker: You terrify me.

Kate: It’s more than just passion for me, Walker. I hope you know that.

Walker: I do now.

Kate: If things were different, I would be in your car right now, tipping your seat back so I could sit on your lap.

Fuck. I squeeze my phone tight, hating every goddamn second of this purgatory I’m living in.

Walker: Kate, don’t fucking tempt me.

Kate: Can I ask you something?

Walker: Sure.

Kate: If things were different, if we didn’t have jobs to worry about, would you ask me out, or would you just try to fuck me?

Walker: Are you asking if I would try to date you?

Kate: Yes.

Walker: Honestly, I would’ve fought it for a bit, but in the end, I would’ve asked you out.

Kate: Where would we have gone?

Walker: No clue. I don’t date. Somewhere lame.

Kate: I don’t believe you. You’re thoughtful.

Walker: You give me too much credit.

Kate: Would you have kissed me on the first date?

Walker: Would you have let me?

Kate: Yes, I probably would’ve let you within the first twenty minutes.

Walker: I would’ve waited until the end of the night, building up the anticipation until you couldn’t take it anymore.

Kate: Would it be a goodbye kiss or the start of a long night?

Walker: A goodbye kiss, only to pull you back in and take everything I want.

Kate: What’s everything?

My body heats up as I text, my thoughts running wild with what I would want from this woman, what I would demand.

Walker: Your lips. Your tongue. Your moans.

Kate: God, Walker. What are you doing to me?

Walker: You tell me. Are you turned on, Kate?

Kate: Horribly so.

Walker: Then lock your goddamn doors and drive away.

Kate: I should.

Walker: Do it. Now.

Kate: Locked.

Walker: Good. Now leave.

Kate: What about you?

Walker: I need to catch my breath before I start driving.

Kate: Turned yourself on?

Walker: No, you did. The minute I see you, I’m turned on.

Kate: No one has ever talked to me like this before.

Walker: Then you’ve been hanging out with the wrong people.

Kate: With our given roadblock, looks as if I’m still hanging out with the wrong people.

Walker: It’s the story of my life. Have a good night, Kate.

Kate: You too.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

KATE

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” I say, panting a little harder than I would’ve preferred, but sprinting down the halls of the stadium in heels isn’t easy. Traffic was awful getting into the stadium. It was so bad that I ended up parking in a random grocery store lot and taking the train the rest of the way. My tardiness has set off my entire day, putting me behind.

“That’s okay,” Vivian replies. “I’ve handled everything.”

I scan the room where the meet-and-greet for some YMCA kids is happening. Penn is tossing a ball back and forth with a little boy who seems to have stars in his eyes. Ryot is swinging a foam bat with another boy in the corner. There are a few players playing hot potato with some kids, and Brandon is coloring with a girl at the table I set up for that specific reason.

I planned this meet-and-greet last minute, and since there were so many kids coming, we moved the event up to the players’ suite to give us more room, but being here only reminds me of the game of baseball I played with Walker.

Speaking of which . . .

I scan the room. “Where’s Walker? I told him he was required to be here.”

“He’s here,” Vivian says. “Around the corner.”

Curious, I follow to where Vivian pointed, moving past the game of hot potato, and around the corner. That’s where I find Walker sitting on a giant pillow with a little girl right next to him, reading a baseball book. She’s reading to him—albeit slowly—but he’s encouraging her softly.

It’s by far the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.

Talk about ovaries exploding—mine are shooting off like fireworks inside of me.

Undetected, I lean against the wall and watch how patient and sweet Walker is. This is the side of him I want people to see. This is the side I think a lot of fans and even executives in the front office don’t know exists. And, of course, he’s around the corner in the smaller room, where only a few of the team are playing with the kids.

Secretly, I lift my phone and take a picture of the two of them. When we do the press for this event, I’ll make sure this picture is on the very front.

I pocket my phone and clear my throat to grab his attention. He looks up, and when his gaze meets mine, his eyes darken.

It’s been a few days since we’ve seen each other, since our impromptu ice cream date, since our inappropriate texting. I haven’t spoken to him, nor have I wished him good luck on any of his games. I’ve tried to blend in, but with their upcoming road trip that I won’t join until the second half because of preparations I need to make for the Firefighters Ball, I wanted to see him in person before they left.

Stupid, I know.

But there’s no stopping my idiocy at this point.

“Times about up.”

He nods and squeezes the little girl. “Thank you for reading to me, Kayleigh, I had a lot of fun.”

“Me too,” she says in a squeaky little voice. “Thank you, Mr. Rockwell.” She turns in his embrace and gives him a big hug before taking off toward the center of the room where everyone is gathering.

Walker stands and pushes his shoulders back, stretching for a few seconds.

“How long were you standing there?”

“Not long enough.”

Jersey and jeans—it should be an illegal combination, especially when Walker wears it. Don’t get me wrong, I love baseball pants for many reasons, but when a nice, fitted jersey is paired with jeans, there’s something about it that gets my blood pumping.

“Thought you weren’t going to show today.”

I groan. “Getting into the stadium was hell today. I ended up parking at a grocery store and taking the train in the rest of the way.”

“Smart.” He nods. “But are you going to have to take the train back after the game?”

“Huh.” I chuckle. “I guess I didn’t think that far ahead.”

“It’s going to be a nightmare. I’ll take you back to your car after the game.”

“Oh, that’s not necess—”

“Don’t argue with me, Kate. I’m taking you to your car. Meet me at the players’ parking lot after the game.”

“Walker—”

He gives me a stern look and repeats, “Don’t argue.”

There doesn’t seem to be any reasoning with him when he uses that tone. Capitulating, I say, “Okay.”

Since we’re behind a wall and no one can spot us, as he walks by me, his finger trails along my arm and goosebumps spread across my skin. I make eye contact with him, confused but turned on all at the same time.

Barely above a whisper, he says, “Don’t sound too excited about it.”

“I . . . I can’t get excited.”

He glances down at my chest and then back at me. “Looks as if you already are.”

With the smallest of smirks, he joins the rest of the players in the center of the room as I let out a long, pent-up breath and lean against the wall.

Who knew?

I know Walker’s an enigma, but I truly didn’t expect that touch. That teasing. The man gives off so little to so many, and yet, now it’s as if a dam has been opened and he feels free to talk, to touch, to . . . entice me. He’s charming. He’s sweet.

He’s dangerous.

This is going to be the longest Bobbies game of my life.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

WALKER

We’re destroying the Bruins right now.

Fifteen to zero.

We’re lights-out with Abbott on the mound—our number three pitcher—and our bats are lighting up the dark night with hit after hit. It’s the seventh fucking inning and I’ve already had four hits. The new rookie pitcher the Bruins brought up from their farm system wasn’t ready.

I feel bad for the guy, because the minute he stepped on the mound, he showed his nerves and we could read him as if he were a twelve-year-old kid pitching to us, which only meant batting practice for us.

The Bruins manager finally took him out after just three innings and we’ve been lighting up their bullpen ever since. Now as Bader, their next relief pitcher, warms up, I don’t bother studying him, because I’ve faced him quite a few times. Wicked curveball that he hangs on occasion and a fastball that he places well on the outside corner. Nothing I haven’t handled before.

I love winning. I love the feeling of sitting in the dugout completely relaxed, enjoying the company of my teammates as we know a win is in our near future.

But . . .

This is the one time I wish it were a tight race, with each inning bouncing back and forth until the end, where we score a walk-off home run, celebrate, and then get the hell out of here. Quick game, over and done with.

Not this game, though. Fucking dragging on forever.

I can’t get Kate out of my head, or the opportunity to be close to her again. After our text message exchange, I’ve been a fucking madman in the halls of the stadium, trying to catch any kind of glimpse of her but coming up short.

When she didn’t show up at the event right away, I was nervous that maybe I’d taken things too far, that maybe someone caught us together and she was fired, but when she peeked around the corner, my anxiety leveled out and a sense of calm washed over me.

I knew right then and there, even though it’s against team policy, I had to see her again. When she told me about her car, I saw the perfect opportunity to take advantage of the situation and get her alone. She didn’t put up much of a fight, which I fucking loved.

From the texts, I know she’s struggling just as much as I am, but also from the way her nipples were pressing against her silk shirt, hard as pebbles—she wanted time with me just as much as I want time with her.

“Walker, Ryot, Carson,” our manager calls out. “Hit the training room, take the rest of the night off.”

I was waiting for the dismissal. When we’re this far ahead, Coach Hopkins likes to give the starters a break and send them to the training room to cool down and relax, which only means I can get out of here earlier than I was planning.

I gather my glove—my catcher’s gear will be taken care of by the equipment manager—and I head for the locker room, when Coach stops me, placing his hand on my shoulder. “Rockwell, a moment.”

“Sure,” I say, stopping right below where he sits perched against the fence of the dugout. He wears a helmet now while coaching, because two years ago, he was hit in the head by a foul ball. He was told to sit lower, but he stated he couldn’t see the game like he wanted to, so now he wears a helmet. Smart man.

“Your bat is good right now, so whatever you’re doing, keep it up.”

“Thanks, Coach.”

I go to walk away when he says, “And your composure behind the plate is outstanding. Abbott told me he’s never felt more comfortable on the mound, and a lot of it has to do with you.”

I glance over at Abbott, who has his arm wrapped up in towels, his head leaning against the dugout wall. “He’s giving me too much credit, but thank you.”

Coach nods toward the hallway that leads to the training and locker rooms. “Go cool down and get the hell out of here. Good game, Rockwell.”

“You too,” I say awkwardly and confused. A compliment from my coach? I’m not quite sure what to do. I never get compliments from him, only stern looks, an occasional gruff comment, but nothing like what he just said to me. Hell . . . maybe it’s going to be a good night. I head down the hall, a little extra pep in my step.

It’s not very often we get to take off early. Day after day we’re in the training room, in the cages, in the weight room, perfecting our game only to play later that night or in the afternoon. It’s grueling and demanding, so when offered an opportunity to slip out early, we jump right on it.

Walking down the hallway, Ryot claps me on the shoulder. “Four for four. Look at you, man. Back in the number four spot and hitting like a goddamn king.”

“The poor rookie was throwing grapefruits out there and their bullpen wasn’t much better. If I didn’t go four for four I would’ve been disappointed in myself.”

“I didn’t go four for four, and neither did Ryot,” Carson says, looking offended.

“Not my problem.” I laugh and head into the abandoned locker room, where I strip down quickly and grab a towel from my locker to wrap around my waist. Before hitting the shower, I snag my phone and send a quick text to Kate.

Walker: Done early. What about you?

“I’m going to bed the minute I get home,” Ryot says, his bare, white ass facing me. “I’m fucking exhausted.”

“Can you not stick your ass in my face?”

Ryot wiggles closer to me, his butt shimmying in my direction. So, like any smart man, I snag his towel, twist it, and smack him in the ass with it, puckering his butt cheeks quickly as he yelps and clasps his behind.

“What the fuck? What are you, ten?”

“I warned you. Keep that shit out of my face.” My phone buzzes on the wood of my locker and I quickly check it.

Kate: Done with everything, was just sticking around to watch the game.

Walker: Do you still want to watch?

Kate: I mean, you’re going to win.

Walker: The proper response would’ve been “Not worth watching if you’re not playing.”

Kate: Ah, I see. But you see, you’re not my favorite Bobbie anymore.

Walker: Hold that thought. Showering, hitting up the trainer, and then I’ll be out. Text you when I’m done.

I set my phone down and turn, only to find Carson and Ryot both standing behind me, arms crossed over their chests, towels wrapped around their waists.

Thank Christ.

“What?” I ask as they stare me down.

“Who are you texting?” Carson asks, trying to glance over my shoulder.

“None of your business.” I try to move past them but they stop me.

“When you’re smiling like that, it is our business,” Ryot says. “Someone holds a key to your happiness, and we need to know who it is so we don’t have to deal with your moody ass all the time.”

“Fuck off,” I say, this time moving past them and straight to the showers. They follow closely behind.

“Is it the girl?”

“You don’t want to be asking questions,” I say, whipping off my towel and turning on a showerhead. The water warms up quickly, so I start washing my entire body, using the team-provided soap, because I could not care less what I smell like as long as it’s fresh.

“Is this the girl you shouldn’t be talking to?” Carson asks, soaping up as well.

“What did I say about asking questions?”

“You can tell us,” Ryot says, trying to lure me in.

“Can I?” I ask sarcastically. “Because last time I told you something, you let the entire team know. Penn is sniffing around and I don’t fucking like it.”

“That was an honest mistake. I can’t be held responsible for that.”

“You sure as hell can. You lost all best friend privileges.”

Carson taps me on the shoulder. “If he’s out of the best friend slot, does that mean I slide right in? And if so, can you tell me who the girl is?”

“Neither of you are getting any information.”

“Bottling it up isn’t going to be healthy,” Ryot tries to point out.

I rinse and shut off the water. I snag my towel from the hook and do a quick wipe down before wrapping it around my waist and heading out into the locker room.

Bottling it up is the only thing I can do, because we’re just friends.

That’s all it’ll ever be.

That’s what I keep telling myself, even though I’m itching to be close to her again.

Chapter Thirty

KATE

“Need a ride?” I hear the deep voice of Walker Rockwell come up from behind me.

While waiting, I was scrolling through Pinterest, pinning some crockpot recipes I thought I would try for some easy meals to take to the stadium. Something healthy so I’m not always hitting up the vendors. I have a curvy butt, but I don’t want it to get so curvy that it doesn’t fit in my pencil skirts anymore.

I stick my phone in my purse and say, “I do. Is it going to cost me anything?”

“Nothing is ever free with me,” he answers from beneath the brim of his hat, making his features pierce me with broody darkness. He nods toward his car as he unlocks it. “Get in.”

“So demanding. I’m not sure I want to get in the car with you.”

Taking my hand into his, letting his fingers tangle with mine, he brings me to his passenger side, opens the door, and growls out, “Get. In.”

Oh God, that’s hot when he lowers his voice like that and demands things.

I’m setting back women’s rights a few years by listening to this alpha of a man dictate what I do, but I can’t help it. Everything about him makes me move, makes me listen. Makes me want to throw my hard-earned women’s rights out the window to have him hold my hand just a while longer.

I want to please.

Please him.

I want him to please me.

Desperately.

I settle into the passenger seat and buckle up. I set my hands on my lap just as Walker gets in. His large frame and broad shoulders invade my side of the car, his arm grazing mine. I don’t move. Instead, I lean a little closer to him, reveling in the way the heat of his body warms me to my core.

He starts the car and then faces me, one hand on the steering wheel. “Who the fuck is your favorite player?”

I roll my eyes. Of course he wasn’t going to drop that.

“You know . . . another guy,” I say, playing with the strap of my purse, trying to act as casual as possible.

“Who?”

“I’m not comfortable saying. I really don’t want to play favorites.”

“Well, then, looks as if you won’t be getting to your car anytime soon.” Shifting his body, he leans against his door, his shirt pulling across his chest just enough that I can see the definition of his pecs. Firm, thick, and begging for my touch, I can’t help but stare, and he catches me. “Look all you want. I’m not going anywhere.”

My eyes snap up and a furious blush creeps across my cheeks, burning my face in embarrassment.

“You’re going to be shy now?” he asks when I turn away.

“No. Just . . . got my fill. Not too impressive.”

“Bullshit.” He leans over and places his fingers under my chin, rotating my head so I’m forced to look him in the eyes. “You want me.”

“Pfft, I’m good.”

“You want to know what I taste like,” he continues, his gaze penetrating my soul. “What it would feel like to have your hand wrapped around my cock, to have me hovering above you, your sweet tits sucked inside my mouth.” My breath catches in my throat as he adds, “You want to know what it’s like to be handled by me in the bedroom, to have my hands move up and down your body, controlling your every pleasure point. You want me sucking, licking, tasting every inch of you until you’re so fucking wet that you come from just the lightest touch of my finger to your aroused cunt.”

Chest heaving now, lips parted, mouth parched, I can’t say anything. No words come to my mind as I envision everything he said.

I can see it so vividly, his muscular frame taking charge, demanding so much, but giving with every demand. I can almost feel his hands glide down my sides, his fingers tracing my nipple in circles until he brings the nub to his mouth. I can practically feel the way his teeth scrape across my breast, the way he sucks me in so deeply that I’m forced to lift off the mattress of the bed.

I want it.

I want him.

“Do you know what I want?” he asks, not giving me a chance to answer. “I want you completely naked in front of me, legs spread just enough that I can see your sweet pussy as you move your hand down your body. I want to watch you finger yourself, your hand moving in and out as the other squeezes your perfect tits. I want to watch as you cry out in pleasure, your head rolling from side to side. But I would never touch you.”

“Wh-why not?” I ask, breathless and completely turned on from the thought of getting myself off in front of him.

“Because—the minute I touch you, I know there’s no going back from there. So instead, I just want to watch you, sear into my brain what it looks like when you come, envisioning my tongue lapping up your orgasm rather than your fingers. I want to see the look on your face when you’re about to come, and then I want to see the pure carnal captivity of your release take you over. I want to see how wet your fingers are when you’re done, when you pull them away from your sweet cunt . . . and then I want to suck them.”

I swallow hard, unsure of what to say.

I want all of that, too. Hell, at this point, with all the feelings that are dancing inside of me, I would get myself off in his car right now if he asked me to. I have zero shame in releasing this buildup I have for him, this throb that won’t go away.

Moving in closer, he places his large hand on my cheek and gently strokes my skin with his thumb while staring me deeply in the eyes. “Do you want that, Kate?”

I lick my lips, stare at his, and then lock gazes with him again. “And so much more,” I answer.

The corner of his mouth tilts up and he asks, “Okay, now who’s your favorite player?”

My jaw falls open, disbelief washing over me. “Are you kidding me right now? You did not just say all of that to be named my favorite player.”

He shakes his head. “I meant every goddamn word. I just wanted to see if I made a dent in the running for Kate’s favorite.”

Smiling slyly, I say, “It was never even a competition.”

He full-on smiles. “Fuck, I want to kiss you so goddamn bad right now.”

“I want your lips, Walker, desperately.”

“Then take them.”

Chapter Thirty-One

WALKER

I say it before I can stop myself.

Then take them.

Take my lips. Burn them with your mouth. Sear them with your taste. Smolder them with your soul and brand them forever.

Three words that could change everything.

Three words that could shift my entire axis.

Three words that could make me the happiest motherfucker on the planet.

But I see the hesitation in her movements, the uncertainty in her eyes. She wants to, but not enough to risk everything, and I don’t want her to risk everything, either. That wouldn’t be fair to her, because if anyone would get in trouble for our actions, it’s her.

Not me.

Before she can say anything, I pull away and face the front. Break the spell, expel yourself from making an even bigger mistake. I put the car in reverse and start to back away, pulling out of my parking spot. Kate rests her hand on my forearm.

“Walker, don’t be mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

“You seem mad. Your forearm veins look as if they’re ready to break the steering wheel off the car.”

“I’m not mad at you, Kate. I’m mad at the situation.”

She sighs. “I want to kiss you.”

“I know you do. I can see you want to kiss me in the way your body reacts to mine, but there’s a heavy dose of uncertainty in your every move, and I don’t want you to be uncertain about anything when it comes to whatever this is between us.” I pull out onto the road and say, “What grocery store?”

“Walt’s, on Greene Street.”

I nod and head in that direction. We probably have a good twenty minutes in the car together. Not enough time for my liking, but I’ll take what I can get.

“Can we talk about something else?” she asks, her voice sounding sad. I hate that. I don’t ever want her to sound sad around me. But given the circumstances, it doesn’t seem as though we can avoid the sadness that etches her words.

“What do you want to talk about?”

“I don’t know. Something stupid, mindless, something that isn’t going to increase this burning pain I have that intensifies whenever you’re around.”

When I stop at a stoplight, I glance over at her and say, “I have the same pain, if that makes you feel better.”

“It doesn’t.” She picks at a piece of lint mindlessly.

Even though we shouldn’t show any form of intimacy toward each other, I reach over and take her hand in mine, weaving our fingers together so our palms are connected—locked. She stares down at our connection, and when I start driving again, I’m almost afraid she’s going to pull away, but instead, she squeezes my hand tighter and leans across the console to rest her head against my shoulder.

A wave of her luscious-smelling perfume invades my space, followed by the silky softness of her hair floating over my shoulder and down my arm. I relish in the feel of her pressed against my body, the way her hair tickles my chin when I move my head over to hers, of how her hand fits so perfectly in my large one.

We’re crossing a line, a big one, but neither one of us can seem to stop ourselves.

And I don’t think we want to stop, no matter the risk.

“Tell me something really random,” she says.

“Something stupid I’ve done?”

She nods against my shoulder. “Yeah, I need you to make yourself look not so wonderful in my eyes right now or else I might just break down and cry. So, tell me something terrible about you, something you did that was really idiotic.”

“We might be here all night.”

She chuckles. “Just tell me one thing. Save the others for later when I’m having the same feeling. When all I want is you, holding me.”

I think back to all the stupid shit I’ve done over the years and try to pick out the best story. Something that’s going to make her laugh but also not completely scare her away, because I don’t want her pulling away . . . ever.

“Are you sure you want to hear this?”

“Lay it on me.”

“Okay.” I think on it for a few more seconds before saying, “When I was in third grade, I was a terror, a real dick.”

“I can’t imagine that being the truth.”

“Believe me, I was. I was an ass to most of my classmates but I would never bully, just, you know . . . steal shit.”

“Wow, what a great guy. Is that all?” She chuckles.

“No, smart-ass.” I laugh. “It was Dan Ramsey’s show-and-tell day. This kid was a dick right back to me. We formed a sort of rivalry.”

“Seems as if you’re prone to that,” she says, referring to me and Penn.

“Maybe I rub people the wrong way.”

“Seems as if you know how to rub them the right way, too,” she says as she snuggles in closer.

Fuck. Me.

Through a clenched jaw, I say, “Unless you want me to pull off on the side of the road right now and eat your pussy, I suggest you watch what you say.”

“Noted,” she says, her voice catching in her throat. “Okay, continue with your story.”

“Dan was showing off his favorite pizza, talking all about how pineapple and ham is the best pizza topping when, clearly—”

“Pepperoni is,” Kate finishes for me.

“Obviously,” I answer, feeling so relaxed around her. “He was being a total ass about it and throwing me under the bus in front of the ladies for liking pepperoni and not some exotic bullshit topping like pineapple. So, I did what any other guy in my position would’ve done. I came up behind him, grabbed the hem of his shorts, and tore them down his legs.”

“You pantsed him?”

I nod unapologetically. “Yup, flipped those shorts down, exposing his underwear to all the girls, which was white with Batman on the crotch, in case you were wondering.”

“Oh my God.” She lifts off my shoulder to look me in the face. “I can’t believe you pantsed the poor guy. He must have been humiliated.”

“He waddled after me, pants at his ankles, until he tripped and fell, tighty-whities up in the air for all to see.”

“Walker, that’s terrible.”

“I was suspended for a few days and I had to write an apology note not only to Dan, but to the girls, too. I was also grounded for a month and forced to read Moby Dick and write a report on it.”

“The teacher assigned you Moby Dick in third grade?”

“No, my dad did. He used reading as a punishment since I hated it so much.”

“That doesn’t seem like a good punishment, putting a negative connotation on something that should be positive.”

“That’s what my mom said.” I clear my throat and say, “But the joke was on me because now I like reading, a lot.”

“What?” She pulls away again, this time removing her hand from mine. “You like reading?”

I reach for her hand again but she keeps it away.

“Yeah, what’s wrong with that?”

“There’s nothing wrong with that other than I specifically told you to tell me something that would make me like you a little less, and then you go and tell me that you’re a reader. That’s not playing the game fairly, Walker. You’re playing dirty.”

A chuckle rumbles out of my chest. “Give me your hand.” I hold out my palm, waiting for her soft hand to slip into mine.

“No.” She tucks it away. “I need to keep my distance.” From the corner of my eye, I can see her shake her head, almost as if she’s disappointed.

“Kate. Hand. Now.”

“No.”

“Kate . . .”

Chapter Thirty-Two

KATE

No.

There is no way I am giving that man my hand back.

Yes, the pantsing story was exactly what I needed, a reality check advertising that the man who sits next to me, the one who smells mountain fresh and has boulders for biceps, isn’t who I really think he is—the perfect catch, no pun intended.

And even though the story was from third grade—I was hoping for something more recent—I still thought it cut him down a millimeter from the pedestal I hold him up on.

But then he has to go and tell me he reads.

I don’t think there’s anything sexier than seeing a guy with a book in his hand.

I like it so much that I follow an Instagram account that’s purely dedicated to hot guys reading in public. Their hands are always curled around the pages, the books worn and well-loved, and it’s sexy as fuck.

And now that’s all I can picture. Walker, casually in his jeans and baseball hat, on the airplane going to another state, book in hand, the pages he’s read curled around the front as he has a look of utter concentration across his face. And then I get another picture of Walker, thanks to the ice bath I walked in on the other week.

Walker in his jeans, barefoot, lying back on a couch—shirtless, of course—book in hand, one arm behind his neck, intense look on his face. All I can see in my mind is ripped muscles, strength, and gorgeous, gorgeous skin. Walker’s skin. Walker’s erect nipples.

It’s making my skin tingle, the juncture between my thighs throbs, the need for this man growing with more potency than before.

A reader.

No way.

“Don’t make me ask again,” he says, still holding his hand out.

I don’t comply; instead, I say, “Just tell me this—what kind of books do you read? If you say romance, I’m going to need you to pull this car over right away.”

He chuckles . . . again. That sound, vibrating through my veins, making my nipples hard on the spot.

“Nah, not a romance kind of guy. Mainly autobiographies. I find other people’s lives fascinating.”

I sigh in relief. Okay, I can deal with that . . . sort of. He still reads.

“E-reader or actual book?”

“E-reader.” He reaches over and snags my hand before I can pull it away. He then jerks his head and says, “Get back over here.”

“I’m too afraid.”

“This is all I get with you, Kate. Please.”

Well . . . when he puts it like that, I’ll do just about anything. I lean my head against his strong shoulder and get comfortable again. Quietly, I hear him sigh in relief.

This overpowering, masculine man just sighed when I rested my head on his shoulder. How is that even possible?

How did we get to the point where we both feel this undeniable need to be near each other?

When did we blur the lines?

And how far are we going to go before it’s too late?

Gathering myself, I say, “I would’ve pictured you as a paperback kind of guy.”

“I still am, on occasion, especially during the off-season, but when we’re traveling, it’s easier to carry my e-reader around with me. That way when I finish a book, I can start another one right away.”

“Makes sense.” I bite my bottom lip. “So, just autobiographies? That can’t be easy jumping from one to another.”

“I mix a suspense in there every once in a while. Gillian Flynn’s novels are all kinds of fucked up.”

“You read Gillian Flynn?” I ask, growing excited.

“Yup,” he answers matter-of-factly. “Just finished Sharp Objects.”

“Gah, are you going to watch the show now on HBO?”

“Yeah, subscribed just to see how it was translated.”

“Ugh,” I groan and snuggle in even closer. “Could you imagine? If we were actually able to date, I would totally make you wait for me to watch every episode.”

“We could still watch it together.”

I laugh out loud. “Okay, that’s probably the worst idea you’ve ever had.”

“Why?”

“Because, do you really think you’d be able to keep your hands to yourself?”

“Awfully full of yourself, aren’t you?” he asks in a teasing tone.

“Every time I see you, you stare at my breasts for at least a solid ten seconds. I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t be able to help yourself if you were sitting next to me on a couch.”

“I would. Try me.”

“No way.” I laugh. “You’re just saying that now. I think I know you well enough, Walker, where that wouldn’t be the truth.”

“Still, I think we should try it.”

I squeeze his hand. “Not going to happen.”

“You sure? I have the rest of the night off. You can come over to my place, we can pop some popcorn, watch the show . . .”

It’s enticing. So enticing that I actually give it some thought. Could I go to his place, be immersed in his space, sit on his couch next to him, and focus on a show without being distracted by the way he most likely stretches out on his couch, wondering if he’s going to make a move at any point?

Would I really be able to behave myself?

Am I seriously considering the offer?

Chapter Thirty-Three

WALKER

She’s quiet, and when I glance over at her, I can see her mulling over the idea.

Hell, I just threw it out there, half serious, but if she says yes, I’ll make a beeline to my apartment right now.

She nibbles on her bottom lip, contemplating. Finally, she says, “It’s not a good idea.”

“It’s not, but I still want you to come over.” I stop at a light and lift her chin so I can look her in the eyes. “I’m going out on the road. I won’t see you for a while, right?”

“I’m staying in Chicago to work on the ball.”

“Exactly. Come over, hang out. Be with me for a few more hours.”

“Walker . . .”

“Please,” I say, pulling out the big guns. I can’t hold back. I want to be around her. I want to know more about her. I want to see what she looks like in the morning after a long night’s sleep in my arms.

She searches my eyes for a few heartbeats and then says, “Okay.”

“Okay?” I ask, surprised. “Really?”

“Don’t make me change my mind.”

A burst of hope springs in my chest as I make a quick right-hand turn and head straight to my apartment, holding this woman captive. She said yes.

She fucking said yes.

I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do, or how I’m going to handle being on my best behavior around her, but all I know is I have a few more hours with her before I have to say goodbye.

“I EXPECTED A NICER APARTMENT,” she says, taking in my high ceilings and large windows that span across the whole front side of my space.

“What?” I ask, shutting the door behind me.

She chuckles and says, “I’m only kidding. This place is really nice. The view is amazing.”

I take her hand in mine, a gesture I seem to enjoy, and bring her to the windows, where I sandwich her between me and the glass—giving her some space, but not too much—and lift my arm in front of her and point. “Can you see the stadium?”

“Look at that, I can. Looks as though the game is still going on.”

“Nah, it’s all wrapped up, I got a notification about the win. Nineteen to zero. Shutout.”

“You get notifications on your phone about your games?” She turns her head to look at me quizzically, her face so close to mine.

“I like to read about how we did, how the reporters interpreted everything, not just about us, but the other team, too. The more I can educate myself, the better.”

“I guess that makes sense. Do you ever get mad if they write something negative about you?”

“Nah, because I usually agree with them.”

She turns around to face me, but I don’t move. Instead, I tuck a few strands of her hair behind her ear. “Something you should know about me—I don’t think my talent walks on water. I know when I play like shit and I’m the first one to reprimand myself about it. If someone says something negative about the way I play, then they’re probably telling the truth. It’s the other stuff that makes me want to rip walls apart and slam heads into the drywall.”

“What other stuff?”

“The non-baseball aspect. My personal life, my attitude, all that bullshit. I think reporters have taken aspects out of the game, and rather than focusing on how it’s played, they try to dive in psychologically.”

“But isn’t that baseball? Eighty percent mental? Twenty percent physical?”

“Yes, but why can’t a guy beat the fuck out of a cooler and not get in trouble for it?”

She laughs and tugs on the hem of my T-shirt before walking over to the couch, where she takes a seat, folding her legs underneath her. “Because that’s poor sportsmanship, Walker. There are kids who look up to you. You’re a professional baseball player, and with the title comes the responsibility.”

Hell, when she puts it like that . . .

“I get it. You get frustrated with yourself and you need to release your anger, but you also have a responsibility to keep it together, to show everyone that even though you struck out and left runners on the bases, you don’t need to break your bat over your knee.”

I take a seat next to her and sink into the couch. “But what about my personal life? Shouldn’t I be able to go volunteer without making a big deal about it?”

“Yes, I think you should, but unfortunately, the Bobbies own you, and you’re a product of their brand. They want you representing them in a positive light, and if that means exposing you as a do-gooder by having media show up while you’re being the decent human being that you are, then that’s what’s going to happen.”

I shake my head and drag my hand over my face. “You’re never going to agree with me on this, are you?”

“Not really, since it’s my job to make you look good. But I’ll agree with the relationship stuff. I don’t think anyone should have their relationship publicized unless they want it to be. It’s hard enough finding someone to fall in love with, and the last thing you need is to have it show up on all the major media outlets.”

“Are you just saying that because of our situation?” I ask, turning toward her.

She shakes her head. “I would say that about anyone.”

I move my arm along the back of the couch and pick up a piece of her hair, circling my finger around it. “How do you feel about secret relationships?”

“Tried it once, didn’t like it.”

“You did?” I ask, all of a sudden becoming a jealous motherfucker. “With who?”

“Something stupid when I was young. Got burned in college.” She looks down at her folded hands.

Now I really want to know who it was, but I’m not going to push it, because from the look in her eyes, it’s going to kill the mood. So instead, I ask, “So you’d never do it again?”

“No, I wouldn’t want to.”

“Why?” I ask, completely forgetting about the reason I brought her back to my apartment in the first place—to watch a show. Now that I have her here, all I want to do is talk. Which is seriously weird as fuck. For so many years, I haven’t needed to nor wanted to talk to anyone. I’m comfortable with silence, and have never felt it necessary to air my thoughts. And yet, here I am with this woman who has turned on a switch inside me.

“I like dating.” She leans her head against the back of the couch. Our knees are inches apart, our bodies so damn close, I wish I could pull her onto my lap and run little circles across her knee as she talks. “I like getting dressed up, being taken out, spoiled for a night. I like being able to show off who I’m with, let everyone know that the guy who’s holding my hand is taken.”

I use that moment to reach across and take her hand in mine, letting her hair fall at her shoulder. I run my thumb along the back of her hand and then flip it over to do the same thing on her palm. She lets me, relaxing into my touch.

“I don’t want to hide, I want to be proud. I want to be able to brag. I want to be able to live my life without having to worry about any sort of repercussions.”

The hope that was building inside of me ever since she said yes to coming over quickly diminishes after her speech.

“Where does that leave us?”

She shakes her head. “I have no idea.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

KATE

Once again, I’m not making smart decisions, but when it comes to Walker, it seems as though all the logic I possess is taken from me and I make choices that I should never even consider, like going back to his place to “watch a show.” I think both of us knew we weren’t going to be watching any damn show.

And yet, here I am, on his couch, talking about secret relationships.

Is that what he wants with me? A secret relationship? It doesn’t sound appealing to me at all, especially with Walker.

If I were going to be with Walker Rockwell, actually date him, then I would want everyone to know that he’s mine, that he’s off the market. I wouldn’t want women thinking he’s still eligible to have their wild way with.

No, he’d be all mine, and I would stake my claim.

But that’s not an option when it comes to us. Hell, us isn’t an option at all.

I sigh and say, “I never should’ve come back here. I don’t know why I did.”

He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he stares intently at me, making me almost shrink in place under those thunderous eyes.

I go to get up from the couch, but Walker stops me, still holding my hand in his. “Sit.”

“Walker, this was a bad idea.”

“Sit the fuck down, Kate.”

Seeing him start to lose some of his composure, I sit back down, but farther away this time, giving us at least a foot of space between us. I also steal my hand back and set it on my lap. My back is ramrod straight and I’m extremely uncomfortable, wondering what he’s going to say next.

He pushes his hand through his dark hair and leans back on the couch, frustration oozing from his every movement.

What would it be like to run my fingers over his stomach? Would my touch affect him the way I think his touch would just about destroy me?

From the way he was just looking at me, I’m going to guess yes.

The silence is killing me, so I break it and ask, “Do you, uh, want to watch the show?”

“No.”

“Okay.” I awkwardly nod. “Cool, so . . . uh, what are we doing?”

“No fucking idea.” He moves his head to the side. “It’s late.”

“Yeah, and you have an early flight tomorrow, which means I should probably go.”

“Or,” he says, looking away while his hands go to his head. He mutters something under his breath that I can’t make out.

“Or what?” I ask, my pulse picking up as he stands and walks to his entryway, where he presses a few buttons on the alarm system. “What are you doing?” Instead of answering me, he walks over to my side of the couch and holds out his hand. I stare at it and then up at him. “What’s going on?”

“Come with me.” He gestures for me to get up.

“You’re going to have to tell me where we’re going, because I’m pretty sure you just set your alarm for the night.”

“I did.”

“Are you trapping me?”

“The code is 4 5 7 8. Leave whenever you want. Just come with me now.”

I memorize that code for my own sanity, because right about now, I have a sinking suspicion that he’s not about to show me the view in better detail. And when he starts to take me down a dark hallway, my suspicions are confirmed.

“What are you doing?” I ask as he brings me into his master bedroom.

The room is full of modern furniture, a giant bed with a navy-blue comforter and gray bedding. White walls flank the space, along with a long stretch of windows just like his living room. I’m assuming they’re tinted since there isn’t a curtain in sight. The room is clean, crisp, something I’d expect from Walker. No frills, no unnecessary items such as throw pillows or decorative pieces.

When he turns to me, he says, “Bathroom is to the right. I’ll grab you a shirt. There’s a new toothbrush in the left-hand drawer.”

Uh, what?

Nervously, I say, “That’s great and all, Walker, but why would I need those items? I’m not staying the night. Are you insane?”

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink as he stares into my soul.

“Stay.”

It’s one word, it’s all he’s giving me, but it packs one hell of a punch.

The grit in his voice, the despair, as if me leaving will destroy him.

What am I supposed to do with that?

“Walker,” I say softly, looking down at the floor because his gaze is too intense. If I look at his soulful eyes any longer, I can see myself making some bad decisions. “I can’t stay.”

“I won’t touch you. Just stay, keep me company. Talk to me.”

“And then what?”

“And then I go to the West Coast and you stay here, in Chicago.”

“I mean, and then what happens to us?”

He shrugs and reaches up to move his thumb across my cheek. “I have no fucking clue, probably nothing, but just give me this night. Give me one night where I get to stare at you without feeling as though I’m going to get caught. Let me enjoy your voice without wondering if one of my teammates is reading me like an open book.”

His voice pleads.

His eyes beg.

I’m powerless in this moment.

My mouth goes dry, like a desert.

“And then after, we can part ways. Be friends.”

“Is that what you want?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he answers. “It’s what should be done.”

I know he’s right, but I still feel the sting. It’s stupid to think, but I almost wish that he would fight for the possibility of us.

I can’t ask him to do that.

Nor can I afford to fight for it myself.

So, I relent and ask, “Just talking?”

He nods. “It can’t be more than that. If it goes any further, there’s no way I can only ask for one night.”

I understand.

Nodding, I let out a deep breath and say, “Get me a T-shirt. I’ll start getting ready for bed.”

A confusing smile passes over his lips, almost as if he’s sad and happy at the same time. I feel the same way. Excited to have this extra time with him, but sad that this is it. After tonight, we’re putting a stop to this insanity.

It won’t be easy, but I can do it.

At least, that’s what I hope.

I spend some time in the bathroom, brushing my teeth and taking off my makeup. I switch into his Bobbies T-shirt jersey, which is entirely too large on me and perfect as a nightgown. Before I leave the bathroom, I bring the fabric of his shirt up to my nose and take in a deep breath, letting the scent of him fill me up. Woodsy and all male with a hint of fresh—just what I would’ve expected. I hope he doesn’t want this shirt back, because given that I can’t have him, this is coming home with me.

Glancing in the mirror one more time, I take in my fresh face and wonder if he’ll appreciate me without makeup. There’s only one way to find out. I open the bathroom door to find Walker sitting on his bed in only a pair of sweatpants, staring down at his phone. When he glances up, his eyes soften, and he stands, setting his phone on the nightstand. He walks up to me, his eyes never leaving mine, and cups my cheek. Softly he passes his thumb over my skin and gently says, “You’re so goddamn beautiful.”

I press my lips together and lean into his touch. “You can’t say things like that to me, Walker.”

“I can do whatever the hell I want. If that means I call you beautiful, then you accept that, because you are.”

“And what about the touching?” I ask, my eyes fluttering open.

“That I’m going to try to control myself.” He brings his hand down to his side and stares at me for a couple more moments before going to the bathroom to brush his teeth. Unsure of what to do, whether I should sit down in his bed or not, I stand in the middle of his room and wait. I don’t want to be too presumptuous, even though I know that’s where we’ll be hanging out.

The water turns off and the sound of his toothbrush banging against the sink sounds through the door, followed by him opening the bathroom door and turning off the light. That’s when I get a good look at him under the dim light coming from his nightstand.

His sweatpants hang low on his waist, showing his carved body, the perfect V where his hips narrow. His abs trail up his stomach to his thick pecs and dark-colored nipples. His arms, works of art, are full of sinew intertwining and shifting whenever he moves. Ink covers the side of his ribs and I can’t help but be drawn to the dark patterns scattered over his skin. I want to trace my fingers over the art, ask him what every tattoo stands for and why he only chose his left side. I want to know his story. The why behind the façade he shows the world. And why I’m lucky enough to see the warmer side of him. And I hate that all those wants cannot be realized.

“Come on,” he says, taking my hand and guiding me to the bed, where he pushes back the covers and gestures for me to get in. I scoot across the mattress awkwardly, keeping my butt covered up, so I don’t flash Walker in the process.

Before getting into the bed with me, he turns the light off, shucks his sweatpants and then slides under the sheets with me.

I take a moment to let the softness of the sheets slide across my skin. I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything so smooth, so comfortable. Money really can buy nice things, a bed with soft bedsheets being one of them.

How many women have thought the same thing in my position? Have they felt the plushness of his mattress, the silkiness of his sheets? Probably. The man isn’t a saint, nor would he ever be celibate, not with the athletic adrenaline that runs through him on a daily basis. There’s no way he’s stuck using his hand and his hand alone for pleasure.

Still . . . has he brought anyone back here?

No, it doesn’t matter, none of that matters.

Clearing my throat, I ask, “Do you always sleep just in your boxer briefs?”

He shifts the comforter and sticks his arm out of the blankets while stuffing the other under his pillow, propping his head up so he can get a better look at me.

“Usually naked.”

“Would’ve figured that.” I chuckle. “With these kinds of sheets, I think everyone would want to be naked.”

His face sharpens from my comment, his imagination probably going to where mine was—being naked, right now.

“What about you? Do you usually sleep in just a nightgown or something like that?”

I chuckle. “A nightgown? No. And if you’re thinking a sleeping cap too, that’s a big no.” The corner of his mouth lifts and I feel privileged that I can pull at least a small reaction of humor from him. “I’m a naked girl. I love sleeping bare.”

I watch as his Adam’s apple bobs, the sound of him swallowing hard completely obvious.

“You sleep naked?”

I nod, slightly loving the tortured look in his eyes. “Always. I love it. It’s freeing. My only fear is if there were a fire in my building, I would have to quickly throw something on so no one sees my personal business. It’s why I always keep a robe at the foot of my bed—you know, for emergencies.”

“Makes sense.” His voice cracks. “Since we both prefer sleeping naked, maybe we do that now.”

“Stop.” I playfully push his chest. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

“It’s been hard for a while, babe,” he says, his innuendo slipping over me like a warm blanket, heating me up inside.

I bite my bottom lip and keep my hands where they are, under my pillow, and I promise myself to keep them there.

Ignoring his comment, I say, “Sleeping in one of the players’ beds . . . Hmm, I wonder what other kind of bad decisions I can make tonight.”

“I can help you with a list,” he says, sliding closer.

Oh God.

No, I don’t need help because my mind is already creating that list itself.

Walker naked.

My hand on Walker’s erection, stroking him up and down as he lies flat on his back, the cords of muscle in his neck throbbing with my touch.

Walker above me, his pecs flexing as he pulses in and out of me, his strong body taking over.

The feel of his scruff along my inner thighs, scraping and burning my skin.

His cock in my mouth, his balls in my hands as I tease and torment him . . .

“Where did your mind go?” he asks, pulling me from my wicked reverie. I stick my arm out of the covers as well, needing an outlet for the heat building up inside of me.

“Somewhere,” I answer. I need to change the subject, because this throbbing sensation that’s eclipsing my thought process needs to die down before I lose all control and throw myself at the man next to me. “When did you know you were good enough to play professionally?”

His eyes sear into me, clearly not liking the change of subject. It’s a safe conversation, one that I know won’t get us into trouble.

“I always wanted to play professionally because I knew I was good, but it wasn’t until my freshman year in college when I was killing the ball and throwing every runner out at second that I realized I had the potential to take this all the way, which only made me work harder.”

“You were drafted after your junior year in college, right?”

“Checking up on me?” he asks, his eyes turning soft with humor.

“I always do my research. I find that it helps me do my job better.”

He nods and says, “Yeah, I was drafted and played in the minors for a while, bouncing back and forth between the big leagues. It was torture there for a moment, feeling as though I got my break, only to be sent back down again. But finally, I earned that starting position. I was amazing in college, but I was only average professionally, which was a gut check. I had to work harder than I ever thought possible.” He shifts and adds, “I think that’s one of the reasons why I’ve lost the fun of it all, because my love for the sport became a job, a job I was having a hard time performing at.”

“It came easy to you before.”

“Like second nature, but it’s different when it’s a profession. There’s more pressure—everyone is depending on you, not only your teammates but the staff, the fans, the front office, the people who helped me get me where I am today. It turned into something more than just playing ball.”

“I can understand that,” I say softly, wanting to reach out to him. “And now, how do you feel about it?”

“I think I’m finding that love for the game again.”

“Because of me, right?” I wink, but he grows serious.

“You reminded me it’s just a game. So, yeah, maybe.”

I wasn’t expecting him to say that, nor was I expecting his answer to have such an impact on my already fluttering nerves.

“Did you play any sports?” he asks, pulling the attention to me so I don’t have much time to think about his response.

“I want to say yes and impress you, but I’ve never been super coordinated. As you could tell from my attempt at playing against you.”

“You were decent.”

“You’re lying.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, I am.”

I poke his chest again, and this time, my finger jabs pure muscle. God, he’s so strong.

So sexy.

“I will say this,” I add. “I’ll try anything that’s put in front of me, though. I don’t have a problem embarrassing myself. I’m the girl who volunteers to play volleyball at the company party but sucks the entire time.”

“Ah, you’re the one who thinks they can have fun playing while the rest of the team is super competitive and wishes you’d just sit down.”

I nod with a smile. “Yup, that’s me. It might be annoying to an athlete like you, but I have fun doing it and trying new things.”

“While the rest of us suffer,” he says, humor heavy in his voice.

“Wow, you know, you shouldn’t be a snobby athlete.”

He shrugs. “It’s who I am. You can’t put an athlete in a competitive situation and ask them to play for fun. Doesn’t work that way.”

“Is there any sport you’re not good at?”

“Nope,” he answers right away. “I’m the best at everything.”

“Oh, Jesus.” I roll my eyes. “That’s not being full of yourself at all.”

“Try me, then. Hand me any kind of sports equipment, and I’ll prove it to you.”

I think it over and say, “What about golf? That’s a completely different swing than baseball. Muscle memory is a killer when switching sports.”

“Not when I bat right-handed, but play golf left-handed.”

My mouth drops open. “You do not.”

“I do.”

“Stop it. That’s absurd.”

“It’s a fun sport to play in the off-season, but I didn’t want to screw up my swing so I learned how to play left-handed. It’s being smart.”

“It’s being cocky.” I let out a sigh and then ask, “What about bowling?”

“I plow through those pins with ease.”

“Tennis?”

“Agility is my middle name.”

“Football?” I ask, a little skeptical of my own questioning now.

“Is that a joke?”

“Yeah.” I capitulate. “You’re built like a linebacker, stupid question. Well . . .” I purse my lips. “I bet you can’t draw.”

“Hand me a pen and paper right now and take off your shirt. I’ll draw a replica of your tits for you.”

With a deadpan look on my face, I say, “Not necessary.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

WALKER

She’s so fucking adorable. The shocked look on her face is brilliant. She’s intrigued.

I’m shit for an artist, but if she tore that shirt off right now, I would do my damnedest to replicate her tits, only to toss the paper and pencil to the side and make work on sucking her nipples into my mouth.

Just thinking about it is getting me hard, something I can’t afford to be right now, so close to this woman who seems to be cracking my wall with every minute I’m around her. By the end of the night, that wall is going to be near crumbles on the ground.

Only tonight, just tonight. What the hell was I thinking?

I’m saving her from losing her damn job, that’s what I was thinking. Even though I’m desperate for her, I know how much she loves her job and I don’t want her to lose that. And I also have respect for the Bobbies. Even in moments where I’ve hated the game, hated how I’ve been painted as the bad boy on the wrong team, I still respect the Bobbies as a team, as a company. But mostly? Mostly, I don’t want Kate, so new to the team, to struggle with what would be said about her. I’m not worth that.

“Can you draw?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Not even a little. I went to one of those drink and paint classes, where they lay out the picture for you. Doesn’t require much imagination, but let me tell you, we were painting a tree and mine ended up looking a little too phallic-like.” She leans a touch forward and looks to the side before saying, “I painted a penis with green cum shooting out the top, rather than leaves.”

I don’t laugh very hard, very often, but Kate just pulled a full-on belly laugh out of me.

I toss my head back and let it rip, picturing Kate with a glass of wine in hand and a confused look on her face as she examines her picture.

“Shit, please tell me you kept the painting and hung it.”

When I face her again, there’s a giant smile on her face, as if making me laugh is all the fulfillment she needs in her life.

Playing off my enjoyment, she nods. “Oh yeah, hung it up in my guest bathroom as my centerpiece. It’s what guests stare at when they’re doing their business.”

“Fuck, that’s funny. Does anyone ever say anything?”

“My mom was very appalled when she saw it and begged me to take it down. I told her I based all the colors in the bathroom off the picture, so I couldn’t possibly hide the inspiration for the room.”

I chuckle some more.

“When she visits, she always attempts to hide the painting in the bathroom cupboard so she doesn’t have to stare at it when going to the bathroom. I try to explain to her she’s seen a penis before, so what’s the big deal? She tells me my father’s penis looks nothing like that, which only makes me want to throw up in my mouth. It’s a source of conflict whenever my mom comes over, but I refuse to hide my art.”

“Never. Show that off with pride. I’m going to need evidence of this picture. I really want to see your interpretation of a penis in its natural environment.”

She smiles. “Clever, very clever, Walker Rockwell.”

I nudge her with my foot. “I try.”

She yawns and I wonder what time it is. It can’t be too late. We haven’t been talking that long. “Tired?” I ask, hoping she doesn’t want to sleep just yet.

“Just a little.”

My hope falls.

“But I don’t want to go to sleep. I want to know more about you. Can you cook?”

Feeling at ease, I nod. “Yeah, I can cook a few dishes, and if you give me a recipe, I can follow it. I don’t cook often, but I won’t burn dinner if you ask for it.”

“Do you enjoy it?”

“When I’m not exhausted. Hence, I don’t cook often. What about you?”

She runs her hand over her hip and says, “I’m not curvy for no reason. I love cooking.”

I can’t help it—I reach out and run my fingers along her waist and hip. Her eyes soften when I say, “I really like your curves. A lot.”

Too much.

I dream about her curves. I jack off to her curves, picturing them in my head as my hand is tugging on my cock relentlessly. Soft and smooth. Her body is fucking phenomenal, and it was one of the first things I noticed that fateful day when I met her.

From the light of the moon, I can see her cheeks darken. She’s blushing, and it’s fucking sexy.

“I really like making Italian food. Ravioli is my specialty.”

“From scratch?” I ask, impressed.

“Yup. I like playing with the flavors and matching them up with the perfect sauce.”

“And you tell me this now, when this is the last night we’re spending together? You play dirty, Kate.”

She chuckles and says, “Maybe if you do the Build-a-Bear event, I’ll make you some and drop it off anonymously in your locker.”

“I like ravioli, but not that much.”

“What’s your problem with Build-a-Bear?” she asks, as if I’m insane.

“I’m not into stuffing toy animals. I’d rather be stuffing other things,” I say, dropping my voice.

Like stuffing you.

She bats her lashes a few times and looks away from my gaze. She makes a frustrated sound and says, “Stop that. You’re turning me on.”

“It’s taken you this long? I’ve been turned on ever since you agreed to have me drive you to your car.”

“Stop it, no, you haven’t. You can’t have a boner for that long.”

“You obviously don’t know men very well.”

She gives me a sideways look. “So, you’re telling me you had a boner the entire game?”

I nod.

She rolls her eyes. “You’re such a liar.”

Chuckling, I move my hand to her hip and keep a firm grasp on her. “Okay, not the whole game. But in my car, yes.”

“Which means your dick is ready to fall off now?”

“Pretty much.”

“How unfortunate for you. If you want me to say a eulogy at his burial, let me know.”

I joke back, “He wouldn’t want a stranger telling lies. It’s a shame you two never became friends.”

“I think I would’ve liked him.”

I stroke my thumb over her shirt, causing her to shift forward and shorten the distance between us to mere inches. Her warmth heats my already scorching skin and the air begins to thicken around us as we slowly near the line we shouldn’t cross—one thumb stroke at a time.

“He’d have liked you a lot.”

We stare at each other, both our eyes heady with need, with yearning. Our jaws clenched, our shoulders stiff. Her eyelashes flutter as she takes in quick, short breaths, reacting to my touch. All it takes is one lift of her shirt, one caress of her skin, one stroke of my hand north.

Beneath the covers, her feet graze mine, timidly at first, and then cautiously tangle, skyrocketing my pulse.

Fuck.

My hand itches to make a move, to connect with her on a more feral level. Just one fucking taste, one fucking touch. Anything to ease this buildup of need I’ve been harboring for weeks.

“I thought you weren’t going to touch me,” she says as my fingers dance across her hip to the hem of her shirt.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“If I said yes, would you?”

I reach the hem of her shirt and move my fingers underneath the fabric, my heart pounding in my chest. “It would be painful, but I would.” I swallow hard and ask, “Do you want me to stop?”

She nibbles on her bottom lip but never looks away from me, so I take the moment to move my hand farther up to her hip, searching out the seam of her underwear, but when I come up short, my cock surges.

“Are you not wearing anything under your shirt?”

With a shy smile, she shakes her head. “No. I told you, I like to sleep naked.”

Ahhh . . . fuck.

“Christ, Kate.” I shift my hand so my palm rather than the tips of my fingers is now pressed against her skin. “Are you trying to get yourself fucked?”

“Just trying to be comfortable.” Her legs rub together, knocking our feet against each other. “Is that going to be a problem?”

“You want me to sleep in this bed with you, knowing there’s nothing under this shirt of mine but your bare body?”

She nods.

“Impossible.” I slide my hand farther up to just above her hip, dragging the shirt with my touch. If there weren’t blankets draped over us, I would, without a doubt, have a view of her pussy. She sucks in a short breath as I move my hand from her side to her backside, just above her ass. My fingers tempt the boundaries we’ve haphazardly set. Her body shifts—I like to think on purpose—causing my hand to fall farther down her backside so I’m cupping a part of her ass.

I growl under my breath and squeeze my eyes shut as I lie next to this gorgeous woman, painfully hard with no clue how far we should take this.

“You never answered my question,” I say, my voice raspy with desire. “Do you want me to stop touching you?”

Once again, she doesn’t answer me right away, instead, studies me, letting my heat sink into hers.

Chapter Thirty-Six

KATE

I can’t breathe.

There’s no air pumping through my lungs and I can’t decipher if I’m loopy from the lack of oxygen flowing through my body, or if it’s from the man who’s practically pressed up against me.

He’s different, lying here next to me. Instead of the short-tempered man I’ve become accustomed to, I’m experiencing a patient, interested, and beautifully vulnerable man, whose touch lights me up inside like no one else ever has.

I should stop rubbing my feet with his or staring into his expressive eyes or letting him run his fingers along my skin, but for the life of me, I can’t tell him to stop.

Because I don’t want him to.

I want to know what it’s like to be worshipped by this man.

It’s why I move closer.

It’s why I find my hand resting on his chest.

And it’s why I hear myself saying, “You can touch me.”

I’m not sure if he hears me right away, because he doesn’t move. Instead he just stares, his hand still cupping my butt.

It was a risk not wearing anything under the shirt he’s letting me borrow, but it was a risk I was willing to take, because secretly, I wanted to see if it drove him crazy.

It has.

Wanting to encourage him, I slowly move my fingers down the valley between his thick pecs, over the stubble of his chest hair, to the taut ridges of his abdomen. With every ripple and contraction of his stomach from my touch, a new wave of goosebumps spreads over my skin.

He squeezes his eyes shut as I reach his belly button, my fingers dancing over the small patch of hair that trails down to the waistband of his boxer briefs. Do I go farther?

I can see that he wants me to, his body is vibrating with encouragement, but I keep my fingers where they are, testing my boundaries.

“Kate,” he groans and shifts on the bed, the movement causing my fingers to skim the bulge in his briefs.

He’s so hard.

Just from that brief touch, I could feel his arousal seeking relief.

And I want to give him relief. I want his cock in my hand, in my mouth . . . inside me. I want to hear him groan, moan, come. I want to know what his face looks like when he loses all control, when he blacks out from pure euphoria.

Chest rising and falling rapidly, he groans in frustration and shifts his hand to the front of my shirt, and that’s where I stop him, removing my hand and snagging his wrist before he touches my bare breasts.

“We can’t,” I say, despite the deep protest from my body. “If we go any further, we won’t be able to stop.”

“Fuck,” he growls and rolls to his back. His beefy arm lands across his eyes and I watch as his chest tightens, his muscles bunching together. “I know you’re right, but fuck, Kate.”

The comforter rides low on his waist, barely covering his briefs.

Just one peek, one look. That’s all I want.

As he lies there, trying to catch his breath, I shift the blankets so they fall down his legs and fix my eyes on his prominent bulge. The tip of his cock slips past the waistband of his boxer briefs, a drop of precum resting on the head, and from the mere sight of him, throbbing with need, I can feel my own arousal take over.

I need him.

I want him.

I can’t have all of him, but maybe just a little.

“Maybe for a few seconds,” I say, my conscience betraying me.

His arm lifts as he looks over at me. “A few seconds for what?”

“Five seconds . . . to touch me. I’ll count.”

“You’re giving me five seconds?” he asks, his face disbelieving.

“It’s all I can give.”

He looks back up at the ceiling and I can practically hear the wheels in his mind working, trying to decide if it would be a good decision or not. It wouldn’t be, it would be a terrible decision. And yet, I hope he takes his five seconds, because I want him so badly to burn me with his passionate touch.

“Fuck,” he mutters before turning to face me. He slips his hand under my shirt again and, this time, his entire hand presses against my heated skin. “Start counting.”

“One,” I say through a strained voice as his hand smooths over my stomach. “Two.” It travels up my stomach. “Three.” I nearly swallow my tongue as the backs of his fingers graze the underside of my breasts. “Four.” His fingers trail between my cleavage and are about to touch my nipple when I let out a long, “Five.” And then he removes his hand, leaving me throbbing between my legs, unsatisfied and even more turned on.

Not even realizing my eyes are shut, I open them to see his teeth rolling over his bottom lip as he stares at me. He reaches out, takes my hand, and places it on his chest. “Your turn.”

A moan falls past my lips as I move my hand over his thick pec. “One,” he says, his voice cracking from how strained it is. I drag my hand over one of his nipples and he lets out a hissed, “Two.” I then travel down his abdomen, reveling in each ridge and bump. “Three.” My fingers smooth across the waistband of his boxer briefs. “Four,” he groans, just as my fingers connect with the head of his cock.

When he doesn’t finish counting, I pull my hand away and say, “Five.”

“Fu-uck,” he says, his body shifting, his eyes squeezing shut.

Together, we lie there in bed, both breathing heavily, both more turned on than before.

“Five more seconds,” I whisper.

Before I can even second-guess my decision, he’s turned toward me and pressing my knees apart.

Oh.

Hell.

His hand falls to my inner thigh as I count out, “One.” I’m so wet, I can feel just how wet from the part of my legs, and it only becomes increasingly wet as his hand moves up my inner thigh. “Two.” I swallow hard as his fingers drag over my smooth pubic bone. “Three.” His index and middle finger spread and glide over my pussy. “Four,” I moan so loud that I even surprise myself, as he slips one finger between my slit and over my drenched clit. “Five.” I nearly cry when he pulls away.

I open my eyes just in time to see him stick his finger in his mouth and suck on it. His eyes briefly shut as he says, “I knew you’d taste fucking good.”

“Walker,” I whisper, unable to control the need in my voice.

He flips to his back, ready for his turn, and I consider gripping his cock this time, but my brain is fuzzy, my mind is a complete mess, and all I can think about is relief.

Relief of this burning ache pulsing between my legs.

It’s consuming.

Exhausting.

Demanding.

I can’t continue like this. That one swipe of his finger was my undoing.

Before I can stop myself, I sit up on the bed, causing him to drop his arm to the side and look my way. We stare at each other for a few seconds while I gain enough courage . . .

To his shock—and mine—I straddle his lap, his hardened length settling right against my heated center. His hands fall to my thighs as I adjust myself, his thumbs guiding his thickness pressed up against me in just the right spot.

“Fuck, Kate. What are you doing?”

On the verge of tears from how sexually frustrated I am, how annoyed I am with this entire situation, I say just above a whisper, “Just a few seconds. Please, Walker.”

The thick veins in his neck bulge as he sucks in a heavy breath, the same frustrated pain reflected in his eyes that are in mine. His fingers press into my skin and his teeth roll over his bottom lip before he grunts out, “Five seconds.”

I nod. Taking what I can get.

I move my hips so my exposed clit glides ever so softly over his erection. “One,” I breathe out heavily as my hands fall to his chest. “Two,” I continue, pushing forward and then sliding back. “Three,” I moan, my mind starting to turn into a fuzzy mess. “Four.” His fingers tighten even more. “Five,” I say just as I stop my hips and rest there, staring down at him, unable to understand what’s happening.

“Walker . . . I—”

Before I can finish, he flips me to my back and pins my hands above my head. His strong, domineering body hovers above me, and his hips start to pulse against mine. “Five . . . fucking . . . seconds,” he growls out, the only thing between us being his boxer briefs.

But the friction is palpable. I can feel every ridge of his cock glide along my clit as he starts to count.

“One.” He pulses hard. “Two.” His fingers lace with mine. “Three,” he grunts, his hips moving faster, both of our breaths picking up. “Four . . . ahhh, fuck.” His hips speed up, my legs spread farther as the throbbing sensation between my legs spreads throughout my body, puckering my nipples and spreading a wave of goosebumps over my skin. “Five.” He slows down and then flips off me, rolling to the side.

“Fuck,” he shouts.

I glance over at him. His cock is past the waistband of his briefs now, stretching up his stomach, enticing me. God, I want him in my mouth. I want to know what he tastes like, what it would feel like to have him rock his length past my lips. I want to know what sounds he’d make as I sucked him. I want to watch him come undone on my tongue.

My thoughts are overwhelming.

My skin is overheated, itching for more.

And my need takes over as I lower my hand between my legs. My index finger connects with my clit, and I moan as I grow comfortable in my position.

Walker turns toward me, and I catch the questioning look in his eyes. “What are you doing?”

“I need relief,” I practically cry. “It’s too much, Walker. It’s all too much.” My other hand climbs up my shirt and I squeeze my breast, causing my hips to lift off the mattress.

He growls next to me, removes my hand from my clit, and stares down at my arousal. I’m so wet, so ready, teetering on the apex of falling over. It won’t take me long, a few strokes.

His fingers move along my inner thigh and I can feel my pulse travel from my heart to my legs. A thud, thud, thud, drowning out any other sound in the room as his fingers inch closer and closer.

I don’t say a word, not wanting to scare him away.

I don’t move, letting my breath be the only thing controlling my body.

And when his thumb connects with my clit, I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the frustrated tears away.

“One,” he starts, and I nearly let the tears fall. No . . . not another five seconds. “Two.” I open my eyes and catch sight of his other hand gripping his cock tightly, his briefs pushed down now as he sits up on his knees. When did he get in that position? Either way, I have the perfect view of his mouthwatering length. Long, thick, girthy. God, I want him in me. “Three.” He strokes harder. “Four.” The veins in his neck bulge. “Five,” he says just as he releases me and once again brings his fingers to his mouth to suck on them. My head falls back on the mattress and my hand quickly floats between my legs.

“Spread your legs more,” Walker says, his voice deep as he hovers over me, stroking his cock.

I roll my head to the side, so I’m looking at him as I spread my legs. His eyes are connected with my center and when he gets a view of my hand and what I’m doing, his grip grows tighter, the veins in his forearms popping with tension.

“What I wouldn’t give to fuck you with my tongue,” he says. “To have my face buried between your legs, tasting you, eating that sweet pussy of yours.”

My fingers move faster, stroking over my clit, rubbing it in just the right spot so every limb in my body starts to numb.

“I want you, Kate. And I don’t think this feeling will ever go away.” He leans down, hand still stroking his cock, his other hand next to my head. I stare up at him as he wets his lips. My breath stills in my chest as he grows closer and closer.

He’s going to kiss me.

I can see it in his eyes.

He’s lost all control.

The wall he erected around him, the tough exterior, it’s cracked. Fractured. Split in half, and the true man is coming forward. The man with needs. The man with wants. The man who seems to worship the ground I walk on.

His nose brushes against mine as he continues to pump his cock. God, I’m so close. He must be close too, by his pace.

“You’re so fucking tempting,” he whispers, his cheek rubbing against mine as he speaks closely to my ear. His five o’clock shadow brushes coarsely along my skin and I revel in the feel of it, of the alpha man who’s invaded my life and left me nothing but a pile of yearning.

“Walker,” I breathe out heavily.

“What?” he asks, his nose running along my jaw.

I bite down on the side of my cheek, holding back what I want to say, what I want to beg for.

I want his mouth on mine.

Desperately.

Before I can stop myself, I whisper, “Kiss me.”

He pauses and lifts up, his eyes meeting mine.

“Just this once.” When he doesn’t move, I add, “Please, Walker.”

His eyes search mine, his mind spinning, whirling with indecision.

“Please . . .” I say, one last time.

And I see the minute he capitulates. His eyes close briefly before he says, “Five seconds.”

I nod. “Anything, please. I just need your mouth.”

Something like possession rumbles from his chest as he brings his mouth to just above mine.

“Five seconds. No more.”

“Five seconds,” I whisper.

He removes his hand from his cock and brings it to my cheek. He rubs his thumb over my skin, the act so intimate that I’m caught in the moment, and then his lips press against mine. I forget to breathe.

As I continue to stroke my clit, the pressure in my core unbearable, I thread my other hand through his hair and hold him close as his lips dance across mine.

Demanding as usual, he holds me in place and lets his mouth do the work. The light brush of his scruff tantalizing me. The tease of his tongue bringing me to the precipice. The press of his thumb into my jaw claiming me as his in this moment . . . it sets me off, and my fingers rub my clit harder, until . . .

“Ah, God . . . Walker,” I say just as he pulls away, and bolts of lust shoot straight to my core. I convulse as I come beneath him, my moans playing out in the silent room. Pulse after pulse shoots through me until everything starts to fade, and my eyes open just in time to see the tightening of Walker’s chest, the flex of his pecs, and then the utter relief on his face when he comes above me.

He finishes over my borrowed shirt and then falls onto one hand, supporting his large body as he catches his breath.

“Shit,” he mutters while releasing his cock. He collapses to the bed and loops his arm around my waist, bringing me against his chest, where he kisses my shoulder tenderly.

His hand floats under my shirt and he caresses my stomach, holding me tight.

“I’m—”

“Don’t you fucking apologize,” Walker growls, his body tensing against mine. And then, softer, he says, “Please, don’t apologize.”

I feel the pain in his voice. The worry that I might regret what happened.

“I know you don’t want me to apologize, but I pushed you—”

“Shh,” he coos softly, nuzzling his face into my hair. “What happened was because we both wanted it, because we both needed it.”

“I want so much more, Walker.”

“Me too,” he replies quietly.

“But we can’t.”

“I know,” he says with a sigh. “One night, that’s all this was. One . . . night.”

I turn to face him and cup his cheek. I look him in the eyes as his hand slides down to my backside, where he holds me tightly. “If all I have is this one night, I’m glad I got to at least kiss you.” And then for the last time, I tilt up his chin and place my lips on his for only a second before pulling away.

He sighs and rests his forehead against mine. “I wish things were different.”

“Me too, Walker. Me too.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

WALKER

I can’t remember the last time I came while dry-humping someone, let alone finished on their stomach. But here I am, semi-satisfied, lying next to Kate.

And I’m only semi-satisfied because I only allowed myself minor touches, small connections, brief seconds that I wish could turn into hours.

I want more than one night and I knew the minute I started touching her I was going to want more, but one glance from her unsure eyes and I knew I couldn’t push it.

Even though this is going to be incredibly painful, I’m going to have to honor our agreement.

One night, no touching.

Well . . . not a lot of touching at this point.

I draw lazy circles over her stomach with my finger and say, “One night.”

Resigning, she turns in my arms and presses her hand to my chest. “One night.”

Reluctantly, she slinks out of bed and heads to the bathroom, lightly closing the door. I sit up and press my hands into my hair. Fuck, how did we get to this point?

And am I going to be able to move on? Ignore this burning attraction I have for her? Probably eventually, but it’s not going to be instant and it sure as hell won’t be easy—but like she said, one night.

While she’s in the bathroom, I change into a new pair of briefs, tossing the other pair in the hamper, and grab her a new shirt to wear. I knock on the door to hand it to her and then wait outside the door. When she exits the bathroom, I walk by her, my fingers trailing across her hand. I make quick work in the bathroom, cleaning myself up and gathering my will to be able to sleep next to her, and do just that—sleep.

I switch off the light and catch a glimpse of Kate before the room dims. She’s lying on her side, facing away from me, her body curled up—looking cozy as shit.

Not wasting one more second of this night, I slip under the covers and press my body up against hers, weaving my arm around her waist and pulling her close to my chest.

I’m about to ask her if she’s going to go to sleep when I hear a soft sniffle.

Is she crying?

“Kate, are you okay?”

Another sniffle. I try to move her to her back, but she doesn’t let me; instead, she stays curled in a stiff ball, unwilling to move at my touch.

“Kate, talk to me.”

“I’m . . . sorry,” she says, her voice tight. “I told myself to be cool, but I wasn’t able to hold it all in.” She takes a deep breath. “I’m good.”

“Talk to me.”

She shakes her head, keeping her body turned away. “Please just lie down and hold me.”

I want to talk about it, hash it out, but I know what’s going to be said. We both want more, but can’t have more. She wants to keep her job, and I am under contract. There’s a huge roadblock in our way and no detour available. So I drop it, because I don’t want to go around in circles. Instead, I want to spend the night holding Kate, knowing it’s the only chance I’ll get.

Gripping the edge of the covers, I slip under them completely, pull Kate against my chest once again, and bury my head in her hair, my hand spanning across her stomach. She sighs at my touch, and after being so stiff, she relaxes into my hold.

Time ticks by as we lie there, enjoying the comfort of one another. Her hands clasp against mine as I breathe her in. A sweet, perfume smell fills me up and I memorize the scent—floral with a touch of sugary sweetness, all Kate.

“You’re not the man I thought you were,” Kate says, breaking the silence.

“What’s different?”

“You’re softer—”

“Can’t hear that enough.”

She chuckles and rubs her thumb over the back of my hand. “Trust me, you’re hard all over, I don’t think there’s one inch of your body that isn’t hard. I’m talking about your personality.”

“I’m not soft.”

“You are,” she argues. “Much softer than you let on. I don’t know if you’re protecting yourself or if you don’t open up easily, but when you let down the bridge and invite someone in, you’re actually very sweet.”

Sweet? Soft?

Not the words I would choose to describe me, ever, but I will say this, I am different around Kate. She does something to me, pulls out the sensitive side of me that I don’t show very often.

“Only around you.” I want to talk. I want to talk to her. It’s surreal.

“And the people you help out. I’ve seen you with children, with the elderly, with diehard fans.”

“But to me, they’re just people. I’m just me then too, Kate. I don’t offer up personal information. I don’t make myself look like someone I’m not. I’ve just never felt the desire to talk a lot. I’m closed off. I’m reticent. I’m okay with silence. I’ve never been a great conversationalist, and yet, with you . . . I find it easy—now. And I like it. But you did that. You, with your sass and smart mouth and firecracker mind. You.”

“I’m not sure I can agree with you on that one. You’re a good guy, Walker, and I’m glad I got to have a little piece of you.”

It pains me that she’s talking past tense, but I get it. I get it all too well.

“Whenever you want more, just let me know.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

WALKER

“You look exhausted,” Ryot says, walking next to me as we make our way across the tarmac to our team plane.

“Yeah, long night,” I say, pulling on my hair as the wind whips by us.

“Care to share?”

“No.”

Ryot grumbles something, but I tune him out, as my mind is still whirling from last night.

Kate on my lap, writhing back and forth, her hot body sheathed under my shirt, leaving everything to my imagination as she ground on top of me, her hair in her hand, her nipples pebbled, her hot pussy gliding against my cock.

Fuck, it was so good.

Erotic but innocent.

I never got to touch her the way I wished.

I never got to kiss her the way I desperately wanted to.

And when I woke up this morning to an empty and cold side of the bed, I realized I didn’t get to see her beautiful morning face.

I woke up feeling satisfied, desperate, and angry all at the same time, not a good combination, especially for my teammates who have to fly in a plane with me today.

I move my way to the back of the plane, skipping over the group tables and heading straight for an individual pod where I can be by myself.

When I take a seat next to the window, Ryot eyes me suspiciously but instead of questioning my seat choice, he situates himself in our normal spot on the plane, leaving me alone.

Thankful, I take out my wireless headphones and turn up my playlist, drowning out the rest of the cabin while I look out the window.

I knew this was going to be hard, that one night was going to be too much of a taste, but I didn’t think I was going to feel this goddamn empty. I didn’t think that my chest would feel hollow, my soul would feel depleted, and my mind would be left angry and frustrated. I expected some sort of relief, anything to ease the yearning that’s been building over the last month.

Needing a sip of water, I reach into my backpack for my water bottle. My hand collides with something hard, something I don’t remember packing.

Confused, I lift up my bag and peer in the open pocket, only to find a book inside.

What the hell?

I pull it out and check the front cover. My Favorite Summer, 1965, by Mickey Mantle.

How did this get in here? I open the front cover and a note slips out. Written in bubbly handwriting on a piece of pink paper is a letter from Kate.

Walker,

Thought you might want something to keep you busy on the long plane ride. I know you like to read on an e-reader when traveling, but live a little—crack open a book. This is one of my favorites and was sitting in my office. Thought I would let you borrow it. Did you read that? BORROW. I expect you to hand it back with a twelve-page essay depicting Mickey Mantle’s tales from 1965.

Good luck out on the road. Bring home some Ws and don’t forget to have fun.

Kate

I turn the book over in my hand and read the blurb on the back, excited about the new reading material. Before I can stop myself, I open up a text message on my phone and shoot her a text.

Walker: Slipping things into my backpack while I’m sleeping?

She texts back immediately, and with a goofy grin on my face, I slouch in my seat and get comfortable.

Kate: You snore.

Walker: You’re lying.

Kate: I am. You’re actually perfect when you sleep. It’s quite annoying.

Walker: When did you leave?

Kate: Four. Had the book in my purse and slipped it in your bag after searching around for ten minutes, wondering if you even had a bag you took on the plane, then took off.

Walker: You could’ve stayed.

Kate: I know, but I didn’t want things to get awkward.

Walker: Thank you for the book.

Kate: Have you read that one yet?

Walker: No. I’m excited to dive in.

Kate: You said you’d take Mickey Mantle out to dinner if he were still alive, so when I remembered I had the book in my office, I knew I had to let you borrow it. Hence the word . . . borrow.

Walker: Got it, borrow. What’s the big deal?

Kate: Did you look at the title page?

No. Why would I?

I flip to the title page. In dark blue pen is Mickey Mantle’s signature scribbled across the cream paper, plain as day.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

Is she insane? One—why would she ever just have this in her office? And two—why the hell would she ever let someone borrow it?

This should be locked up in a bulletproof safe where nothing can get to it, not lent out to be read. Who in their right mind would read a signed book?

I’m tempted to run my hand over his signature, see if there are any magical hitting powers that might rub off on me, but I think better of it. I’m hitting just fine right now and I would hate to mess up the signature in any way.

So, instead, I frantically text Kate back.

Walker: What the hell is wrong with you? Why would you just casually toss this book around? It’s signed by Mickey Fucking Mantle.

Kate: I trust you.

Walker: You shouldn’t. We said one night. That means I don’t ever have to see you again. Good luck getting your book back.

Kate: I will sue you.

Walker: Have fun trying. You gave it to me, and I consider that a gift. So, thank you for my signed Mickey Mantle book. I’ll be sure to lock it up in my safe when I get home.

Kate: Walker Rockwell, I will sign you right back up for that Build-a-Bear event—don’t test me.

Walker: You wouldn’t.

Kate: I so would, and on top of that, I would find a Red Hat Lady Society for you to sponsor.

Walker: Do those still exist?

Kate: No idea, but if they do, I’ll make sure they know you want to come to not one, not two, but three of their meetings.

Walker: You’re evil.

Kate: You make me be evil. Return the book when you’re done or I’m throwing you to the wolves, aka, the red hat ladies.

Walker: Might be worth it. I heard those ladies are a blast.

Kate: Walker . . .

Walker: Fine, I’ll return it, but I’m going to take my time reading this and soaking it all in.

Kate: Trying to suck the Mickey Mantle powers out of it?

Walker: I have no shame.

Kate: That made me snort. Ugh, I hate that you’re charming through text too. Quick, be an asshole.

Walker: Last night when you were riding my cock, I couldn’t have pictured anything sexier in my life.

Kate: Okay, that was not being an asshole.

Walker: All I can picture are your rock-hard nipples pebbling against my T-shirt.

Kate: Are you even trying?

Walker: I love your curves, so goddamn much. I jacked off this morning to the thought of your ass in my hand.

Kate: Ooookay, I think you’re missing the mark on my request.

Walker: I wish you would’ve sunk down on my cock last night instead of riding it over my briefs.

Kate: Really missing the mark.

Walker: I want to sink myself inside of you.

Kate: Are you trying to make me uncomfortably wet at work?

Apparently, I’m trying to make myself uncomfortably hard on the airplane.

Walker: Is it working?

Kate: More than you know.

Walker: Good. Think about me when you rub your thighs together.

Kate: I shouldn’t.

Walker: But you will.

Kate: Damn it . . . you know I will.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

KATE

“Do you want me to bring anything?” Vivian asks into the phone.

“I ordered some Chinese food for us, but if you want something else, feel free to grab something,” I say while picking up a throw pillow off my apartment floor and setting it on my couch.

“I was thinking about getting some dessert.”

The doorbell rings and I walk over to answer it. “You can if you want. Lord knows I’ll eat it.” I open the door to a delivery left at my doorstep. I pick it up and see that it’s from Eleven. “Uh, hold on a second.”

I bring the delivery inside and pop open the stapled bag, revealing a container with a giant slice of carrot cake inside. A large smile pulls across my face as my stomach flips from the thought of who sent this.

Who shouldn’t have sent this, but did anyway.

God . . . he’s making this so much harder than it should be.

“On second thought, I have carrot cake here for us. That work for you?”

“I’ve never been partial to vegetables in my desserts, but I’ll make an exception for carrot cake.”

I chuckle. “Okay, see you in thirty?”

“Maybe forty-five. Traffic is a bitch. I’ll keep you abreast.”

“Abreast?” I ask, laughing.

“Yup . . . abreast.”

“Okay. See you soon.”

We hang up and I take the cake to my kitchen. I stick it in the fridge and then pull up the text messages on my phone.

Kate: Strangest thing happened just now. A fairy dropped off cake at my front door. How did this fairy even know where I live?

I set up plates, silverware, and napkins on my coffee table in preparation for dinner with Vivian, and my phone beeps with a text. The Bobbies game isn’t until later since it’s an evening game on the West Coast, but I’m still surprised he texted back.

Sitting on the arm of my couch, I open up the text, not able to hold back my smile.

Walker: I have my ways of finding things out.

Kate: You’re sneaky.

Walker: You like it.

Kate: I do if it involves me receiving cake. Thank you.

Walker: You’re welcome. Just a little something to say “thank you” for the book.

Kate: You didn’t have to thank me for letting you BORROW my book.

Walker: I wanted to, Kate.

Kate: Because you’re trying to ruin me, right?

Walker: Appreciating you.

Kate: Yup . . . ruining me. Ugh, Walker, we shouldn’t be doing this.

Walker: We’re not doing anything.

Kate: Do you send other human beings cake?

Walker: No.

Kate: My point exactly.

Walker: Then toss it in the trash.

Kate: Stop, Walker.

Walker: What the hell do you want me to do, Kate? Ignore you? I wanted to send you goddamn cake. Accept it and be happy.

Kate: You’re right, I’m sorry. I love the cake. Thank you for thinking of me.

I bite my bottom lip and type out another text.

Kate: I’ve thought about you ever since you left. You’re all I can think about.

Walker: Me too.

Kate: And this is what we shouldn’t be doing.

Walker: I know.

Kate: Well, I should go. Thank you, though. If you’d have delivered it yourself, I would’ve given you a hug.

Walker: If I’d delivered it myself, I would’ve expected more than a hug.

Kate: Walker . . .

Walker: Have a good night, Kate.

I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep breath.

God, Kate, you can’t just be grateful?

No, I have to bring up the obvious. At this point, I think my phone can autocorrect to—we shouldn’t be doing this.

But I can’t seem to imprint that thought into my brain, because I keep doing and saying stupid things. I want to keep this job, I want to—

My phone buzzes in my hand and I look down at the screen. I see Dan’s face coming up. Why is he calling me at this hour?

“Hello?”

“Hey, Katie,” he says, his voice slurring slightly.

“Dan, have you been drinking?”

“Just a little warm-up shot here and there.”

I clench my teeth together, holding back the nagging mother-hen comments that fly to the forefront of my brain. He’s a grown-ass man, he knows what he’s doing. Plus, I’ve had the drunk conversations with him before, and they don’t go over well. I lecture him, he gets mad at me, distances himself, and then I spend weeks trying to get him to talk to me again. I’m not going through that anymore.

“So why do I get such an out-of-the-blue phone call from you?”

“Just seeing how my Katie Girl is. Haven’t talked to you in a bit.” To anyone else, he probably seems normal, but not to me. I’ve known him long enough to understand what his drunk voice sounds like.

“You know I’ve been busy.”

“I know, I know. Not as if my schedule helps. But what’s been going on? Anything new you want to tell me about? Any . . . guys in your life?”

Ha, if he only knew.

“No, no one is that lucky.”

“You know, I saw you the other day.”

“What?” I ask, chuckling. “And you didn’t say hi?”

“Nope, I decided to observe instead.”

“Oh yeah?” I sink into my couch. “And what did you observe?”

“You looked . . . worried.”

Hard to believe he’s drunk, right?

“Why are you worried, Kate?”

There’s no way in hell I can tell Dan what’s going on with me and Walker. Even though he’s one of my good friends and I’ve leaned on him in the past about things like this, it would be a bad idea to tell anyone.

“Just . . . work, is all,” I answer.

“I don’t believe you.”

And I don’t believe you about the drinking, but I’m not going to throw that in your face.

“Come on, Katie, tell me what’s going on.”

“Nothing is—”

“Don’t lie to me, Kate.” His voice grows stronger. “I can tell when something is wrong.” He takes a deep breath and says, “Please, I need the distraction.”

“Are you okay, Dan?”

“No,” he says quietly. “How about this—you tell me yours, and I’ll tell you mine.”

Damn it.

He knows how to get to me, because I’m a helper, a problem solver. If someone is in trouble, I want to be the person who guides them out of it. Dan knows that I’ll do anything to help him and if that means exposing myself, then I will.

At least I don’t need to tell him all the details.

“Fine,” I answer. “You first, though.”

“No way. You go first or I don’t tell you anything.”

Sighing heavily, I lean my head back on the couch and try to navigate through my problem without handing him specifics. “Okay, so there’s this guy I like—”

“I fucking knew it had to do with a guy. What’s his name?”

“I’m not telling you. You’re lucky I’m giving you this much.”

“Fine. Go on.”

“So, I like him, a lot. More than I should. But there’s a problem. His . . . uh . . . job prevents him from going out with anyone.”

Semi-truth. It’ll have to work.

“What? Jobs can’t do that.”

“Well, this one does. And it sucks because I really feel something for him.” Admitting too much, I say, “I don’t think I’ve felt this way about a guy ever.”

“Really?” he asks slowly. “Does he know?”

“Yes,” I answer. “And he feels the same about me.”

“Huh, so you have a little bit of a Romeo and Juliet type of thing going on. Tell him to quit his job.”

I chuckle. “Not that easy, Dan.”

“Seems easy to me. If it were me, I’d quit immediately. You’re worth it, Katie.”

“Thank you.” I know he means well, but Dan’s married to his job. He’d quit for no one, I suspect. I hear some voices in the background as I begin to ask, “Now what’s your—”

“Shit, I have to go. I’ll call you later, Kate.”

“Wait, you can’t just leave me hanging.”

“Sorry. I’ll tell you later. Bye, Kate.”

And before I can say bye, he hangs up the phone. What the hell was that? Did he plan it all along?

Probably did, the asshole.

But even though he tricked me, it did feel good getting that off my chest momentarily. Because there really isn’t anyone I can talk to about my feelings besides Walker, and that doesn’t help the situation, only fuels it.

There’s a knock at my door and it’s either Vivian or the Chinese food. Either way, I need to put on a happy face.

Chapter Forty

WALKER

I take a deep breath, staring at the wood grain on my bat.

Runners on first and third, one out, we’re down by five. Penn’s had a rough outing this game, one of the worst I’ve seen in a while. Pulled out in the fifth, he’s in the dugout stewing like a motherfucker because he was asked to hand over the ball.

But Coach made the right choice.

Eight runs in five innings isn’t typical for him, and we barely got out of the last inning. Carson stole a hit, making a diving play at second before cutting off another run and ending the inning. It was a clutch situation—if it weren’t for his gold glove play, we might still be in that fucking mess.

The sound system rings through the speakers, encouraging the fans to stomp and clap. The crowd interaction is small, but now with two strikes on me, the cheers have grown.

Just poke it somewhere. Even though I have the power, I’m not looking to be a hero, I’m just trying to keep the offense alive.

I put my right hand up as I situate my feet in the box.

I scuff my cleats against the dirt, the feel of the soft pebbles second nature after all the years I’ve chalked up on the field. I swoop my bat toward the pitcher, then bring it to my shoulder and rest it there for a brief moment as Forrest checks the runners.

He’s going to go with the curve. I know it.

I think everyone in the stadium knows it, because it’s a killer pitch with a massive drop that will get you every goddamn time.

Forrest sets his hands, looks toward the zone. I lift my bat and stare down his arm, waiting for the delivery.

It comes in sharp, his arm whipping around, delivering a deadly curve that my arms swing at despite my head telling them to stop, but for some reason, my body and brain don’t work well together and I strike out on a pitch in the dirt.

Fuck.

The crowd erupts around us and the field clears out.

I grind my teeth together and tamp down the rage that’s boiling in the base of my stomach. There’s still game left. Get them next time, I try to tell myself, but even after the lackluster pep talk, I can feel the tension starting to creep into my veins.

I carry the weight of the team on my shoulders and when I can’t produce runs, I know I’m not contributing as the leader I’m supposed to be, and that pisses me off more than anything.

“Rockwell,” Hopkins calls out as I enter the dugout, my bat gripped tightly at my side.

I pause on the stairs and turn to my coach, who sits at the very top, observing every aspect of the field.

When we make eye contact, he says, “Drop it and focus on the next one.”

It’s rare when Coach says anything like that to me. I can count on my hands the number of times he’s spoken “words of wisdom” to me during a game. So, I’m caught off guard, unsure what I should say back, and he catches the indecision on my face and decides to elaborate.

“You’re in a good place, mentally. Don’t spiral because of one bad at-bat.”

Understanding where he’s coming from now, I give him a curt nod and head to my catcher’s gear to quickly strap it on, that curveball playing over and over in my head until I finally come to terms with it—I’m a fucking moron for swinging and it won’t happen again.

With a deep breath, I chug up the steps of the dugout and out onto the field. I pat the inside of my glove, letting my pitcher know that I’m ready to do a few warm-ups.

We still have plenty of game left.

THAT WAS A TOUGH FUCKING LOSS.

We held the offense off, giving them zero chance to score after Penn exited, but they did the same against us. We were able to pull two runs in the eighth with a home run off my bat, but it wasn’t enough. We needed more to catch up to the deficit Penn put us in.

I stand under the shower for another minute, the heat pounding against my sore back necessary, before I turn off the water and wrap a towel around my waist. I grab another and drape it over my shoulders, letting it catch the droplets from my hair. I lift the corner of the towel and wipe the side of my forehead just as I walk into an empty locker room. The only person left raises the hairs on the back of my neck.

Stuffed against his locker, a towel draped over his head and a pair of shorts covering him up—thank Christ—is Penn.

What’s he still doing here?

By now, he’s usually long gone, most likely at the hotel bar, drinking.

Ignoring him, I make my way to my locker, where I dry off the rest of my body and quickly pull on a pair of briefs. I must make too much noise for Penn’s liking because he groans and leans forward, his forearms on his quads. He removes the towel and slightly rotates his head to look at me.

Here we go.

“Walker, didn’t know you were still here.”

“Didn’t know you were either.”

“Too fucking exhausted to move.” There’s a sense of vulnerability in his voice that I haven’t heard before and I wonder if it has anything to do with how shitty he pitched tonight.

“Get some sleep, then,” I say, pulling on a pair of dress pants. The team bus is long gone by now, but I’ll end up getting a car back to the hotel, which I’m fine with. We have a car service for these occasions. But because I’m not headed out to my car to drive home, I have to put on a suit, which is the last thing I really want to do at this moment when my muscles are screaming and all I want to do is crash into my hotel bed.

“How are your girl troubles?” he asks, the snark I know him for coming back in full force.

“None of your goddamn business.”

“Hey”—he holds up his hand—“no need to be so fucking hostile. I was genuinely curious. Having girl problems of my own.”

I scoff. “Sure, Penn.”

“I am,” he says with conviction. “Well, we were just fuck buddies, but I miss rolling around the mattress with her.” Why is he talking to me about this? Doesn’t he know I couldn’t give two shits? Instead of responding, I allow him to carry on as I get ready. “When I met her, it was a mutual agreement, just fucking. I don’t know, though, I grew to like her. Grew to expect her to show up once a week. We’d eat Chinese, watch mindless TV, and then hook up. She was really into Netflix documentaries. It was her ideal night. Chicken Lo Mein, a jail documentary, and then fucking.” He rubs his face, his palm roughly scratching across his five o’clock shadow.

I mind my own business and fit my watch over my wrist.

“She loved it when I would play with her tits. I miss sucking on her nipples.”

Okay, this is just too much information.

He sighs. “She has the best tits, man.” He says that so casually, as if we’re really friends. “And she hates being fucked missionary. Said it was too boring.”

“Missionary is underrated,” I say before I can stop myself.

“That’s what I fucking think. Shit . . . I love staring into a girl’s eyes when I’m fucking her. Porn has ruined sex for everyone.”

Weary, I pull my shirt on and start buttoning it up.

“Does your girl like missionary?” Penn asks, his eyes soft, his question more inquisitive than maniacal.

And for some reason, seeing him like this, with no ulterior motive behind his eyes, I answer, “No idea, haven’t had sex.” Technically.

We dry-humped and I blew my load on her stomach, but I’m not about to say that to Penn.

“And you’re this caught up on her? Damn, she must be special.”

“She is,” I mutter, picturing Kate’s beautiful smile.

“Is she one of those forever girls?”

“Yeah,” I answer honestly. I take a seat at my locker and blow out a loud breath, unsure why I’m opening up to Penn right now. Maybe because I feel as though I can’t talk to anyone about this, that I’ve been driving myself crazy with all the thoughts about this girl and whether or not I should break the rules. “At first, I was just attracted to her.”

“Good body?”

“Great body,” I answer, finishing up the buttons on my shirt and moving to my cuffs. “But then I got to know her and her personality. I don’t know, she’s captured me in a way I’ve never felt before. She’s different. Smart as a whip, witty as fuck, and makes me laugh. She puts a sense of ease in my chest I feel like I’ve been craving for a very long time.”

“You act like you’re in love.”

I shake my head. “Nah, too soon for that shit. But I could see myself falling for her.”

I’m giving away too much to Penn, but fuck, it feels nice to get this off my chest. I feel as if I’ve been bottling it up for the past few weeks, ready to burst.

“Does she have a name?”

“She does.” But I don’t give it to him.

He chuckles. “Fair enough.” He stands from his locker and groans, stretching his back out. “You’ve made me think, Walker, maybe I don’t want to give up on this girl.”

“Brenn?” I ask, remembering her name from one of Penn’s many conversations about her.

Brenn and Penn . . . how fucking adorable.

“Yeah. I mean,” he says with a chuckle, “I miss her tits, man.”

“All the more reason to pursue a relationship,” I say, shaking my head. This guy is unbelievable.

“If you saw her tits, you’d know what I’m talking about.” He reaches into his locker, pulls down a towel, and then turns toward me. “So why haven’t we talked about this before?”

“Because we don’t like each other,” I answer while shrugging on my light gray suit jacket.

“But why? Because I spread a rumor? You’re really carrying a grudge for that damn long? Isn’t that exhausting?”

“It’s not about that,” I say honestly.

“Then what is it? Could you tell someone specifically why you don’t like me?”

“Yes,” I answer quickly, looking down at my bag and making sure I have everything I need.

“Then what is it?”

I look him in the eyes and I say, “The game comes too easily to you. You’ve never had to work for it.” And he belittles anyone who isn’t the same. Gloats. He’s a pretentious ass who doesn’t know what actual hard work means.

He barks out a laugh. “You’re fucking jealous of me.”

I snap around to look at him. “No. I’m not fucking jealous.”

He crosses his arms over his chest. “How is that not being jealous?”

“I’m not jealous,” I grit out. “But I am irritated because you’re just like Mickey Mantle, a waste of talent.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, stepping forward, his shoulders squaring toward me.

“It means you were born with this raw ability to throw a baseball, and instead of working that talent, you skate along doing the bare minimum. You drink like a goddamn fish, show up hungover almost every day, and put in minimal effort but still excel. You’re wasting away the type of talent men wish they were born with, but you don’t fucking care. And that’s why I don’t like you, because you don’t care about the game, you only care about yourself.”

“I’m not a waste of talent. They’re already talking Hall of Fame for me.”

“And imagine the impact you could have if you actually showed up healthy and built up your strength, rather than tearing it down with a bottle in your hand every night.”

“Don’t overexaggerate my personal life.”

“Quit showing up hungover to games and I won’t point out your drinking habits.”

“I handle it.”

“Really?” I ask, feeling the fire build up inside of me. “Is that why you pitched like shit today? You gave us quite the hill to climb in order to attempt to win that game.”

“I had an off day. Christ knows you’re allowed them.”

“When I start showing up to the stadium smelling like last night’s cigarettes and booze, then you can throw that in my face. You don’t put in the effort.”

“Fuck you. I put in more effort than the entire pitching staff combined.”

I grip my bag at my side and take a step closer to Penn, ticking off reasons on my finger about why he’s wrong. “You show up late, your head is never in the game, and it takes you about two hours to even warm up your body and get it working before we can start pitching. You’re irresponsible and throwing away a twenty-plus year career.”

“Not everyone needs to spend hours practicing to be an average player like you, Rockwell.”

I grind my teeth together, my mouth going dry like a desert.

“You’ve always been up my ass about practicing, even in high school. Yeah, I was born with talent, and I’m not going to apologize because you put in more hours than the average player just so you can meet the minimal requirements to play in the majors.” He pauses and shifts closer, our chests mere inches apart. “You think you got up here because of all your hard work?” He shakes his head. “You’re wearing that jersey because of me, because I told them about our history, our success, and they witnessed it. If it weren’t for me being called up before you, you’d still be in the minors, riding an old bus through the Midwest with nothing but twenty-eight thousand to your name. You’re pathetic, Walker, and should be kissing my ass for bringing you to the majors, not berating it because I like to have a drink on occasion.”

That’s utter bullshit. I’m a fucking incredible catcher. I know that. He knows that, but this is why I hate him. He probably believes every fucking word that just came out of his mouth.

My entire body is vibrating with anger, my fist clenching at my side. The temptation to punch Penn in the face is strong, almost taking over my entire mind, but it’ll only lead to blowing up everything I’ve worked toward over the past few weeks. A locker room brawl is not the type of headline I want my name under, not right now.

So instead, I blow past him, my shoulder bumping into his, sending him back a few steps.

Behind me, he laughs. The sound feels like nails scraping across a chalkboard, a shrill noise that climbs up the back of my spine, warning all my senses to be aware.

As I reach the doorway to exit, he calls out, “And here I thought you were going to say you hated me because of what happened to Dawn.”

I still, my shoulders climbing up to my ears, as a wave of nausea rolls over me so fast, I feel bile rise in my throat.

“Don’t,” I say with a clenched jaw. “Don’t you fucking dare say her name.”

“I’m right, aren’t I?” He laughs. “Jealous of my talent, and holds a grudge.”

I turn on my heel so fast, I have his shirt gathered in my hand and am pushing him against his locker before he can take his next breath. Looking him dead in the eyes, I say, “If you want to see tomorrow morning, I suggest you don’t ever utter my sister’s name again. Understood?”

“She was my friend too.”

“She was nothing to you,” I say, letting go of his shirt while pushing him back in his locker. “Don’t fucking talk about her, do you understand?” He has no right. No. Fucking. Right. To talk about my baby sister. She was never, ever his friend. She deserved so much more. So much more than she got.

He holds his hands up in defense. “Looks as if I was right, after all.”

Not sticking around to hear the rest, I storm out of the locker room with one thing on my mind, and that’s trying not to go back in and beat the living shit out of Penn Cutler.

Chapter Forty-One

KATE

I slip into my bed, naked like always, and let out a deep sigh.

What a long day.

The Bobbies lost terribly today. Penn was off his game and even though Walker hit a bomb in the eighth, it wasn’t enough. I could see the disappointment in his face when they interviewed him after the game.

He was short.

Clipped.

Didn’t bother to acknowledge his home run at all.

Hands on his hips, head tipped down, he barely gave the interviewer more than a few seconds before he took off toward the locker room. I cringed just watching it, wondering if he remembered anything about the training he went through.

It was a bad game and you could read how Walker felt all over his face.

But I shouldn’t care.

I’ve stepped away from that. I haven’t talked to him in a few days even though it’s been challenging, and I’m proud of myself for that. After the cake, I realized just how close we’d become, and I think he realized it too, because he hasn’t reached out either. Not going to say not hearing from him doesn’t sting, but I know it’s for the best. Quitting Walker Rockwell cold turkey is painful, but I’m doing it, not only for the obvious reason, but to save my heart.

I know that guy could rock my world, easily. It’s hard not to get lost in his eyes, in his chiseled jaw or thick scruff. Ruggedly handsome, he checks off every attribute I love in a man, but then his heart, when he finally shows it, is beautiful. And that right there is dangerous—getting to know his softer side, that could bring a woman to her knees.

Almost cut me off at the ankles.

I flip off my nightstand light, curl against my pillow as I turn to my side, and welcome the much-needed rest I’ve been looking for all day.

That’s until my phone rings.

My eyes shoot open and I spot the caller ID on my phone.

Speak of the devil.

I roll my teeth over my bottom lip, contemplating answering. I really shouldn’t . . .

But like the drug he is to me, I reach for my phone, unplug it, and put it on speaker.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” he says, a whoosh of wind following behind his word, as if he’d been holding his breath, waiting for me to pick up.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?” I ask, trying to keep things casual. “If you’re wondering about the Build-a-Bear event, rest assured, you’re no longer on the lineup for that one.”

He chuckles, the sound like a warm blanket draping over my body. “Wasn’t calling about that, but good to know.”

“Then how can I help you, Rockwell?”

“You can tell me about your day.”

Shit. I press my lips together and curse myself for answering. He just wants to talk . . .

Something I told myself I wouldn’t partake in.

Something I told myself over and over again would weaken me.

Something I told myself I could get lost in.

“You still there?” his low, rumbly voice asks.

“Yeah,” I squeak out, mustering the courage to tell him no. “I, uh—”

“Don’t shut down on me, Kate. Not tonight.”

Worry etches my brow. “Did something happen?”

“Nothing you need to worry about. Tell me about your day. Clear my head.”

He’s so short, concise with the way he talks, never floating around unnecessary words, almost as if he’s barking out orders, but with a teaspoon of sugar drizzled on top to sweeten his demands.

And I fall for it.

Every time.

Because I want to be the one he calls. I want to be the person he needs.

“It was busy,” I say, resigning myself to this conversation. I turn against my pillow again and set the phone next to me. “The firefighter event is taking up all of my time. We were going over the guest list today and there are people clamoring to buy tickets that we don’t have. We’re all sold out. So, we’re trying to figure out a way to have a second wave of people come who just donate to meet the players.”

“Sold out? That’s awesome.”

“Yeah, we’re pretty excited, but it’s caused a good headache, one that we’re scrambling to solve.”

“You’re smart, you’ll figure it out.”

I smile to myself, the compliment etching across my heart.

Walker Rockwell thinks I’m smart.

Trying not to go all gooey, I say, “Sorry about your loss today. Penn looked like shit.”

“Tell me about it,” he groans. “The fucker is such a waste.”

“It’s one bad night.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line and I wonder if I said the wrong thing. It’s not a secret that Penn and Walker aren’t on the same page most of the time, but players are allowed to have an off night.

I clarify. “We can’t always be perfect. Baseball wouldn’t be baseball, then. The percentage for succeeding in baseball is considered pretty much failing everywhere else. A batting average of over three hundred is amazing, and yet that’s only a thirty percent success rate. You fail more than succeed. Penn failed tonight, but he’s succeeded more often than not, given the pressures of the game.”

More silence.

“Hello?”

He clears his throat, and I know that sound—he’s not happy with what I said.

But it’s the truth.

So, like the idiot I am, I continue, “Set aside your differences. Would you really be saying that about another player? I know you don’t like Penn, but the man is allowed to be human every once in a while.”

Silence.

A deep-rooted fear starts to creep up my back, the hairs on the nape of my neck start to rise.

“He shows his humanity too much,” Walker finally says.

“What do you mean?” I ask, grateful that he finally said something.

“It’s not anything I should repeat to you.”

The way he says you, with such disdain in his voice, causes me to have concern. He’s not just mad, he’s truly angry.

“Walker—”

“You don’t know the half of everything, Kate, so your assumptions about him are incorrect.”

“I wasn’t trying to upset you—”

“And to defend him like that, after he let the team down because of his personal choices, is shitty.”

“Walker, I didn’t know—”

“I have to go.” He hangs up, without me being able to get another word in.

What the hell just happened?

I blink a few times, staring down at my phone. How did Walker’s anger escalate that quickly? I didn’t even want to pick up that phone call, knowing I would be sucked into his world, the one I swore I would stay out of, and even though he wouldn’t let me speak one word after his reprimands, for some idiotic reason, I feel even more sucked in than before.

Groaning, I bury my head in my pillow and curse myself for picking up.

That’s what you get for being stupid.

I’ve seen Walker act grumpy, but for him to snap that quickly—and at me—I guess I don’t know him as well as I thought I did.

I move my phone back to the nightstand, plug it in again, and turn away from it, tempted to turn it off.

It’s not as if I told Walker I wished Penn was lying in my bed next to me. I could understand his hatred for that scenario, but to talk about a baseball player in general having a bad day . . .

And then I think about something he said to me.

When I asked if there was something that happened to him tonight, he said it was nothing I needed to worry about.

Did Penn and Walker get into it again?

Annoyed that I’m even considering this, but knowing I won’t get any sleep unless I check, I flip back around and open up the browser on my phone. I search for any kind of fight between the two of them that might have been reported but come up short, only finding articles from months ago.

He hasn’t talked to me in a few days, and then he randomly calls me, with a boorish attitude ready to pounce, and pounce he did when I said the wrong thing.

There’s no other explanation other than he got into it with Penn.

I chew on the side of my mouth, considering what I should do. He said he didn’t want me to worry about it, and I should heed his advice.

No good would come from calling him back and asking what happened.

I need to mind my own business and cut this man out of my life the best that I can. He just gave me the perfect opening to do that.

Even though, in my gut, I know I should call back, I set my phone back down and turn away.

It’s better this way. Keep him mad at me—it’s a clean break, no lingering feelings.

Chapter Forty-Two

WALKER

Real fucking mature.

I curse myself and toss my phone on the other side of the bed. What the fuck was I thinking, calling her in the first place?

And then hanging up on her?

So fucking smooth.

If I wanted to drive her away, I just did a perfect job of that.

I drag both hands over my face.

What an idiot.

But hearing her defend Penn, it grated on me. I didn’t like the way she made it seem as if his shitty performance was okay.

What makes it even worse is I know there’s a part of her that’s right. From the outside looking in, with no prior knowledge of Penn’s life off the field, he just had a bad night like every other athlete out there. We can’t be perfect, or else sports wouldn’t be entertaining to watch. It’s the failure that makes watching that much more interesting, because without failure, there would never be success.

One bad pitch turns into a good hit for the other team. In baseball, in any sport for that matter, you need the good with the bad, because without it, there’s no battle.

So, Penn losing tonight really was just about him having a bad game to every fan and other observer out there. To me, as his teammate, the guy who gets to smell the alcohol on his breath when he walks into the locker room, or the one who gets to see the amount of eye drops he puts in before going on camera to rid his bloodshot expression, I know it isn’t just a bad night, it’s a culmination of bad choices.

And I meant it when I said he was a waste of talent. He’s booming with talent, with potential, but can’t seem to get his personal life together.

It’s a damn shame.

But I didn’t have to show my frustration to Kate, nor did I have to yell at her, or hang up on her before she could get another word in.

That was just being a dick.

“Fuck,” I mutter.

I whip the sheets off my heated body and swing my feet off the edge of the bed, unsure of what I’m going to do, but sleeping is the last thing on my mind. I stand, naked in my hotel room, and start to pace just as my phone rings.

I pause, hand sifting through my hair as I stare down at the lit-up screen on my bed.

I can’t see the caller ID very well but when I move closer, my heart hammers in my chest.

Why is she fucking calling back?

I bite on my bottom lip, a coppery taste filling my mouth from the indecision I’m waffling through.

Fuck it.

I reach across my bed and answer, my voice hoarse. “Hello?”

“Don’t hang up on me,” Kate demands. “If you ever want to talk to me again, I suggest you don’t hang up on me.”

This is exactly why this girl has captured me. She doesn’t put up with my shit, but calls me out on it. She has from the very first meeting we had in the stadium cafeteria. She’s held her ground.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, Kate,” I say automatically, guilt swarming me.

“Thank you for apologizing,” she says, her voice rigid. “I understand being angry, Walker, but don’t take it out on me. Understood?”

“Yes,” I answer.

“Now tell me, what happened today?” she asks, cutting to the chase.

I drag my hand over my face. “I told you. Nothing for you to worry about.”

“I am worried about it if you’re going to snap at me like that. And I get it, you don’t owe me anything. We’re just . . . friends or co-workers or whatever, but don’t call me at a late hour just to be a dick. I’m not your punching bag, Walker.”

I rest on my bed and lean back on the mattress. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“So, then tell me what happened tonight that turned you against me so quickly. Does it have to do with Penn?”

From the authoritative tone in her voice, I know she’s not going to drop this, and a small part of me doesn’t want to drop it, because I’m always holding this shit in. I want her to drag it out of me. “Yes. It was stupid bullshit, though, and I let it get to me.”

“And so, you called to . . . what? Beat me up about it? Take out your aggression on me?”

“No,” I answer, insulted she’d even think that of me. Yeah, I can be an angry dick at times, but I don’t make it a point to call up the girl I can’t stop thinking about just to rip her a new one. I called for one reason and one reason alone—to be relieved of the ache in my chest. “I called to hear your goddamn voice.”

Silence.

And then finally, “Oh.”

I shift on my bed and sit up, sifting my hand once again through my hair, repeating a motion I’ve done far too many times tonight already.

This girl wants to know the truth. Well, I’ll give it to her.

“You ease me, Kate. I know we’re supposed to break this off, whatever this is, but fuck . . . I needed to hear your sweet, compassionate voice tonight, desperately.”

“I . . . I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t need to say anything. Just know it’s the truth.” I grind my teeth together, unsure of how much I want to share, but knowing I need to get this off my chest. “Penn knows how to push my buttons. We both know how to irritate each other, and we’re good at it. Tonight was one of those nights, and he pushed my buttons harder than usual this go-around.”

“Can I ask how?”

My lips purse to the side as I consider if I should tell her. I’m not sure if she’d ever look at me the same way, but there’s a dark cloud looming over my head, beating me down, reminding me over and over of that night, and I know if I don’t do something about it, the cloud is going to grow and carry over to tomorrow only to fuck up my game some more.

I can’t afford that, not right now.

Not telling her doesn’t seem like a choice.

Fucking hell.

“You know how you asked me to tell you something that would make me look less perfect?”

“Yes,” she says, hesitancy in her voice.

“Well, I have one that I’m pretty sure will vanish you from my life forever.”

“I doubt that, Walker.”

I let out a sarcastic laugh. “Trust me.” I stand from my bed and begin to pace the room. “You wouldn’t look at me the same.”

“Then why tell me?” she asks, and fuck, I wish I was telling her this in person. So I could read her facial expressions.

“If you want to know what happened tonight, then you’d need to hear the whole story. And you don’t want to hear the whole story.”

She’s quiet for a second and then says, “Try me.”

I lean against the window of my hotel room and I stare down at the floor, my hand driving through my hair yet again.

“Penn knows just how to provoke me; he knows what will blast me to red hot anger, and tonight he pushed that button. A button that sets my mind into a tailspin of hatred . . . for myself.”

“What did he say?”

“He mentioned the reason why we don’t get along is because of Dawn . . . my sister.”

Sounding confused, she says, “I didn’t know you have a sister.”

“Had,” I say, using past tense. “I had a sister.” My chest grows tight, with memories of her floating through my head.

“Oh, Walker—”

“Please don’t.” I take a deep breath. “She had spina bifida. She spent her whole life on forearm crutches but she fucking loved life.” My chest swells just remembering her smile. “She never let anything hold her back, and she helped me through my entire high school baseball career. Cheered for me at every game, would make a point to carry my glove for me, and kept all my stats for me for every game. She was my rock.” My throat grows tight. “She also followed me around everywhere, which I never cared about until one night.”

Kate is quiet as she lets me tell my story.

“It was a party our senior year. Dawn begged to go with me and I told her no. I went without her, only for her to follow closely behind without my knowledge. I was irritated when I saw her at the party, because I was trying to get with this girl, and even though I love my sister, she was always an unintentional cockblock with her millions of questions. Penn was there and told me he would get her a ride home. At that point, we didn’t hate each other as fiercely. Just typical teenage animosity.” I pause, my voice heavy with emotion. Why did I entrust her to his care? How could I have been so insanely stupid? “That was the last time I saw her. Her ride home ended up getting hit by a drunk driver and she was killed on the spot.” And that’s also why it fucks with me that Penn drinks. He knows what happens when . . .

She’s quiet and I wonder if she’s still on the phone. When I look at the screen, I realize she’s there, just probably disgusted with me.

“I’ve never forgiven myself for letting Penn take care of her, and I’ve never forgiven him for sending her off that night.” I wet my lips and continue, “He says I hate him because he doesn’t try at his job, but wastes it away with alcohol, and yeah, I do hate him for that, because what a goddamn waste of breath, when someone like Dawn would’ve been better to have on this planet, someone who gave a damn about the life she was given and made the most of it. I hate him for sending her on her way. But even more importantly than that, I fucking despise myself for thinking any baseless hookup was more important than my sister. And after all that, my relationship with my parents is strained. Can’t tell you the last time I spoke with them.” And why would they want to talk to a fuck-up like me? Someone who took their baby girl from them? It’s why I’m alone. It’s why I don’t open up, because no one wants someone like me to infect their lives. I deserve the loneliness. And now Kate knows why.

I slump against the wall and slide down it until my ass hits the floor. I bring my knees in close to my chest and prop my arms up on them.

After a bout of silence, Kate finally says, “You’re right, I’ll never look at you the same.”

My heart falls and I bury my forehead in my hand.

“Because you just changed everything, Walker.”

“I told you—”

“No, you listen to me.” I hear her take a breath. “You changed everything, Walker, because you trusted me enough to tell me that, to let me into your world, into your soul, and that’s something I don’t take lightly. You’ve been through a terrible tragedy—”

“I didn’t tell you so you could pity me.”

“I don’t pity you.”

“I can hear it in your voice,” I say. “I could hear it in your pause. There’s pity and I don’t want it; I don’t deserve it.” I scrub my hand over my mouth. “This whole fucking night was a mistake. Talking to Penn, thinking for one goddamn second that he’d actually listen to me, that he was invested in something other than himself. And then calling you. Fuck,” I mutter. “I shouldn’t have called you in the first place.”

“Then I guess I shouldn’t have answered,” she says in a sharp tone.

I cringe at the thought of her growing angry with me again. “Why did you?”

She waits to answer and I grow anxious with anticipation. “I don’t know,” she answers, defeated.

I grip my knees tightly. “Did you want to hear my voice?”

“Maybe.”

Fuck. I want to look into those beautifully dark eyes of hers. I want to see her pretty, pink lips curve up. That blonde hair float over her shoulders like a silky waterfall.

Just a glimpse.

A small one.

I want to make sure that even though I told her my deepest, darkest secret that she doesn’t hate me. That she can still look at me, at the monster that I am.

Before I can stop myself, I press the FaceTime button on my phone.

Chapter Forty-Three

KATE

I’m about to tell him that I should get to bed when the sound of FaceTime rings through the phone. I sit up and see the call coming in, from Walker.

Oh my God.

I can’t see him, not right now. It’ll break down all my defenses.

Hearing his confession—his voice so distraught, so soft—cracked the wall I’d haphazardly erected once I left his apartment. I tried to duct tape it together, patch it up, anything to keep him from penetrating my heart.

And then he had to go and call me. He had to use that crushed tone in his voice. He had to speak from his heart.

Devastating.

Completely obliterated my wall and undid me.

I can’t look at him. Not like this, not now, not when one glance into those deep, soulful eyes will cause me to forget everything I’ve worked for and fall for the one man I shouldn’t.

My brain overturns my heart in one fell swoop and I quickly press the red button on my screen, ending the call altogether.

Heart beating rapidly, I feel instant regret.

What if he thinks I ended the call because of what he confessed to me?

I waver between calling him back and turning my phone off completely when a text comes in . . . from him.

Walker: Please pick up, Kate. I want to see you.

Christ, what is this man doing to me?

Any stronger woman would be able to deal with the temptation, would be able to say no and walk away, but to me, he’s like a giant piece of cake I can’t seem to keep my hands off.

Kate: I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’m . . . naked.

I press send without thinking. That last part, I thought that would be a deterrent, but when he texts back, I know I’m gravely wrong.

Walker: Answer. Now.

The phone rings and my stomach somersaults with nerves. Two words, that’s all it takes.

Answer.

Now.

The phone continues to ring in my hand, tempting, persuading, and before I can stop myself, I answer, holding it up so only my face is showing. It takes a second for the picture to come in so I pull the sheet up and over my breasts just in case he catches sight of anything.

When he comes on screen, his eyes are smoldering, his hair is a mess, as if he’s been running his hands through it all night, and the scruff on his beard looks thicker than I’m used to seeing on him.

We don’t say anything at first; instead, we just stare at each other, both our eyes searching.

Is he naked too?

From the look of it, he isn’t wearing a shirt.

He’s the first one to break the silence. “I needed to see you.”

“We shouldn’t be talking at all.”

His eyes fall.

“But I can’t help but revel in the fact that I get to see your face. That I get to talk to you. That you gave me the privilege of hearing your story.”

“Fuck, Kate.” His eyes connect with mine. “You should be running away after that story.”

“All that story did was drive me closer to you. You need someone to love on you, Walker, not hate.”

He blows out a long breath and tilts his head back so it rests on the headboard of his hotel bed. “I wish you were mine.” His eyes flash to the screen. “I wish I didn’t have to feel guilty about talking to you right now. I wish I could call you every goddamn night after a long-ass game and talk to you, let your calming voice wash over me, easing the tension in my shoulders.”

I wish the same thing. I wish there weren’t a giant, impenetrable roadblock between us.

“If only that were the case,” I say softly.

“Would you want to be mine?” he asks, desperation lacing his words.

“I don’t think there would be any good in answering that question.”

“You’re probably right.” He lets out a pent-up breath.

“But . . . yes, I would,” I answer softly. “A part of me thinks a little piece of me is yours already.”

His eyes snap up to the phone just as I shift under the covers, my sheets sliding to just above my nipples.

He presses his hand to the side of his jaw. “Tilt the phone down.”

That commanding voice, it’s my undoing. All thought goes out the window and his voice determines my actions, directing me what to do even though, in the back of my head, I know I shouldn’t.

Chewing on the inside of my mouth, I do as he says, showing him my sheet-covered breasts, but even from the small picture in the corner, I can see how hard my nipples are.

The fight. His apology. His confession. His voice. His demands.

My nipples are hard from all of the above.

“Pull the sheet down,” he says next.

But I bring the phone back to my face. “No.”

“Damn it, Kate,” he says in a pained voice.

“Do you really think I’m about to show you my breasts? That’s not how this works, Walker.”

“How does it work?”

“I don’t know, you’re the one who called. What do you want?”

“You.”

His eyes spear me through the phone, his eyebrows pulling together as his jaw tightens.

My body heats up and I feel the need to shed all the blankets and sheets, needing a second to catch my breath from the way this man can light me up inside. How he can cause a raging inferno through my veins within seconds. No one has ever created such a visceral reaction in me, and yet, all it takes is one command and I’m putty in his hands.

I let the sheet fall but don’t tell him; instead, I keep the phone pointed at my face and talk to this man completely naked.

It sends a thrill through my veins, knowing if I move the phone down, he could get just what he wants.

“You can’t say things like that.”

“I can say whatever the fuck I want,” he growls, sending a thudding throb straight between my legs.

God, what I wouldn’t give to have his voice rumble over my skin, to feel his scruff mark my fair skin, leaving it brazen red . . . claimed.

“What’s the point of this phone call?”

“So I can see you.”

“What did we say, Walker? We can’t be doing this.”

“The fuck I care.”

His determination is strong and back in full force. It took a few days to simmer, only to come back to boiling.

“Why did you answer the phone?”

We’re going in circles, but I don’t care.

I look to the side, taking a deep breath. “Because I can’t resist you.”

“You can’t resist me? Bullshit, if you couldn’t resist me, then my hand would be on my straining cock right now, pumping my length as I stare at your naked body.”

My mouth goes dry as the throb between my legs increases. Aroused—that’s how he makes me feel. In seconds, with his truth, he turns me on.

Mouth parched, but wanting to know the answer, I ask, “Are you hard right now, Walker?”

He doesn’t answer but slowly—and I mean slowly—angles the phone down.

His thick pecs come into view, then his tattooed side—the dark ink draws my attention before my gaze falls to the deep divots of his defined abs, abs I wish I could suck on one by one—and finally the edge of a sheet that barely skims over his trimmed happy trail.

With bated breath, I hold the air in my lungs, my hand skimming over my chest as I wait to see what’s a few inches lower.

Torturing me, he pauses for a few more seconds, before angling the phone down to his erection.

Thick.

Long.

And completely turned on. His cock twitches underneath his sheet.

He’s covered, but it doesn’t matter—the white of the sheet does nothing to hide the definition of what I felt between my legs the other night, from what I rubbed up against.

I’m transported back to our night together, when I was riding him with just his briefs between us. The look of satisfaction on his face, the imprint of his hands into my hips, the way his muscles convulsed as we both came.

My hand trails down my body past my aroused breasts, past my soft stomach, to my bare pussy, where I trail two fingers up and down my slit.

Briefly I close my eyes, surprised at how wet I already am.

“What are you doing?” he barks, causing my eyes to snap open.

“Huh?” I ask breathlessly, shifting lower on the bed and spreading my legs.

In a husky tone, he asks, “Are you touching yourself, Kate?”

I nod. “Mm-hmm.” I’m unable to stop. Once my fingers hit my sleek heat, there’s no turning back.

“Fuck. Babe, let me see.”

I shake my head. “No. That’s crossing a line.”

“You’re masturbating to the sight of my cock, that’s not crossing a line?”

“It is, but we have to redraw a line somewhere.” I sigh, lolling my head to the side as the phone drops a few inches.

God, pay attention, Kate.

Focus.

This isn’t a peepshow.

Chapter Forty-Four

WALKER

I fist my cock, all the blood in my body rushing to one point from the sight of Kate losing control.

Her eyes close as she sighs and the phone drops to reveal the swell of her breasts. My cock twitches in my hand as another surge of arousal washes over me like a molten tidal wave.

This woman will be the death of me.

“Kate,” I say in a strangled voice. “Open your eyes and look at me.”

“I’ll come. I don’t want to come yet.”

“Fuck, you’re that close?” I pump harder.

“Keep talking. God,” she groans, “I love your voice, Walker. So raspy, so deep. It’s a huge turn-on for me.”

“You saying that’s a turn-on.” I slouch on my bed and prop the phone on the nightstand so she gets a side view of my body, from my belly button up. “What are you thinking about?” I ask, wondering what’s going on in that gorgeous head of hers.

How dirty is she?

Based on our grinding session, I’m going to guess pretty dirty.

“You, on top of me, pressing your lips across my collarbone, down to my breasts, but you don’t touch my nipples. Instead, you let your scruff rub across the sensitive skin, your tongue peeking out every once in a while.”

“Do you want me to play with your tits?”

“God, yes, but I want you to tease me. I want you to tease me so hard that I’m aching deep inside, begging for release, throbbing so uncontrollably that I feel the faint twinge of my orgasm. But then you pull away and move your head down past my stomach, where you’d rest your chin between my legs and carefully spread my lips apart.”

“I would fuck you with my tongue.”

“Not yet,” she whispers. “I would want you to just stare at me, let the soft air of the room turn me on even further.”

“Fucking hell.” I squeeze my eyes shut, loving the beautiful picture she’s painting for me.

“It would be the slightest of touches, the smallest movements, that would get me so wired, so on edge, that I would combust in seconds the minute you press the flat of your tongue against my clit.”

“Shit, Kate. I’m right there with you.”

“God, me too. I’m so hot for you, Walker,” she moans and her breathing picks up even more. “Look at me,” she says.

I open my eyes and turn my head to look at my phone on the nightstand. She’s still holding the phone at the same angle, and instead of seeing her writhing tits, she’s covered by the sheet again. But I can see the side of her body, and that’s all it takes. I pump faster, harder as my balls tighten.

“Fuck . . . Kate . . . I’m—”

I’m cut off by the feral sounds of her crying out in ecstasy. A low groan pops out of me as I come all over my stomach, shot after shot, spurting over my contracting abs. I continue to pump my cock until my orgasm eases and I’m completely spent. Not entirely satisfied, though, because I don’t think I’ll ever be satisfied until I’m inside of her.

“Oh my God,” she breathes, her arm draped over her eyes. “I can’t believe I just did that.”

I chuckle and say, “I can’t believe I just came with you again and have yet to see you completely naked.”

She looks at the screen. “Isn’t it more fun this way?”

“Fuck no.”

She lets out a throaty laugh, and that angelic sound, hell . . . it helps me relax, sink into my mattress, and forget everything else around us.

Pulling her sheets up higher, she turns on her side and props the phone up on her nightstand. She then tucks her hands under her pillow and says, “You’re sexy when you come.”

I mimic the position and say, “Yeah?”

She nods. “You make these sexy, deep grunts, like you can’t hold back anymore and you just . . . let loose.”

“Pretty much what happens.”

“I like it.”

“I like you,” I say, nodding in her direction. I catch the blush that stains her cheeks right before she looks away.

She’s silent for a second but then says, “You know, I lost a sibling too.”

I recall the conversation we had about her younger brother. I can’t believe I forgot about that. “Your brother.”

She nods. “It’s never easy, losing someone so close to you, but when you realize how young they were, the kind of life they could’ve had, it eats away at your heart.” Her eyes flash to mine. “Is that how you feel? Like something is constantly gnawing at you? Shredding your heart, one layer at a time?”

I swallow hard, shocked that she could so eloquently describe the feeling of losing a sibling and make it so goddamn relatable. “Yeah,” I say softly. “That’s exactly how it feels.”

“Something big happens in your life, and you wonder if they were here with us, what would they say? How big would their smile be? What kind of pride would they have in their heart for you?”

“Every goddamn day.” I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep breath. “She’d have loved watching me play in the big leagues. There’s no doubt she would’ve tried to be at every game, wearing my jersey, and enjoying a big bowl of popcorn. She was always a sucker for popcorn.”

“Would she add anything to it? Like M&Ms?”

I shake my head. “No, plain. She kept it simple. I tried giving her a big tin of Garrett Popcorn once, the original mix of cheddar and caramel. Oh man, was that a mistake.”

“Did she not eat it?”

“Nope, she forced me to eat it. Told me she wasn’t into anything fancy.”

Kate laughs. “I think Dawn and I could’ve been good friends.”

My heart aches from the thought of it. “She would’ve loved you too. Easily. A girl who puts me in my place, doesn’t take shit from me, and has a warm, compassionate heart—yeah, she would’ve clung to you.”

“Will you show me a picture of her?”

I pick up my phone and go to my text messages. I click on the image icon and go to my favorites album, where I have pictures of Dawn in a folder. Thank fuck Dawn used to ask me to take so many photos with her on her trusty Nikon, otherwise I’d have nothing of her. I wouldn’t have survived. The photos aren’t very clear, given they’re just photos I’ve loaded from my PC, but they show her joy. Her love of life. God, I miss her so much. Every day.

I choose the one that I love the most, me and her outside on the baseball field. She’s wearing my hat and jersey and sporting a giant smile. I send it to Kate and then set my phone back on the nightstand.

“It’s one of my favorite pictures ever,” I say.

Kate picks up her phone and looks at the picture. I catch the endearing expression on her face. “She looks just like you, Walker, minus the brooding eyebrows and curl of your lip,” she teases with a grin and then sets her phone back on the nightstand. “You two looked very happy. Were you always close?”

“Always,” I say. “My parents always told me I was to be her protector, to watch over her, but in reality, Dawn was the protector between the two of us. She’d defend me to the moon and back in the stands, chasing down anyone who would say something bad about me. She was a lioness and owned it. She never let her arm crutches hold her back, but thrived with them and had no problem using them as a weapon.”

“Really?” Kate chuckles.

“Oh yeah. She whacked a few of my teammates before, telling them to get their heads out of their asses. She was loved.” A small smile passes over my lips. “Penn had a shit game once and I can remember the look of total shock on his face when Dawn went up to him, placed her crutch on the center of his chest and told him he had two options before his next game—to either remove his scrotum veil that had seemed to stretch over his head and play well, or . . . be a scrotum head for the rest of his life.”

Kate lets out a full belly laugh. “Let me guess, in your eyes, he chose to be a scrotum head for the rest of his life.”

I laugh with her. “Yeah, he did.” I let out a sigh and snuggle closer to my pillow. “She was a wise one.”

“Seems as though she was.”

Staring at Kate and the way her hair nearly falls over her face, I desperately want to reach through the phone and push it behind her ear. I want to be sharing the same bed, enjoying this moment with her in person, rather than through a screen.

“What are you thinking about?” she asks. “There’s a crinkle in your brow.”

“I wish you were here in person, so I can thank you.”

“Thank me for what?”

“For taking a shitty day and putting an epic spin on it. For helping me see the good when the bad is clashing like a thunderous cloud over my head. For reminding me of the good times.”

She smiles softly, and all it makes me want to do is kiss her again, but for longer than five seconds, for so much longer, and not just minutes, but days, years. “I’m not saying I’m an expert when it comes to losing a sibling, but what I do know is that focusing on the good times has helped me through the bad.”

“Well, you helped me through a shit night tonight.” I wish I could drag my thumb across her cheek. “I’ll be able to sleep tonight.”

“I’m glad.”

“Thank you for calling back and pressing me for answers.”

“Thank you for being open with me.” She yawns.

“I should let you get to bed, it’s late in Chicago.”

“It is.” She sighs. “We crossed that line again, Walker.”

“Guess what?”

“What?” she asks.

“I don’t give a fuck, and I would do it again . . . and again . . . and again, if it meant getting to see your beautiful face.”

Her eyes slowly close and then open again. Satisfied, she says, “Good night, Walker.”

“Good night, Kate.”

Chapter Forty-Five

KATE

“I don’t think we can go with the live band; it takes up too much room on the stage.” Pen poised at her lips, Audrey observes the space, tapping her pen every once in a while. “The live band would’ve been so much fun though.”

Assessing the space from next to her with Vivian to my right, I ask, “Can you offset the room?”

“What do you mean?” Audrey asks, still looking over the stage.

I unfold the room design we have planned for the firefighter fundraiser and lay it out on my clipboard so both ladies can look it over. “Instead of taking a streamlined, centered approach with the banquet space, what if we did pockets instead?” I motion with my pen, drawing little circles around the space. “Here, we can tuck away the band on the stage, have the focus to the right be on the podium. Looking at where the data projector is, we might be able to have a projection wall drop from the ceiling, so we don’t have to use the screen in the middle. Then all around the space, we can make pockets of the different activities and auction items, so we have a rotation of the room rather than a stacked approach.” I quickly make adjustments on the piece of paper to show them what I’m talking about.

Silently, Audrey picks up the paper and examines it more closely, occasionally peeking her head up to take in the space. Finally, she says, “This is brilliant, Kate. We’d have room for the band, and if we use the circular curve of the space rather than go against it, I bet we could fit more tables and expand our ticket sales.”

“By fifty,” I say. “We can only go up fifty more people because of the fire code. Since we took out the eight-foot rounds and replaced them with high tops, we granted ourselves more space, but we can only max out at fifty more. And we don’t want to mess with fire code at a fundraiser for firefighters.”

“True.” Audrey laughs. “But fifty more people will work for me. Let me go find Sherry and see if I can talk to her about draping the projection. Hold tight.”

Audrey takes off toward the back of the banquet space, leaving me alone with Vivian, who nudges my shoulder in excitement. “Look at you being all design smart.”

I fluff my hair with one hand, showing off. “You can call me Master to all Special Events.”

She chuckles and then studies me thoughtfully. “You know, you’ve been different the last couple of days.”

“Yeah, how so?”

Studying me some more, finger pressed to her chin, she says, “Happier.”

Well . . . probably because over the last week and a half I’ve had two of the naughtiest sexual experiences of my life and I wasn’t even naked for one of them.

Three nights ago, I came so hard on my hand and just from the thought of Walker hovering over my body, doing all the dirty things I was saying. In that moment, I was an inferno. I could feel his mouth over my skin, his voice rumbling over me, soft and sexy. Even though he was hundreds of miles away, it felt as though he was in the room, and the more he swore and encouraged me, the more my arousal spiked, and before I knew it, I was coming the hardest I’ve come in a long time.

I’ve had my fair share of flings that have been amazing, but there’s something different about Walker. It’s as if he’s buried himself deep inside my bones and I can’t shake him.

It’s why I answered the phone when he called.

Why I called him back.

Why I allowed him to FaceTime me.

Why I stuck my hand between my legs and fingered myself to completion while listening to his heavy breathing and the stroke of his strong hand over his incredibly thick cock.

What I wouldn’t give to have his hands all over my body. The sexiest pair of hands I’ve ever seen. Worn and weathered, large and muscular, they’re the kind of hands that take control and can make a woman weep from pleasure.

“Hello?” Vivian snaps her finger in front of me.

A huge smile spreads across my face so I quickly look down. “Oh, umm, yeah. I’m happy. Job is great.”

“Ohhh no, that is not a ‘my job is great’ kind of smile. That’s the kind of smile that says ‘I’m infatuated with a penis.’”

I blush as I think back to Walker’s penis hidden under his sheet. I wanted so badly for him to tear his sheet down, but if he did, I would’ve felt obligated to do the same, and I wasn’t ready for that.

“Who is it? Are you seeing someone?”

“Umm”—I look away—“not really, no.”

“But you’re smiling like a fool.”

I cover my mouth with my hand, ridding myself of the evidence. “Because you’re making me feel weird, so I’m smiling.”

“That is such a lie.” She leans forward. “Who is it?”

“No one. I was just, you know, talking to this one guy. That’s all.”

“Seems as if you’re doing more than just talking.” She wiggles her eyebrows.

“We just talk.” And dry-hump . . . once.

“I don’t believe you.” Her phone rings at that moment and when she looks at the screen, she groans and then points at me. “We aren’t done with the conversation. You hear me?” She answers the phone in a sweet voice despite her annoyance for the caller.

Abandoned by both my colleagues, I take a seat on the stage stairs and pull out my phone to catch up on emails. That’s when I see a text from Walker.

My heart flutters unexpectedly. I look around to see if Audrey is anywhere nearby, and when the coast is clear, I open up his message.

Walker: What are you doing?

Settling against the stairs, I type him back.

Kate: Going over the space for the firefighter fundraiser. Aren’t you supposed to be getting ready for your game?

Walker: Killing time. Send me a picture of you.

Kate: What? No.

Walker: It’ll help the team win. Don’t you want the team to win?

Kate: I can’t see how a picture of me will help the team.

Walker: It’ll put me at ease, which will help me hit the ball, which in return will help us score runs. Simple, babe.

Babe.

I bite down on my lower lip, willing the butterflies in my stomach to settle.

Kate: How about we talk about something else, because you know where I stand.

Walker: Ruthless. How’s the venue space?

Kate: Perfect. How’s the locker room you’re in?

Walker: Smells like a sock.

Kate: Are you saying your team smells?

Walker: Not my team. The carpet is twenty years old.

Kate: So, you won’t be taking a nap on it anytime soon?

Walker: No.

Kate: Do you ever nap before a game?

Walker: Never. That’s one way to kill your adrenaline.

Kate: Oh, I forgot, you’re a macho baseball player.

Walker: I squat for a living. I need the adrenaline.

Not that I would ever mention it to him, but thinking about all that adrenaline pushing through his veins, I can envision the flex in his forearms, the puff of his pecs against his jersey. It’s hot.

Really hot.

And the thought is warming up my body more than I would care to admit.

Kate: Do you have any superstitions?

Walker: No.

Kate: Isn’t that what baseball is, though? A game of superstitions?

Walker: No. Baseball is about mentally outdoing your opponent. If you believe in superstitions, then you already have a mental disadvantage.

Kate: Why did I envision you saying that with a growly voice?

Walker: Growly?

Kate: Yeah, that’s how your voice gets when you’re serious . . . or turned on.

Walker: Want to talk about how you get when you’re turned on?

I swallow hard.

Kate: I’m good. Thanks.

I hear footsteps coming down the hall from where Audrey disappeared, so I quickly wrap up my text messaging.

Kate: Back to a meeting. Good luck tonight.

Walker: Thanks, babe.

Damn it. I swear he’s doing that on purpose. But I like it. It hasn’t been that long since I’ve had a boyfriend, but being called babe by Walker feels . . . right.

Chapter Forty-Six

WALKER

Locker room showers almost always are quick and to just get the job done. Unless I’m in a fucking mood, I don’t like to spend a lot of time under the water in a public place, bare-ass naked.

It’s why I decided to take another shower when I got back to my hotel room. I let the scalding water beat my back as I stood there, head hanging, easing my aching muscles.

We barely earned a win today; if it weren’t for an error in the top of the ninth inning, we never would’ve gone into the bottom of the ninth, one run ahead. We played like shit all game and the mid-season fatigue is starting to show. Luckily, the All-Star break is right around the corner. Once we get home, we’ll have three games and then we’re off for a week.

Thank fuck.

I can use the time off.

Dried off, I’m wrapping the towel around my waist just as I hear my phone ring on the nightstand. Like a fool, I stumble to get to the phone with one person on my mind.

Kate.

But when I see the caller ID, I’m annoyed instead.

Picking it up, I sit down on the bed and answer, “What’s up, Roark?”

“Checking up on you. How’s it going?”

“Good.” I scratch my chest, wishing I was listening to Kate’s sweet voice rather than Roark’s Irish lilt. “I’m feeling pretty confident out on the field right now.”

“I’d say. You’ve been lighting it up. How’s the body?”

“Holding together, and looking forward to the All-Star break.”

“Are you sour you weren’t picked?”

“Not really,” I answer honestly. “I was on the team the last two years, so I got to see what it was all about. I’m happy for the break.”

“Any plans?”

“Not really, just relaxing,” I answer even though I’ve had thoughts of what I might want to do, if it were a perfect world with no consequences. I would be begging Kate to see me.

But since that’s not an option, I’ll probably be casually hitting up the cages once a day and then binging some show on Netflix.

“And the firefighter fundraiser, are you all set with that?”

“Yeah. Kate has me in the lineup for a quick speech. I even gave her a picture of me and my dad in his volunteer firefighter gear.”

“Good.” He pauses and then asks, “Do you like Kate?”

“What?” I ask, a nervous fear creeping up my throat. How the fuck does he know? Were we not careful enough?

“Do you like working with her? Is she keeping you in line?”

Oh . . .

Fuck. I try to hold back my audible relief at almost being caught, and by Roark of all people. If he found out what I’ve been doing, he’d fly from New York to Chicago to wring my dick with his own hands. Then Kate most likely would lose her job.

And then what . . . she has to look for something else? Would I even see her again?

Gathering myself, I say, “She does her job well. Doesn’t put up with my shit.”

“Good. No one should. She’s good at her job. Wouldn’t want to see anything happen to her.”

I grip the back of my neck as heated nerves stir in my stomach. “Why would something happen to her?” I ask.

“If she’s not doing her job, the Bobbies wouldn’t keep her around. And if you’re being a dick to her, not allowing her to accomplish what she needs to accomplish, then that would look bad on her.”

“Oh . . .” I bite down on my tongue, willing myself to tread carefully. “Yeah, I’m listening to her.”

He’s silent for a second. “You sound weird . . . is there anything you need to tell me?”

“No,” I say quickly, then curse myself for sounding so obvious.

“Because if there’s something you need to say—”

“Nope,” I answer, my heart nearly pounding out of my chest.

“Okay,” he says a little skeptically, and then I hear a voice in the background. “Hey, Sutton is giving me a death glare to get off the phone. Just wanted to check in. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Sure. Thanks.”

I hang up, toss my phone to the side, and lean back on the mattress, pushing both of my hands through the wet strands of my hair. Christ, that was nerve-racking for a second there. What if Roark did know? Would he tell the front office? Would Kate lose her job?

Everyone loves her in the front office. The players love her. The event organizers love her.

How could you not, though? Past her sexy curves and captivating smile, she has a soothing voice, a calming disposition, and a simple way to pull a smile from you. She’s sweet, understanding. She listens without judgment, and puts herself in your shoes. She’s easily the most warmhearted person I know.

And I hate to admit it, but that conversation with Roark, that brief moment of panic, is the exact reason why I shouldn’t be talking to Kate, why I shouldn’t be thinking about her, dreaming about her. Because if anyone found out about what we’ve done, how we’ve interacted, I wouldn’t be the one who would get hurt. She would.

She’d lose everything she’s ever worked toward. And I know she loves her job. She enjoys what she does and she’s damn good at it.

Even if I want her more than anything.

I don’t want to hurt her.

My phone rings and I glance at the screen again.

Kate.

Hell . . .

My hand reaches for the phone, my thumb hovering over the answer button, but I hold back, my mind reeling from the conversation I just had with Roark. From the tone in his voice, the skepticism and the questions, I feel as if he knows something, or thinks he knows something. Either way, there’s only one way this could go . . . and it doesn’t include Kate staying with the Bobbies. Despite telling Kate that Dawn was my defender and protector, those instincts were engrained in me, too. To care for Dawn. To look after her and take her needs seriously. And I think that’s why I can’t answer this call. I can’t let Kate down, too. I can’t be the one who causes her disappointment. She means too much to me for that.

I let the call go to voicemail and bury my head in my hands, the consequences of this all tearing away at me, shred by shred.

After a minute, my phone dings with a voicemail. I unlock my phone and listen, putting the phone on speaker.

“Hey, Walker, it’s Kate. Just calling to congratulate you on another win. You’re probably celebrating with Ryot. If you want, give me a call. Okay . . . bye.”

I stare down at my phone and at the fifteen-second message. Before I can stop myself, I listen to it again.

And again.

And again.

But I never call her back.

Chapter Forty-Seven

KATE

Radio silence.

Absolute silence.

Walker is back in town, we’re day one into the All-Star break, and I’ve heard nothing from the man.

Not a text.

Not a call.

Not an email.

Just nothing.

I should be thankful, because he apparently decided to make a clean break, which is what I asked for, but now that I know he’s back in town with nothing to do at night, I’m itching to see him. Or at least hear his voice again.

“Drink,” Vivian says, plopping a shot in front of me.

We’re on shot number three of tequila. Having a slow day tomorrow we decided to have a night to remember—aka, drinking in my apartment while wearing matching pajamas and chowing down on Garrett popcorn, the cheddar and caramel mix. There really is no other combination that should be allowed.

“Maybe we can let the last shot settle for a second,” I say, holding my belly right before letting out a loud hiccup.

Vivian laughs and then hiccups herself. She clamps her hand over her mouth, and we both let out a laugh, hiccupping at the same time.

Oh yeah, I’m feeling the shots already. Number four won’t be consumed for a while.

“One more,” Vivian says, picking up my shot and holding it to my lips. “Open the hatch or I’m going to spill this all over your face.”

Before the liquid can spill, I part my lips and let the alcohol flow into my mouth. There goes holding off on number four.

Once I swallow, I quickly pick up a lime slice and suck on it.

Yeesh, that one was rough.

I hold up my hand to Vivian and say, “No more. Not for at least another hour, or else I might need you to hold my hair back and tuck me into bed like a child.”

“Oddly, I find that appealing,” she says as she starts to pour another shot.

I yank the bottle from her and point at her. “No more for an hour.” I set the bottle down out of her reach. “What are you trying to do? Get me drunk?”

“Yes,” she answers with conviction. “I want your lips loose.”

I raise an eyebrow at her. “Are you trying to take advantage of me? Experiment?”

“What?” She laughs and shakes her head. “No! I’m trying to find out who this mystery guy is, the same guy who had you all giddy last week, but now depressed this week.”

“I’m not depressed.”

She gives me a pointed look. “You’re checking your phone every five minutes, and when you don’t see a text, you frown.”

“You’re mistaking my smile for a frown.”

“That isn’t your smile. Your lips are turned down.”

“That’s just my face.”

“Shut up.” She laughs while pushing my shoulder. “That is not your face. Be straight with me—who’s the guy? And what did he do to make you so blue?”

Am I really blue? I didn’t think I was acting upset. I’ve been very careful with how I present myself at work, aiming to ensure my personal life doesn’t interfere with the job.

“I’m not blue.”

“You’ve worn black to work the last few days, as if you’re in mourning.”

“I am in mourning—the first half of baseball season is over. It went by far too fast.”

She wiggles her finger at me with determination. “Listen here, missy, if you don’t tell me who—”

She doesn’t finish what she’s saying, but swipes my phone like a ninja, points the face recognition at me, and then goes straight to my text messages before I can register to move.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting to the bottom of this.”

“Give that back to me.” I reach for my phone but she dodges out of the way and springs to her feet, swiftly moving around the coffee table, creating a barrier. “Vivian, don’t you dare look in my phone.”

“Wow, you sure do text a lot of the players.” Her brows shoot up to her hairline. “Oh my God, is it a player?”

“Vivian . . . please.”

“It is!” She goes back to my phone and starts swiping through it, calling out names. “Carson. No. Heath. No. Penn . . . no. But he’s hot. I would stand in line for a little attention from him.”

I lunge over the coffee table and swat the phone out of her hand, but it looks to be too late. Stunned, she glances at me, eyes wide as she whispers, “Walker.”

Fuck.

Leaning over the coffee table, I try to figure out how to respond, but when nothing comes to mind, Vivian starts asking questions.

“You have a thing for Walker. Have you done anything? Give me all the details.”

Resigned, I fall back on the couch and drape my arm over my eyes, unable to look at my friend from sheer embarrassment.

“We are not talking about this.”

“The hell we aren’t. You have a thing for Walker Rockwell. I mean, I don’t blame you, the man is a rugged alpha on a stick, but holy shit. Does anyone know?”

I shake my head, realizing there’s no use denying it. If she opened up my text messages with him, one glance would give her all the information she needs. “No one knows, and there really isn’t anything to know. I cut it off before it got too out of control.”

“He called you babe.”

Yeah, that’s pretty damning.

“He’s just joking.”

Vivian levels her eyes at me while crossing her arms over her chest. “You’re going to tell me everything that’s going on or else I’m going to text him myself and ask.”

“Oh my God, you wouldn’t.”

“I think by now you should know I always follow through.”

She does. It’s why I love her friendship so much, because there’s no bullshitting when it comes to her. What you see is what you get. And our friendship was immediate. First day I walked into the stadium, we clicked.

“Fine,” I huff out.

With a gleeful clap, she picks up my phone, hands it to me, and then takes a seat, poised and ready to listen. I’m going to need more tequila for this. I reach down for the bottle and take a big swig before handing it over to her.

“I don’t know how it started. He was such a bastard at the beginning, clearly wanting nothing to do with me, and I took that as a challenge.”

“Of course.” Vivian nods.

“So, I decided to go above and beyond and help him with his image. I spent extra time with him, and all that extra time led to growing feelings. I mean, how could I not be attracted to the man?”

“He’s so handsome.” Vivian sighs. “He’s still young, but looks as if he has the wisdom of someone who’s been in the majors for twenty years. It’s hot. And his hands . . .”

“I know,” I groan, envisioning those hands all over my body. “I love his hands. They’re so sexy. Strong and thick with just enough callouses to drive you crazy.”

“Have you felt his hands on you?” Vivian asks, her brows shooting up.

“No, not really.” I wince. “I mean, not entirely. Just a little, and from the small amount I’ve experienced, I know I would take so much more if I weren’t so frightened of losing my job.”

“You’re not going to lose your job.” Vivian waves her hand in front of her face. “Not over a fling.”

I bite my bottom lip out of nerves. “I don’t think this would be a fling for me. I know it would be so much more. I feel invested in him, and that’s scary. It’s why I keep trying to keep myself away.”

Vivian studies me for a few beats before saying, “Let me read the texts.”

“No.”

With a pointed look, she motions with her finger. “Show me the texts right now, Kate. Or I’m going to have to take things into my own hands again. Is that what you really want? You know I’m scrappy.”

She really is, and I don’t foresee this ending anytime soon, so I unlock my phone and hand it over.

Smiling brightly, she says, “Perfect. Now, let’s send him a text.”

“What?” I fly to her side of the couch. “No.”

Chapter Forty-Eight

WALKER

What a boring fucking night.

I made myself a salad, a fucking salad. I’m drinking a water, straight from the tap, and I’m watching paint dry.

I mean . . . golf. I’m watching golf.

Carson and Ryot are at the All-Star game in St. Louis, leaving me with nothing to really do during my week off. They asked if I wanted to come and just hang out, but at the time, I thought I just wanted a breather. Now that I’m here alone, I wish I’d gone with them.

It’s never too late. I could hop on a plane. I could join the boys and try to forget the burning feelings I have for Kate.

But, fuck . . .

I have that fundraiser Kate has been painstakingly helping plan, so there’s no point in flying to St. Louis to hang out in a hotel room when I just have to come back here a day later.

Which means I’m going to sulk and watch golf highlights. There has to be a movie on or something. Anything is better than this.

I reach for the remote when my phone sounds off with a text message. I glance down at the screen and see Kate’s name.

Immediately, I sit up and grab my phone, unlocking it to see what she wants. I haven’t spoken to her in fucking days, and knowing that we’re both in Chicago and both available at night, it’s been driving me to insanity. I’ve been desperate to contact her, to see if she wants to come over and hang out.

To hold my hand and watch a movie.

To share a piece of cake, using the same fork.

To let me strip her down to nothing and worship her body.

To wake up with her in my arms and make her breakfast in bed.

But I’ve held strong, even though I want her more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.

But since I haven’t contacted her, she hasn’t contacted me, and now that there’s a text waiting to be read, I just hope to God it isn’t about work.

With a deep breath, I read her message.

Kate: I like your hands.

Huh.

Okay.

Not what I was expecting at all, especially after so much silence. But I like it.

I shouldn’t partake in this text thread. I’ve held strong for so long. I pushed myself to keep from talking to her, especially after Roark’s phone call. But fuck, I can’t help the smile that crosses my face, nor can I stop my fingers from texting back.

Walker: I like your ass.

Settling into the couch, I wait for her to text back, happy to see the little dots bouncing on the screen right away.

Kate: Send me a dick pic.

My brow pulls together. That doesn’t sound like Kate at all. She’s flirty, but not brazen. She gives a little but holds back a lot. Her asking for a dick pic isn’t something she’d say, so either someone has her phone, or she’s drunk. That’s my guess, unless she had a change in personality.

I answer cautiously.

Walker: I think you and I both know the PR storm that would occur if I sent a dick pic.

Kate: You’re a smart man. Show me in person, then. Find me and whip your pants down.

Okay, she’s drunk. There’s no way she’d tell me to whip my pants down while sober. Hell, we dry-humped with my briefs on. Might as well have a little fun with this, though, especially since she’s drunk-texting me; it goes to show that I very well might still be on her mind. And I need a reprieve . . . a little one.

Walker: Next time in the hall, my pants are yours, babe.

Kate: Is that a promise? I really want you to press me against a wall and fuck me.

Walker: Tell me what else you want.

Kate: Your fingers inside of me.

Walker: And . . .

Kate: Your dick.

Walker: You know where I live, Kate. Come and get what you want.

Kate: Oh my God, she knows where you live?

What? I stare down at the screen.

Kate: Fuck, I mean . . . crap.

Walker: Who am I talking to? Kate or . . .

Kate: Oh hey, Walker. What’s up? It’s Vivian.

Jesus Christ. I drag my hand over my face. What the hell is Kate doing?

Kate: Just so you know, Kate’s face is bright red and I’m pretty sure I just humiliated her, but everything I said was straight from her head, if that matters.

Walker: When did she tell you?

Kate: I guessed about ten minutes ago. For what it’s worth, she’s right when she says your hands are hot.

Walker: Have her call me. Now.

Kate: Yikes. Okay.

I wait about a minute before my phone rings. I answer and hear scuffling on the other end, followed by the click of a door and a low, whispered, “Hello?”

“Are you hiding?”

“Maybe.”

I can picture it—Kate scrunched up in a coat closet, phone close to her ear as she tries to talk as quietly as possible.

“What the hell is going on?” I ask.

“Uh, you know, just having a girls’ night.”

“Are you drinking?”

“Yes. I’m of age, thank you very much, so I don’t see what the problem is.”

“What are you drinking?”

I can hear her swallow. “Just a friendly tequila.”

“Friendly?”

“Mmmm-hmm. Very friendzy, I mean friend-a-diddly. Friend zone. Tequila friend zone.”

Jesus Christ.

“How many shots have you had?”

“I want to say four. I’m going to be honest, it all hit me at once. I don’t feel as uh, coexisting . . . I mean . . . uh, coherent—yes, that’s the word. I don’t feel as coherent as before.”

“That’s what alcohol does to you.” I blow out a frustrated breath. “You’re not making this easy on me, Kate.”

“I didn’t mean to tell her. She just figured it out. Are you mad?”

“No. I’m just . . . what’s there really to tell? We had one night together where we didn’t even see each other naked. It was more like two humans trying to edge out their orgasms. That’s all.” I don’t know why I’m irritated right now.

Maybe because after I got off the phone with Roark the other day, I swore I would keep my distance—and I just broke that promise.

Maybe because Vivian knows when I wish she didn’t.

Maybe because Kate is drunk right now and isn’t going to remember any part of this conversation.

“They were good orgasms.”

They were, but that’s beside the point. Growing even more frustrated, I say, “I have to go, Kate.”

“Oh God, you are mad. I can hear it in your voice. Don’t be mad at me, Walker.”

“I’m not mad,” I spit out.

“You’re growling. You just growled at me. That’s being mad.” Her voice is slurred, so unlike the Kate I know.

“Think what you want. I have to go.” Before she can respond, I hang up and toss my phone to the side.

Hell.

My anger escalated quicker than I expected. At first, when I saw her name, I got excited, but as our conversation went on, I was reminded that this isn’t going to work.

And for one significant reason . . .

Kate deserves to date someone. To be taken out, to be spoiled. I want to give her that, but I can’t. I’m too high profile for her to be seen with me. To be honest, I’m not really mad at her—I have no right to be mad at her. I’m mad at myself, mad at the situation. I knew better than to get attached to someone who’s off-limits, and that’s exactly what I did. I grew attached.

Chapter Forty-Nine

WALKER

My phone rings, waking me from a deep slumber. I peep open one eye and try to focus on the screen.

The lobby.

“Hello?” I answer, my voice two octaves lower than normal.

“Mr. Rockwell, I’m so sorry to wake you this morning, but I have a Miss Kate Chapman here to see you. Can I send her up?”

My head pops up. “Kate Chapman?” I ask, rubbing my palm against my eye, trying to comprehend what’s going on. “What time is it?”

“It’s eight thirty, sir. And yes, Miss Kate Chapman is here.” He whispers, “She has coffee with her if you need some.”

“Yeah, sure, send her up. And put her on the approved list.”

I hang up and stretch my arms over my head, shifting from side to side, and then swing out of bed and head straight to my bathroom, where I take a leak, brush my teeth, and put on a pair of sweatpants. By the time I finish, there’s a knock at my door.

I pad across the floor, still feeling half dead from the abrupt wake-up call and the mere three hours of sleep I got.

I don’t bother looking through the peephole, since I know who it is, and swing the door open. Kate stands on the other side of the door holding a drink carrier with two cups of coffee notched into it and a brown bag sitting atop the cups. I give her a quick once-over. She’s wearing black leggings that hug her hips and legs and a loose-hanging sweater that’s falling off her shoulder, showing off a lace bra strap.

Sexy.

I glance up at her face, which is completely devoid of makeup, and her honey-brown hair, which seems to follow no rhyme or reason as it sits perched on the top of her head. She’s hot when she’s casual and it’s doing nothing to help tamp down the need I have for this woman.

“Hi,” she croaks out, her voice hoarse.

I grip the doorframe and stare her down. “Morning.”

I watch as her gaze travels from my pecs, down my stomach, straight to my crotch. Keep staring like that and she’s going to see a hell of a lot more than a slight bulge in my pants.

“Eyes up here, Kate.”

“What?” She snaps her head up. “Yes, of course.” She holds out the drink tray. “This is for you— well, and me. This one is mine.” She plucks a cup from the holder right before handing it over. “Thought you might want some coffee this morning, and a cheese danish. Do you like those? If you warm it up in a toaster oven, it’s magic.”

I prop the door open more and say, “Come toast it for me.”

“Oh, sure,” she says nervously, moving under my arm and taking the bag with her to my kitchen.

I shut the door behind her and bring the to-go coffee cup to my lips and take a sniff. “What is this?”

She looks over her shoulder. “A white chocolate mocha.”

My nose crinkles. “Why did you get me that?”

“I got it for me, but accidentally drank from the wrong one. I’ve been nursing this black coffee all the way here.”

I step into the kitchen, saddle up behind her, and reach around, taking the black coffee from her and replacing it with the sugary drink.

“I drank out of that,” she points out as I take a sip.

“As if I care. If I had it my way the other night, you’d have sat on my face while I ate you out, so sharing your drink doesn’t faze me.” Fuck. Why do I keep saying that shit to Kate? I’ve never been shy with women, but I had some decorum back in the day, when I attempted to date or hook up. But it’s been too long. I want this woman. I can’t have this woman.

Her eyes widen before she takes a step back, feeling for the counter as she makes her way to the toaster oven in the corner. “Eating me out, huh?” She nervously laughs. “I don’t know why I just said that, ignore it.”

“Fine.” I lean against the counter, one hand propped up on the marble surface, the other bringing the coffee to my lips. She must be wearing some sort of gloss or balm because the lid smells fruity. After I take a long sip and rub my lips together, letting the leftover balm spread over my mouth, I say, “Why are you here, Kate?”

She sets the toaster and then turns to face me, regret in her eyes. She doesn’t beat around the bush. “I wanted to apologize for last night. It was completely unprofessional to not only drunk-text you, but drunk-dial as well.”

“I told you to drunk-dial me.”

“Yes, well, I could’ve used more common sense.” She pushes a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “I was being foolish. It won’t happen again.”

“Good,” I say, taking another sip of coffee, eyeing her from over the lid.

She looks to the side, her lips folded together. “And I spoke with Vivian already this morning. She apologizes as well and she said her lips are completely locked. She won’t speak a word.”

“Not worried about it,” I answer.

She brings her hands together. “Well, now that we’ve cleared that up and your danish is toasting, I best be on my way.” Coffee in hand, she starts to walk out of the kitchen, past me. I hook an arm around her waist, coiling her back into my chest so she’s facing away from me. “Oh,” she gasps, one of her hands falling to mine.

I lean over her shoulder, getting a good view of the rise and fall of her chest. Speaking closely into her ear, I say, “This can’t happen between us. This has to stop.”

“I know,” she breathes out heavily.

“We need to put an end to it.”

“Agreed.”

“No more calling. No more texts.”

“If I could, I would delete your phone number, but I unfortunately need it for work.”

My nose drags along the sensitive spot behind her ear, making her nipples harden automatically. “You’re going to find someone else to date.”

“What?” she asks, surprised. “Why?”

“I need you off the market, a no-fly zone where I’m concerned, or else I’m going to continue to be tempted to do things like this.” I span my hand across her stomach and then slowly drag the hem of her sweater up and slip my hand under to touch her scorching-hot skin. She gasps, and I press a light kiss across her neck, my lips moving languidly over her skin, taking in her sweetness. Her head leans to the side, giving me more space.

Goddamn it.

“I—I don’t want to date anyone right now.” She lifts her arm up and tangles her fingers through my hair. I set our coffees on the counter behind me and bring my other hand to her hip, holding her against my erection.

“I’ll set you up with someone.” My hand slips past the waistband of her leggings and the tips of my fingers stroke her thong. I know it’s a thong, because when she walked to the kitchen, I checked out her ass and there wasn’t a panty line in sight.

“You . . . God,” she moans quietly as my fingers move down an inch. “You don’t know anyone other than baseball players.”

“Not true. I know a few Grizzlies.”

“Football players?” she asks, her hips straining forward, seeking my fingers, but I keep my hand in place, not moving any farther down, even though she’s started to grind against my cock. A sheen of sweat breaks out over my skin from the restraint I’m showing.

“Yeah. Some guys I trust with you.”

“Is that what you really want?” she asks, slipping her hand onto mine and moving it down another inch before I stop her.

“No,” I growl, my fingers dancing dangerously close to her slit. “You know what I really want.” I glide my finger lower, over her crest and then back up.

“Fuck,” she moans, her head pressing against my chest. “You make me want things I can’t have, Walker.”

“Exactly.” I press my lips into the swell of her shoulder and then slowly up the column of her neck, my muscles twitching with the urge to flip her around and take her mouth against mine. “That’s why we need to end this. Today.”

“End it, then.” She slips my hand down and spreads her legs, swiping a finger across her arousal.

I growl against her skin, my body going stiff. She’s so goddamn wet and needy.

“Do you feel that?” she asks. “That’s what you do to me, Walker. Every time I’m around you, this is what you do to me.” She moves two of my fingers along her clit, her body trembling against mine. “Whenever you see me in the hallways of the stadium, or at an event, just know, this is what I feel like, wet and begging for your masculine hands to touch me.”

Fuck, this woman is going to be the death of me.

I bite down on her neck and then soothe the spot with my tongue, lavishing her skin.

With my hand gripping her hip, I pull her against my aching cock and repeat her words back to her. “Do you feel that?” I ask, my lips dancing against her ear. “That’s what you do to me, Kate. Whenever you walk into a room, or call out my name, or talk to me on the phone, this is what you do to me.” I grind her against my hard-on and she gasps. “You make me hard, you spike my arousal, and you make it impossible for me to think straight whenever I’m around you.” I move my hand up the column of her neck to her jaw, where I hold her in place, her pulse racing against my hand. “Know that whenever I see you, I’m not thinking about baseball or my career, but instead, trying to stop myself from fucking you.”

I pass my thumb over her plump lips and then turn her head to press a soft kiss against her cheek. On her sigh, I turn her head a little bit more so I can press a kiss to the corner of her mouth. Her hands fall behind her and grip my hips, holding her in place as I turn her head just one more inch. I hover there, both our bodies vibrating with need, the need between us so palpable that it almost feels as if the air is choking me. I lick my lips, and she mirrors me. The temptation is drawing me forward.

One taste.

That’s all.

Just one single press of my lips against hers.

I grip her jaw tighter.

But I hesitate, knowing if I take her mouth the way I want to, I won’t stop. I’ll want more, and not just one night, I’ll want many.

Still gripping her tightly, I practically growl when I say, “Get your perfect ass out of here before I do something we’ll both regret.” I release her and shift away, turning my back to her, hands on the counter. The tension in my back rolls like waves as I wait for her to leave.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she walks up behind me and places her hands on my waist.

I steel myself, wondering what she’s going to do.

She slides her hands around to the front of my pants, where my straining erection waits. Her fingers glide over the tip, wet from precum. I hiss out a breath and warn her, “Kate. Leave. Now.”

She doesn’t say anything. She dips her hand past the waistband of my sweats and grips my cock, wrapping her small, firm hand around it.

“Fuck,” I groan, my chin falling to my chest as my teeth grind together. “Kate . . .”

She grips me tight but doesn’t move her hand. “Don’t fucking tease me again,” she hisses. “Don’t act like you’re about to kiss me and then don’t. You know I want you, you know this passion I have doesn’t seem to be evaporating, so don’t dangle yourself in front of me and then take it away, or else I’m going to do the same thing.” She squeezes me even tighter and then moves her hand down my length and all the way back up, slow and long strokes.

Christ. Every part of my body tingles, my veins pumping with need, my heart hammering rapidly.

“Your cock is perfect, Walker.” She presses a kiss to my back. “Thick, long.” Another kiss. My muscles twitch under her touch. “I can practically feel it between my legs.” Her tongue glides up my spine and then pauses. “Too bad I’ll never know what it really feels like.” She releases me, and I give a loud moan of protest.

With a sway to her hips, she walks out of the kitchen with her coffee, grabs her bag, and heads toward my front door while I stay hammered in place, my eyes tracking her every movement.

When she reaches for the door, she looks over her shoulder, her eyes determined. “Next time you try to get intimate, you better go all the way. No more fucking around, Walker.”

My voice hoarse, my legs wobbly, I call out, “It’s not going to happen, Kate.”

“Then this ends here. No more.”

“No more,” I echo, even though my body is begging me to reconsider.

Chapter Fifty

KATE

“No more.” His strained voice echoes in my head as I make a fumbling attempt to open the door. In my struggles, my coffee slips out of my hand.

It crashes to the floor, spilling its contents across the stark concrete flooring.

“Shit,” I mutter, bending at the knees and pulling tissues out of my purse to soak up the creamy liquid, but my tissues are no match. I’m about to sulk back to the kitchen when Walker’s large frame squats down next to me with a roll of paper towels.

I don’t look up. I don’t bother to even see if he’s mad. Instead, I take a few squares from the roll and continue to clean up. In silence, we finish soaking up every last drop, and then I take my wad of wet towels to the kitchen and throw them away, along with my empty cup. I wash my hands in the sink, dry them off, and turn to leave, but I stop short before walking into Walker, who’s blocking my path with his commanding body.

Unable to look him in the eyes, I say, “If I got anything on your rug, I can replace it.”

“You’re not replacing my rug,” he says, his voice stern.

“Your call.” I go to move past him, but he stops me with his hand to my stomach.

“I don’t tease you, Kate.”

I finally look at him, meet his gaze, and what I’m met with takes my breath away. Tortured eyes look back at me. Pained past their limit, I can practically feel the anguish racing through them.

“I don’t make it my mission to touch you. It just happens. I don’t attempt to turn you on only to walk away. I can barely control myself when I’m around you.” His hand moves up my body to my chin, which he cups. “I’ve never met anyone like you before, someone who looks through my exterior and attempts to understand my heart.” He shakes his head. “I’m not sure you can comprehend the magnitude of that.”

He’s wrong, though. I can comprehend it, because I feel the same. But I’m speechless. The depth of sorrow in his eyes. I do understand you, Walker.

His hand sweeps up to my cheek. “You get me, you understand the core of me unlike anyone else. And that—that’s hard to ignore.” His thumb drags over my cheek. “That’s hard to let go of.”

It’s why I’m here. I don’t want to walk away from this man.

I don’t want to lose someone who feels like part of my soul.

He closes the space between us, and my heart catches in my chest as he tilts my head up, his hand falling to my jaw, holding me in place as he lowers his mouth to mine. An inch away, he says, “I tried to keep away, Kate. I fucking tried.”

I wet my lips as I reach out and hold his hip to steady my wobbly legs.

“I wanted you to walk out that door just now. I wanted to be strong and tell you that I didn’t need this.” He shakes his head. “But it’s all a goddamn lie.” And then his mouth crashes down on mine, pulling all the air from my lungs.

His other hand floats up my back, up my neck, and into my hair. His strong, calloused fingers dig into my scalp, while his mouth is relentless. His lips float over mine, open and close, drugging me with lust, with yearning . . . with the want of so much more.

After a few seconds, I allow myself to touch him, to feel him, to run my hands up his unbelievably defined abs and brawny pecs. He groans into my mouth as my thumb connects with his nipple, so I do it again. The sensation causes him to push me up against the wall, angle my mouth a little more, and demand more from me with the swipe of his tongue to my lips. I part my mouth and a wave of butterflies erupts from the depths of my stomach as our tongues clash and our hands wander.

“I need you,” he whispers when his mouth leaves mine and moves up my jaw.

I grip the back of his head, my head lolling to the side. “I need you more,” I say.

He mutters something unintelligible as his hands fall to my waistband, and in one smooth motion, he drags my leggings and my thong to the floor. I kick off my flats, and he strips off my pants and thong, tossing them to the side. As if I weigh nothing, he picks me up and carries me to his dining room table, where he lays me across the cool surface and props up my legs. Taking a seat in front of me, treating me like I’m his next feast, he parts my pussy with both hands and then buries his head between my legs, his tongue stroking across my clit.

“Oh fuck,” I cry as my senses are taken over by the sudden attack of lust that has come over the both of us. All intelligent reasoning flies out the door and our need takes over. There’s no worry, there’s no push and pull; instead, we’re giving. We’re giving each other everything we’ve wanted to give since that first night.

No more five seconds.

No more stopping.

No more denying ourselves.

There’s nothing between us, nothing blocking us from taking exactly what we want.

It might be stupid, but in the moment, I don’t care. I just want this connection. It feels right. It feels deserved. It feels like I was always meant to be here.

All I care about is the rough scruff of his jawline scraping against my inner thigh, contradicting the soft, wet, flicks of his tongue as he holds me in place.

“Yes, Walker, right there,” I say, sifting my hand through his hair as my orgasm builds and builds at the base of my spine. Pulling, tugging, contracting every muscle in my body, every feeling, every sensation seems to be diverting to one spot, the spot where Walker is spending all his time.

Flick after flick, my body tightens and I brace myself as I feel myself start to float to the edge, my orgasm so close that I can touch it.

“I’m going to come,” I say, ready to tip over the edge, but he pulls away. “Walker,” I shout, surprising even myself. I open my eyes to find his hair a mess from my hand, his lips wet, and a dazed look on his face. “What are you doing?”

“Counting to ten.”

“Why?” I breathe so heavily I feel as if my lungs might burst out of my chest.

“I want you to be desperate for my tongue, so when this is over, you never want any other tongue tasting your sweet cunt.”

My head falls back, and I will myself not to fall over the edge from his words. I take a few deep breaths and when I think I have things under control, he parts me again, flattens his tongue, and drives it against my clit.

One stroke.

My stomach tugs.

Two strokes.

My vision goes dark.

Three strokes, and my mouth opens as if to scream, but nothing comes out as my pussy contracts and convulses against Walker’s tongue. “Oh fuck, Walker,” I finally shout out as wave after wave of pleasure hits me so hard that my legs tighten around his head, and I hold on for dear life as I come harder than I ever have before.

Chapter Fifty-One

WALKER

Watching Kate orgasm on my tongue is the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever experienced, second to the sounds that fell past her lips.

Fuck, and the way she tastes, so sweet. I could spend hours between her legs, exploring with just my mouth, but I feel as though I’m on borrowed time, which means I need so much more.

I pull her up by her hand—her eyes are dazed, and there’s a sated smile on her face—and I lift her sweater over her head and unhook her lace bra. When I toss both garments to the side, I help her to her feet and sit back down in my chair, where I spend some time looking over her curvaceous body. Her tits are large, a little more than a handful for the average man, but I’m not average, and I know they’ll fill my palms perfectly. Her hips curve out, giving her that sweetheart frame that I fucking go crazy over whenever she’s around. She’s so goddamn sexy and I don’t even think she knows it.

“I love your curves,” I say, dragging my hands over her hips.

“I used to hate them,” she admits.

I take her hand in mine and pull her onto my lap. She sits directly over my aching erection and smiles as she starts to casually move her hips back and forth. My hands land on her ass, helping guide her.

“Why? They’re so fucking sexy.”

“I’ve never been the rail-thin girl, but I once thought I needed to be.”

“Fuck . . . no,” I say as my cock slips past the waistband of my sweats and pokes up my stomach. Her hand finds my length and she grips the tip tightly. “Your body is easily the sexiest I’ve ever seen.”

“Thank you,” she says softly before leaning forward to place a kiss on my chest. I lean back in my chair and reach out to cup one of her breasts. Heavy, round, fucking perfect, just as I expected. Her lips trail across my collarbone and down to one of my pecs, and then her mouth goes to my nipple and she flicks her tongue across the flat disc.

“Hell, babe,” I mutter, rubbing my thumb over her nipple.

Her hand grips my cock tighter as her hot mouth travels to my other pec and flicks across my nipple. I’ve never been one to pay attention to my nipples, but hell, having Kate give them some love is only making me harder. “I’ve wanted to taste them, suck them, since the first time I saw these, Walker,” she murmurs, as if speaking to herself. God, she’s sexy. Taking what she wants.

She slips down my body, placing kisses down my chest, down my abs, and then . . . her mouth hovers above the exposed tip of my cock. I hold my breath, hoping and praying I get to feel what it’s like to be in her mouth.

She tugs on my sweatpants and I help her take them off my body and toss them with her abandoned clothes. She kneels on the ground in front of me. I spread my legs wide, slouch in my chair, and reach out to her hair. I loosen the hair tie and let her hair drape over her shoulders and down her back.

“Stunning,” I say, pushing her hair behind her ear so I can see her beautiful face as she takes me in.

Her hands travel up my thighs to my straining cock and position it at her mouth. But she doesn’t suck me in. She holds me there, so I can feel her breath across the tip, enticing me, teasing me. And hell, I soak it all in because I’m living in this moment. This moment where Kate is kneeling between my legs, looking up at me as if I’m the only goddamn man she has ever wanted.

She wets her lips, then opens her mouth and sucks me in, but just the tip.

“Fuck,” I groan from how warm her mouth is, how strong her suck is, while her other hand pumps me.

Her tongue swirls around the head, over and over again, creating a dizzying effect in my head as I try to comprehend the many sensations running through me.

The pump of her hand.

The squeeze of her fingers.

The wet of her mouth.

The sway of her breasts against my legs.

Everything is turning me on.

Everything is bringing me closer and closer to release, and within seconds, I feel my body start to enter the no-stopping zone.

But this isn’t how I plan on coming, not with me in her mouth.

I pull away and force her to look at me. “I want your pussy,” I say. “I want to come in it. I want to claim it. I want you to know that even though I can’t have it, that cunt of yours is mine.”

Her eyes widen but she doesn’t have time to say much because I’m out of my chair and scooping her up in my arms to walk her back to my bedroom.

The morning sun lights the way and when I reach the bedroom, I’m glad I didn’t pull back the curtains yet, because it’s dim, but also bright enough that I can see every piece of her. I lay her down on the center of my bed and then kneel on the mattress. I grip my cock and give it a few strokes while I stare down at her glistening pussy.

“Sucking me off turned you on.”

Her hands smooth over her breasts as she wiggles against the cool silk of my sheets. “Yes.”

“You’re ready for me?”

She nods.

“And you want this.” I lower to the bed, spread her legs, and climb between. “You want my cock, bare.”

She wets her lips. “I’m on birth—”

“I don’t give a fuck, Kate. I need your pussy, nothing between us. I need to know that you want the same.” I haven’t been with anyone in nearly two years, so I know I’m clean. And I trust Kate. Implicitly. God, I hope she wants me the same way.

She swallows hard. “So bad, Walker. I want it so bad.”

That’s all I need to hear. I move deeper between her legs, position my cock at her entrance, and then slowly work my way inside of her. On the first push, she gasps. On the second, she relaxes, and on the third . . . she fucking smiles.

“So good,” she sighs while moving her hands up to her hair and gathering it all together, pushing it to one side. I lean over her and lower my head to her breasts. I take one in my mouth for the first time and suck on her nipple, making it come to a point. I nibble on it, lick it, and then nibble again. In total contentment, she weaves her hand through my hair, and after a few seconds, she lifts my head to her mouth and brings my lips to hers.

And she kisses me.

She kisses me unlike anyone has ever kissed me before.

Full of passion, of desire, of want.

But want on a deeper level. She’s so fiercely independent. She’s taken the time to know me. And I can’t help but feel certain that she doesn’t want me for my paycheck or my status. Despite knowing the worst about me, I think she wants me for the man that I am, flaws and all. And she’s showing that in the way her hand links around my neck, how she holds me close. And I know what I feel—that I never want to be apart from her.

So, I don’t.

As I rock into her, I keep my mouth plastered to hers and kiss her.

I fucking kiss this woman, releasing all my pent-up frustration, forgetting the consequences, determined to feel instead.

My hips automatically fall into a lazy rhythm, pulsing in and out, and I’m starting to realize as her tongue plays with mine that we aren’t fucking. There’s no urgency. Rather, we’re making love. And fuck if I would ever point that out, but that’s what it feels like. We’re connecting on a deeper level, we’re letting ourselves feel more than just the carnal aspect of sex— we’re molding ourselves into one.

“I love your lips,” I say, making small kisses up her jaw and back down.

“I love yours,” she says, bringing my mouth back to hers. Her lips smooth across mine, exploring, owning, claiming.

I open my mouth and tangle my tongue with hers, dance with them, spurring on the deep, stirring feeling in my groin. I move one of my hands to her breast and start to squeeze it, not hard, but just enough that she writhes beneath me.

“Yes,” she says softly as she props her feet up on the mattress, bending her knees and offering a slightly different angle. “Just like that, Walker,” she encourages as my hips pick up the pace.

“Keep talking to me, babe. Tell me what you need. What you want.”

“You, just you, Walker.”

Bracing one hand by her head, I pick up my pace even more as I bring my mouth back to hers. Primal desire springs between us as our lips clash, our tongues collide, and our moans meet together in harmony, our orgasms building.

Kate grows tense beneath me, her kisses becoming shorter, more succinct as her breathing picks up. Her hands travel over my pecs and to my shoulders, and her fingers dig in just as her mouth releases mine. I lean in to her neck, kissing her, sucking at her skin along the length of her collarbone.

She lets out a long moan as I push harder inside her.

“Oh God, Walker. Yes, again.”

I want to be in charge, but my hips have a mind of their own, following the commands of the sensual woman beneath me. I move my mouth back to her breast while gripping the other. At the same time, I pinch her nipple and thrust hard into her. Her back arches and her mouth opens, but no noise comes out.

My mouth falls open, too, as I feel her pussy start to contract around my cock.

Ah hell, that’s tight.

I let go of her breasts, take her hands in mine, and pin them above her head, then lower my mouth to hers again and demand more kisses as I pound into her. My hips work at a frenzied pace, thrust after thrust, plunging into her.

“Yes, yes . . . yes,” she says. “Oh fuck, Walker . . . I’m coming,” she yells as her pussy squeezes around my dick so goddamn tight that my vision turns black and I see nothing, only feel and hear this intoxicating woman.

White-hot pleasure pulses through my veins as my balls tighten, my cock swells, and on one last pulse, I come violently inside her. I hold her hips close to mine, rocking out our orgasms until there’s nothing left, and I collapse on top of her, out of breath, legs shaking, and cock completely satisfied.

“Fuck,” I mutter, trying to gain my bearings but failing miserably.

Her hands slowly rub over my back, up and down, her fingers doing most of the work. I bury my face in her neck and press small kisses to her heated skin.

“Walker.”

“Hmm?” I ask, feeling my brain start to drift off from how damn comfortable I am.

“That . . . hell, that just ruined me.”

Mustering my strength, I lift up just enough to look her in the eyes. “Kate, you just destroyed me.” And I loved every fucking minute of it. I never want this to end.

She cups my cheek and slowly brings my mouth to hers. She presses a soft kiss to my lips. “I don’t think I’ll ever get over you.”

“Same.” I swallow hard. “Same, Kate.”

Chapter Fifty-Two

KATE

Tears well in my eyes as Walker lowers his head back down to my neck and casually kisses my skin, reminding me how much of a softy this man with a hard exterior really is. He isn’t the man he portrays himself to be. He isn’t the man everyone dislikes, nor should he be labeled the least-liked player in baseball. Because if people took the time to see beneath the surface—if he allowed that—they’d actually meet a very different man. He’s not egotistical and aloof. I suspect now that he’s guarded and tortured. “I’ve never forgiven myself for letting Penn take care of her, and I’ve never forgiven him for sending her off that night.”

But he’s such a good, good man. If people got to know him, if they saw what I see, they very well might have tears in their eyes, as well.

I thought I was struggling to let him go because I was crushing on him. Because he was forthright with me—he wanted me fiercely but was also trying to protect me. I haven’t been crushing. I’ve been falling for him, and falling for him hard. No one has ever shown such determination to care for me. Has made me feel so beautiful. Treasured.

Still inside of me, he lies on top of me, his weight propped up by one of his arms so he doesn’t crush me. As he continues to kiss me softly and stroke his fingers over my arm, I run through the moments leading up to what we just did.

The vulnerability in his eyes.

His confession.

The way he commanded my body.

The way he worshipped it.

His love for my curves.

The way he brought me to orgasm with his tongue.

The way he felt in my mouth.

The demanding way he took us both to the edge and then catapulted us over.

It was raw, visceral, and taxing. So many emotions flowed through me—from truly elated, to utter lust, to now . . . worried.

Because what happens now? Now that I’ve had a piece of him, what happens?

Would he even want anything after this? Is this it for him?

It should be the end for both of us, but for the life of me, I don’t want to let go.

More tears sting my eyes and I try to hold them back, but it’s no use. I sniffle, revealing myself, and Walker quickly lifts up and catches sight of the first wave of tears as they cascade down the side of my face.

He doesn’t say anything, because he doesn’t have to—he knows what these tears are for. Instead, he reaches up and he wipes them away with his thumbs. Then, he slowly pulls out. He scoops me up in his arms and takes me to the bathroom, where he sets me on the counter. He turns on his shower—a dream wrapped in marble with multiple showerheads and an automatic temperature gauge. After a few seconds, he opens the shower door and carries me in with him. The water is already hot. Looking down at me, he wipes at my eyes again and then guides me into the water.

Quietly, he washes me from head to toe with his soap, gently working up a lather and then rinsing it away. “So beautiful, Kate. So, so sweet,” he whispers. But I’m still too emotional to talk, so I lean in and kiss his chest, holding there for a moment so he knows where I’m at. He’s quick with washing his body, and when we’re done, he turns the shower off and wraps us up in fluffy towels. I allow him to take care of me, to dry me off and slip me into one of his shirts. After he puts on another pair of sweatpants, he leads me to his bed. He leans against the headboard and moves me to his lap.

He lifts up his phone and kisses my shoulder as he types out a text. I don’t read it, but I do catch a few words like delivery and pancakes. All the while, he’s smoothing his hand over my back, kissing me every chance he gets, and telling me how beautiful I am.

It does nothing to staunch my tears. When he sets his phone down, he wraps his arms around me and holds me tight, the warmth of his embrace making me even more emotional, because I want this. I want him.

I want this moment, me in his arms, wearing his shirt, but with nothing to worry about . . . like work.

Crap.

I sit up and wipe at my face. “I—I have to get to work.”

“Spend the day with me,” Walker says, his determined eyes meeting mine.

“Walker, you know I can’t.”

“You can. Tell them you’re helping me with some outreach program.”

“Walker—”

“Please?” he asks, his voice cracking as his fingers glide over my cheek. “Please, Kate. I need just one day with you as mine.”

“The ball . . . they might need help with that.”

“Ask Vivian.” He cups my face. “I don’t ask for anything . . . ever, but I’m asking for this. Please spend this day with me. Give me one day and then I’ll let go of you. Please.”

The pleading in his eyes and the soft touch of his calloused fingers drive me to climb off his lap and head into the living room in search of my phone. Our scattered clothes are draped all over the kitchen and my purse is on the floor by the door. I retrieve my bag and sift through it for my phone.

I know there isn’t much left to do for the ball, because we’ve been working hard on it the past two weeks, and Audrey is the type of boss who likes every event completed early so we aren’t scrounging around to get things done at the last minute. My day was going to be slow anyway, and it’s why I was heading into work late.

I don’t see an issue with taking the day off, besides the fact that I’ll be spending it with Walker and falling for this man more and more.

I dial Vivian and head out onto his balcony for some privacy.

“Hey, girl, what’s going on?” Vivian asks. “Are you stuck in traffic too? I called Audrey, and she said to take my time, as not much is happening in the office.”

“Um, I was wondering if you thought I could ask Audrey for the day off.”

“Are you okay?” Vivian asks. “Your voice is all shaky.”

Tears spill over my eyelashes and I take a deep breath before speaking. “Yeah, just not feeling super great,” I lie, because even though Vivian knows, I don’t want to tell her the truth.

“Are you hungover?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“I mean, if you’re not feeling well, you know Audrey will give you the day off, especially with how hard you’ve been working lately and all the extra hours you’ve been putting in. Shoot her a text, that’s what I do and she’s always understanding.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“Are you sure everything is okay?”

No.

It’s not okay.

I press my lips together and look up at the sky, wishing I could change all the circumstances.

“Yeah, just need a day.”

“Understandable. Okay, well, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

We hang up and I quickly text Audrey. As I wait for her response, I listen to the sounds of the city moving at a fast pace below. The El train squeaking by, the horns of cars trying to make their way through the streets, the occasional person yelling—it’s nothing like New York City, but has the same vibe. My phone buzzes in my hand and I look down at Audrey’s message.

Audrey: Take the day, you deserve it. We got everything covered.

Once again, tears stream down my cheeks as I let out a heavy breath. Maybe she’s right—I do deserve this day off, and not just to enjoy time off, but because I deserve a moment with this man. I deserve a day where I can simply soak him in, pretend he’s mine. Because even if I left, I would be feeling the same way, at a loss. At least if I spend the day with him, I can soak up as much as I can before experiencing the devastating feeling of leaving him once more.

I type back a quick thank you and then prepare myself to walk back into his apartment. You’re giving yourself a day with him and then that’s it. Soak it in, stop being an emotional mess, and live in the moment.

I walk back into the apartment and come to a stop when I see him leaning against the wall, his arms crossed, making his built chest pop even more. Slowly he raises his head, his expression making it clear he’s prepared for bad news.

Setting my phone down on the dining room table, I walk toward him and smooth my hands up his chest. His arms wrap around me, his hands finding their way under my shirt to grip my bare ass.

“I’m yours for the day.”

His eyes turn darker as he swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Mine?” he asks, his voice full of awe.

I nod. “Yours.”

His hands drag my shirt up and over my head and he tosses it to the ground. “Then you don’t need this.”

He lifts me up and takes me back to his bedroom again, where he lays me across his dreamlike sheets. He removes his sweatpants, already showing off how hard he is, and he stretches his body next to mine. His hand falls to my breast. With his finger, he draws a figure eight pattern slowly around them, causing my nipples to pucker and my legs to fall open immediately.

Quietly, he says, “Thank you,” just before placing a kiss on my cheek and then moving to my ear. “I needed this, Kate. This time with you. Thank you.”

I cup his cheek and force him to look at me. “Just today.”

“Just today,” he repeats. “But you have to give me all of you. No holding back.”

“Walker . . . I’ve given you all of me from the very beginning. It’s why I can’t stop coming back.”

“Which is why I probably can’t seem to let go.” He glides his hand down my stomach to between my legs, and I let them fall open even wider. I’m already wet, just from being near him. Seeing him naked and wanting me, it spurs me on, so when his fingers glide over my slit, his fingers slide with ease.

“Babe,” he breathes heavily. “You want me.”

“More than I think you know.”

“Then have me.” He rolls to his back and pulls me on top of him. “Have me any goddamn way you want.” He places his hands behind his head and stares up at me, waiting. It puts a smile on my face as I lift up and adjust his cock so it’s at my entrance, and then I sink down on him.

The corners of his lips lift as he lets out a long breath.

“Fucking perfection,” he mumbles, allowing me to take charge.

Living in the moment, I ask, “Is that a smile I see?”

His arms unfold from behind his head and he presses his hands into my thighs. “Yeah, because I’m happy. You make me happy, Kate.”

I swallow back the emotion that bubbles up inside me from his confession and rock my hips as I say, “You make me happy too, Walker.”

Really happy.

Chapter Fifty-Three

WALKER

“From the twelve-pack of your abs, I didn’t think you ate things like this,” Kate says while taking a large bite of her pancakes. “But my thighs definitely show that I do.”

She’s sitting on my lap, feeding the both of us because if she’s mine for the day, I’m not going to waste one second of it with her not being within touching distance.

“First of all, I don’t have a twelve-pack.”

She chuckles.

“And second of all, your thighs are fucking killer, babe. I love them.”

“You sure know how to make a girl feel good about herself.” She stabs some pancakes on our shared fork and brings them to my mouth. “You make me feel sexy, Walker.”

I chew, swallow, and then say, “It’s because you are sexy, Kate. I think at this point, you know I don’t say things just to say them. I mean everything that comes out of my mouth.”

“I’m aware.” She leans over and places a syrupy kiss on my lips.

After she rode me and we both came at the same time, I felt a crack in my chest, like she broke through another wall, a wall I wasn’t expecting to ever be broken through. I’m falling for her—I can feel it in my bones. I’m not only addicted, but I’m becoming totally and utterly useless where she’s concerned.

She’s unlike any woman I’ve ever met. She’s shameless—takes what she wants and does it with a smile. But also, her soul is warm, she’s understanding, she listens, and she feels what you feel. She’s captured me, and when I felt her crying earlier, I knew exactly why—she’s feeling the same way I am. We don’t want to let go, but we don’t know how to keep holding on either.

“I love when you kiss me like that.”

“Like what?” she asks, picking up some coffee and taking a sip.

“Like I belong to you. Like you can kiss me whenever you feel like. You don’t have to hide it. You don’t have to pretend.”

“I like it too.” She smiles a sweet smile, then picks up a piece of bacon and brings it to my mouth. “You need some protein, because if I get to have my wicked way with you today, you need to keep up on your nutrition.”

I chuckle. I know the sound makes her happy, not just from her mentioning it, but from the look of joy on her face. “You’re going to have your wicked way with me?”

She nods. “Oh yeah. I have plans for your penis.”

That makes me laugh even more. “Care to share what these plans are?”

“Not particularly. I prefer spur-of-the-moment sexual encounters, but I will say this—if I wasn’t worried about getting caught, I would one hundred percent ask you to fuck me on your balcony.”

My eyebrow raises. “Are you a dirty girl, Kate?”

“Not really.” She pinches my chin and brings my lips to hers. “But it seems as if you bring it out of me. You’ve awakened a sexual beast within.”

I twist my lips to the side, considering what she’s saying. “That could be a good thing and a bad thing.”

“Why do you say that?” Her brow pinches together.

“Because—it could be good for me, right here, right now, but what happens after today?”

“Oh, trust me, this sexual beast is only activated by you.”

“Yeah?” I smooth my hand over her thigh. “Tell me more about that.”

“It’s never been like this with anyone else, Walker,” she says, her tone more serious. “And I know after today, it won’t be like this with anyone else. You’re different. You’re special. You make me feel beautiful.”

“Because you are.”

She sets our fork down and rests her head on my chest, cuddling in close. I hold her tight and kiss the top of her head.

“Do you ever think about where we came from?”

“What do you mean?” I ask. “Like . . . our childhood?”

She shakes her head against my chest, her hair tickling under my chin. “No. I mean, our friendship, relationship, where it’s come from. Honestly, if someone would’ve told me I’d be naked in Walker Rockwell’s apartment one day, I would’ve told them they were insane. Especially after our first meeting when you were such a grump. I don’t go for grumps. Ever. I go for the fun, outgoing guy.”

“Well, you’re all kinds of my type,” I say.

She groans. “And then you go and say something like that and make me look like an asshole.”

I laugh and stand from the dining room chair, leaving the dishes behind.

“Where do you think you’re taking me?”

“Where do you think?” I look her in the eyes.

“Are you going to fuck me again?”

“Yeah . . . because like I said, you’re all kinds of my type.”

I DRAG my fingers up and down Kate’s spine as she curls her warm, soft body into mine. “Can I ask you something personal?” she asks.

“Go for it.”

“I’ve been curious what your relationship is like with your parents. You mentioned it being strained, but you’re also honoring your dad at the Firefighters Ball.”

“Yeah.” I blow out a heavy breath. “We haven’t spoken in quite some time, and I’d like to say it’s just on my end, but it’s on theirs, too. Our relationship kind of fizzled out after Dawn passed away.”

“Wasn’t that a long time ago?”

I nod. “Yeah, it was. We talk on occasion. On holidays and birthdays, but I can’t tell you the last time I saw them. I tried paying off their house, but they wouldn’t accept it. When I won the World Series for the first time, they called to congratulate me, but they weren’t there. I think when Dawn died, a little piece of them died as well.”

“That’s not fair to you, though; you’re still their son.”

“I know, but I don’t hold it against them.” I shrug. “There’s no fixing that area of my life. My parents have turned into hermits and that’s how they choose to live their life.”

“Do they blame you for what happened to Dawn?”

“No, they’ve told me to my face and during family counseling that they didn’t think it was my fault. But a piece of me thinks they blame me.”

“That’s awful.”

“I blame myself though, so I can’t be mad at them for putting some of the responsibility on me.”

“Yes, you can. It was no one’s fault. Not even Penn’s.”

“Are you defending him?” I ask, growing angry from the mention of his name.

“No.” She smooths her hand over my chest. “I’m just saying, if anyone is to blame, it’s the drunk driver. That’s it. And it makes me sad that you’ve lost so many relationships over this. Dawn, your parents . . . Penn.”

“Penn was a relationship that was already nearly lost, but that was the final straw.” I wrap a strand of her hair around my finger. “Plus, my parents were never the overtly loving type. I knew they loved me, but they were never the type of parents to sit down and talk about feelings.” I let out a dry laugh. “Guess that transferred to me.”

“Just a little.” She presses her palm over my heart. “But when you’re comfortable, you do open up and I appreciate that about you.”

“You’re the only one I open up to.”

“Which makes me special, right?” she teases, but I take her seriously.

“Yeah, you’re fucking special, Kate.” I kiss the top of her head.

She snuggles in closer and says, “Tell me something I don’t know about you.”

“You don’t know a lot,” I answer.

“I know enough that I want to know more.” She kisses my chin, and fuck, it’s such a simple thing but it means everything to me. The small, intimate acts that I haven’t experienced in well . . . ever. I’ve had a few girlfriends here and there, but they haven’t even come close to touching the uninhibited depth that Kate and I have. We’ve connected on a much deeper level and I’m pretty sure I’ll never find anything else like it.

“Did you know I’m on the board of The Lineup?”

She lifts up to look at me, a crinkle to her brow. “Jason Orson on the Rebels? His charity?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re on the board?”

I nod. “Yeah, he approached me last year, and since the charity is near and dear to my heart, I joined him.”

“Does anyone else know that?” she asks.

“Just Jason and Roark.”

“Why don’t you say anything?”

I caress her cheek. “You should know the answer to that by now.”

“But Walker, that could help your case.”

I shrug. “No need to brag about it when I can do other things with you.”

“What else don’t I know?”

I give it some thought. “My tattoo—I got it after my sister passed away. It represents her and the things she loved, including baseball.”

Kate reaches down and strokes the ink on my rib cage. “I love that. I never got a tattoo in honor of my brother. I thought about it, but I think in the back of my mind, if I did get a tattoo, then it finally meant it was true. Real. Losing him. And I know it’s real, I’m not delusional, thinking Jordy will come back at some point. I know he won’t. But I guess I’m just not ready to shut the door on it, you know?”

“Makes sense. It felt final when I got this tattoo. Still don’t think I’ll ever get over what happened.”

“Me neither. You just grow to live with it.”

“Unfortunately, that’s the truth.” I lost my baby sister, my parents—eventually—and my soul. I had never known true loneliness until everyone was just . . . gone. I kiss the top of her head. “What about your family? You have your parents and older brothers, right? Are you still close to them?”

She smiles. “Yeah. I guess, we’re lucky in our loss. We grieved together. But it wasn’t a sudden death, Walker. We knew it was coming, so I guess we rallied around each other from the very start of his illness until the end. We try to celebrate his birthday together each year to make the memory of Jordy a fun one.”

I smile. I’m glad she has that. Has her family. Maybe that’s why she’s so confident. Strong. I want to know so much about her. What makes her who she is. “Tell me something about you I don’t know.”

“Do you want some dirt?”

I chuckle. “As if you have any.”

“Oh, I have dirt.”

“Lay it on me.”

She shifts, propping herself on her side and across my stomach, staring down at me. I prop one hand behind my head and place my other hand on her hip. I slip my fingers under her borrowed shirt so I can maintain skin-on-skin contact.

Smiling, she asks, “Did you know I’m the only girl in the office who doesn’t wear slippers around the halls?”

I stare at her for a few seconds and then let out a loud, raspy laugh. “That’s your dirt?”

“Uh, yeah. Everyone else is unprofessional besides me.”

“Or everyone else is smart besides you.”

She chuckles. “Maybe that. But I don’t know, I just feel more powerful, sexier in heels, and I would rather wear them around the halls of the offices just in case I run into anyone . . . you know?”

“Just anyone?” I ask, raising my brow.

She rolls her eyes. “Or, you know, ran into you. I mean, where would the sex appeal be if you ran into me and I was wearing a pencil skirt and slippers?”

“I would think you were fucking adorable.”

“Adorable or sexy, hmm . . . I’m pretty sure I would rather be sexy.”

“You’re sexy all the time. Being adorable every once in a while, only ups your charm.”

She smiles. “Who knew you were such a flirt, Walker Rockwell?”

“Only with you.”

She sighs. “I wish it could always just be with me.” She looks off to the side and says, “This all really sucks, you know?”

“I know.” I rub her side.

“This is the first job that I’ve actually enjoyed, that I don’t get sick to my stomach doing. When I was working at the hospital, I was reminded of the loss of my brother every day. I grew so ill every time I walked those halls. But here, working for the Bobbies, it feels like a fresh start. And I’m good at my job, better than I expected.”

“You are good at your job.” I let out a heavy sigh. “And I would never ask you to change that, to sacrifice your job for me.”

“I would never ask you to do that either,” she says softly, her fingers dancing over my chest. “It’s a really stupid rule, if you ask me. I mean, what does it hurt if we like each other?”

“Who fucking knows? They probably want people focusing on their jobs, not flirting with the players or staff.”

“You can have it both ways,” she groans. “Now I feel like pouting, and I don’t want to pout.”

“How about you tell me something strange about you? And make it more enthralling than the slippers.”

“Hey,” she says with a smirk, “that was enthralling.”

I just wait for her to continue.

“But if you must be entertained . . .” She taps her chin. “Something strange about me, umm . . . oh, I love putting ketchup on my chicken—I’ve heard that’s weird.”

“Ketchup on your chicken?” I grimace. “Why would you do that?”

She shrugs. “Why not? And sometimes, if I’m feeling really spicy, I take ranch dressing and ketchup, mix it together, and make Kranch.”

“Kranch?” I ask.

“Yup, it’s so freaking good. But that’s only on a special day.” She taps my chest. “Want to win me over? Buy me some ketchup and ranch, and I’m all yours.”

“If I knew it was going to be that easy, I would’ve done that a while ago.”

“No way. You would’ve denied your feelings to the very end.”

“I wish I could say that’s the truth,” I reply. “But you’d have worn me down. If it wasn’t for your beautiful heart, it would’ve been with those damn pencil skirts and heels clicking around the stadium that would’ve gotten to me.”

“Are you trying to make me emotional?”

“Nah.” I take her hand in mine and link our fingers together. “Just telling the truth.” I let out a deep sigh. “This has gotten heavy.”

“Yeah, and we shouldn’t be doing heavy right now. Not when—well, when this isn’t forever.”

My heart sinks just hearing the words, but I know they’re true. She said it herself—she loves her job. And I’m not ready to give up on mine.

Chapter Fifty-Four

KATE

“Fuck, Kate,” Walker says, holding on to my hair as my body presses up against the glass of the windows in his living room. “You close?”

“Yes,” I moan as I shift a little lower, giving him a better angle. “Right there, Walker. Harder, please, harder.”

He grunts and pulses his hips into me with more force, sending me against the window with more power. My tits slap against the cold surface and my legs start to tingle as my orgasm climbs up to my core.

“Shit, Kate, you’re so fucking good.” He smooths his hand over my ass and squeezes it tightly. That’s all it takes—my arousal spikes and I’m pushed over the edge, my body convulsing against Walker and the glass of the window.

Walker comes right along with me, his groans filling the quiet apartment as he pumps a few more times and then stills, gripping my ass so tightly that I know he’ll leave a mark, a mark that I’ll marvel at later on.

“Fuck,” he groans against my neck, kissing his way to my jaw. He turns my head and presses his lips to mine. “I’ll never get enough of your pussy . . . never. Or your ass.”

I chuckle and turn toward him, wrapping my arms around his neck. “I’ve never done it against a window. That was a first for me.”

“Did you like it?”

I nod. “Mmm, I did.”

“Good.” He kisses my nose and then slaps my ass. “Go get cleaned up and I’ll order us some dinner.”

“Burgers?” I ask with hope.

“Is that what you want?”

I nod. “I need something hearty. I’m pretty sure we’ve burned three thousand calories just from sex.”

“Best kind of exercise there is. Burger and fries, you got it.” He winks, and my heart trips in my chest as he walks toward the kitchen, naked and beautiful. I take a second to stare at his backside, thick and taut, a catcher’s ass. And his corded back—the way his muscles flex when he moves, he’s easily the sexiest man I’ve ever seen, especially when he looks over his shoulder like he does right now, eating me up with those dark eyes of his. “Get moving, or I might have to own that pussy again.”

“As if that’s a punishment,” I say, walking to the bathroom. I clean myself up and put on another one of his shirts. I stare at myself in the mirror and take in my appearance. My lips are swollen, my hair is a fluffy mess, and my cheeks are rosy from the exertion of being fucked hard.

And I look happy. Truly happy.

But hidden in my eyes, there’s a touch of darkness. Because I know what’s around the corner, I know what’s waiting for me tomorrow, and I’m dreading it. I’m dreading leaving him, cutting things off with him, moving on without his strong arms wrapped around me. Moving on with someone else.

God, the thought never crossed my mind until just now. He’s a public figure, so if he starts seeing someone, it’s going to be splashed all over. I can practically see the pictures scattered on Instagram right now. “The Bobbies Quiet Catcher Finally Makes a Catch of His Own.” Lame headline, but you know what I mean. It’s going to be painful to watch it unfold.

My anxiety starts to heighten, my chest grows tight, and I find it a little harder to breathe than before. Walker dating . . . God, it feels like my worst nightmare.

“Hey, everything okay?” Walker asks as he peeks into the bathroom.

“Yeah,” I gasp in response and then try to steady my breathing. “Yup.” I tack on a smile, but nothing gets past him, because he comes up to me, now with sweatpants on, and pulls me into a hug.

“I can’t stop thinking about tomorrow either.” He kisses the top of my head. “Maybe we can make something work.”

I shake my head against his chest. “You and I both know that’s not going to work. Plus, I don’t want to hide my relationship. I want to be able to go on dates. I want to be able to hold your hand in public, claim you as mine. That’s never going to happen if I date you. You’re high profile. People aren’t just going to not notice you.” I take a deep breath. “It is what it is and I need to accept that.” I take a step back. “Actually, maybe it’s best if I just leave now.”

“Are you serious?” Walker asks, his brow turning down. “Just like that, you’re going to leave.”

“What’s the point of me staying?”

“To live in this moment just a touch longer.”

“Knowing that it’s a dead end?” I shake my head, regret starting to fill me by the gallon. “I never should’ve stayed in the first place. This was stupid.”

I try to move past him, but he stops me, hands on my shoulders. “Look at me.” When I keep my eyes turned down, he speaks more firmly. “Look at me, Kate.”

I raise my eyes to his.

“Do not regret a single moment of this day, do you hear me?”

“How can I not?” My eyes well with tears again. Damn it. “I’ve spent the entire day in a dreamlike state, in an alternate reality that can never become true. What was I thinking?”

“I don’t know,” Walker says, growing angry. “Maybe you weren’t thinking, maybe you were letting your heart do the talking.”

He pushes away from the doorframe, and guilt immediately swarms me as he retreats down the hallway toward the kitchen. He settles at the kitchen island, both hands gripping the hard marble, his back muscles tightening from the obvious tension in his shoulders.

Silence falls over the apartment as I stare at him from down the hall, watching him physically start to shut down. I can practically see him building a wall around himself, protecting himself from me.

And I hate that.

I hate everything about this.

But what I hate the most is even though my brain is telling me to do one thing, to walk out his door, my heart is sending my feet toward him. And when I reach him, I run my hands up his tense back and press a light kiss to his heated skin.

“I’m sorry, Walker. I’m just not handling this well.”

“Neither am I,” he says, turning around and taking my hands in his. “But, please, don’t take this day away. Please, Kate.”

His eyes are filled with pain, and I would do just about anything to erase that look, to make him smile again, to hear him laugh. So even though tomorrow will hold one of the most painful things I ever do—walk away from him—I’ll wait until tomorrow, because as long as I’m here, I’m going to soak him up.

“I won’t,” I say. I kiss his chest. “I promise, I won’t.”

“Thank you,” he says in relief. And then he tugs me toward the couch where we both take a seat. He has me sit on his lap once again, straddling his legs so I’m facing him. His hands go to my hips, underneath the shirt. “I don’t know why you keep putting this back on,” he says, tugging on the fabric.

“You can’t possibly expect me to walk around naked.”

“Why not?” he says with a small grin.

“Because then your cock would be inside me every second.”

He chuckles. “Nothing wrong with that, Kate.”

“Says the guy with the most stamina I’ve ever known.”

“That’s what happens when you don’t ever have sex, have some pent-up adrenaline, and a hot girl who lets you take off her shirt.”

I tilt my head to the side. “You haven’t had sex in a while?”

“You can’t tell?”

“I mean, I just thought you were, you know, a horny athlete.”

“I am that.” His hands move up my waist. “But I also don’t have time to meet anyone, nor do I really want to.”

“You don’t have one-night stands?”

“Not in a while.”

“Ohhh,” I tease, “but you have had them. Do you make the girls sign some sort of NDA before you give them the good dick?”

“Jesus, don’t call it that.” He chuckles. “And no, I’ve never had anyone sign anything, even though Roark would want it.”

“So, it’s a real thing, a sex NDA.”

He nods. “Oh yeah, very much a real thing.”

“Maybe I should’ve made you sign a sex NDA,” I say, teasingly. “Avoid all that locker room talk.”

He frowns. “You know that’s not my style.”

“I’m just teasing. I know you’d never say anything to anyone.”

“I wouldn’t, ever.” His hands float higher up my stomach.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I ask with a grin.

“Working my way up to the goods.” His thumbs graze the underside of my breasts, and somehow, my body heats up all over again. I honestly didn’t think it was possible to have this much sex, but with every flirtatious stroke from him, I’m proven wrong. “Has anyone ever told you that you have fantastic tits?” He strokes me again and my head falls to the side. God, is that really all it takes?

“Just my friend, Dan,” I say before I can stop myself.

Walker’s fingers pause as he asks, “Who’s Dan?”

Shit.

“Uh, someone I went to college with. He never saw my boobs, just . . . complimented them. I don’t know why I said that.”

I see him bite on his bottom lip and I’m afraid he’s going to stop, but then his fingers move up an inch and stroke, and this time he barely grazes my nipples.

“Walker,” I groan, my body waiting for his next stroke, but he pauses, and longer than I want him to.

“How about this? For everything you tell me about yourself, I’ll stroke these luscious tits of yours. Start with this Dan guy—do you still talk to him?”

His thumbs are poised at my nipples and the air feels electric as I wait for him to pass over my hardened nubs.

“We do,” I answer. “But just as friends. He helped me get this job. He means a lot to me.”

He strokes his thumbs across my nipples.

“Romantically, does he mean anything to you?”

My eyes lazily open. “Jealous?”

“Yes,” he answers.

“Don’t be. It’s not like that between me and him.”

He swipes his thumbs over my sensitive skin again and I start to throb with need. “I know you can’t be mine, and I know this is fucked up, but I don’t want you to be anyone else’s, either.”

I stare at him. “I thought the same thing about you.”

His fingers now grip my nipples and roll them, pulling a hiss from me as my head falls back.

“You know exactly what to say to make me want you even more.” He shifts, and I feel his hard-on between my legs. How this man can get it up so many times in one day, I’ll never know . . . I also will never tire of it. “When you’re with someone else, will you think of me?”

“I won’t be with someone else,” I say, the admission ringing true. He rolls my nipples, and the heat in my body turns up a notch. I reach for the hem of my shirt and pull it over my head. Then I lift up from his lap, drag his pants down just enough, and then sink down on his cock.

“Fuck . . . yes,” he mumbles, his head falling back. “Jesus, Kate, you’re so goddamn warm and tight.”

My hands fall to his chest to brace myself as I slowly pump up and down. “It’ll never be like this with anyone else, Walker,” I say, tipping his chin up and looking him in the eyes. “Never.”

His expression goes soft as he loops his hand behind my neck and brings my mouth to his.

As his lips work over mine, I know deep in my soul how true my statement was. I can’t imagine ever feeling the way for someone else the way I feel about Walker.

Never.

“HOW DO you feel about baseball now?” I ask as we lie in Walker’s bed, naked. I’m curled against his side, hand on his chest, and his arm is looped around me, holding me tightly. I’m not sure what time it is, but what I do know is I can’t fall asleep, not when I still have a few more hours with him.

“I think I’m starting to find my groove again.”

“It was the socks.”

He chuckles. “Keep telling yourself that.”

“I will. And when you’re inducted into the Hall of Fame one day, I’m going to sit back and tell everyone it was because I told you to raise your socks.”

“Ah, I’ll never hit the Hall of Fame.”

“What? Of course you will. You’re too hard on yourself, Walker. You hit a home run in a game and you’re still grumpy to the on-field correspondent.”

“Because what does a home run matter if we still lose?”

There’s great logic in his statement, and it’s obvious he’s a team player, which is funny, because he’s not outgoing when it comes to his team. Very reserved, very closed off.

“You could still smile just a little.” I poke his side and he chuckles.

“I’ll smile when we win another World Series.”

“Tell me about that.” I stroke my finger down his stomach, and his abs ripple under my touch. “What does it feel like to win the World Series? Like an orgasm?”

He laughs. “No, not like an orgasm. It feels like someone unlatches a floodgate of relief. Like this thing you’ve been working toward your entire career finally happens, and it hits you, this great sense of relief. It’s over. You accomplished it. Only for that buildup to happen again the next season with no relief in sight.”

“Man, sounds like a good career choice. Nothing like a daily dose of anxiety to get your gears grinding.”

“It’s all I’ve ever known. I’ve grown accustomed to the pressure. Feels like everyday life at this point.” He strokes me softly. “It’s why today was so important to me. A chance to be normal for a second. To forget all the demands and just relax.” He kisses the top of my head. “Thank you.”

“You don’t need to thank me, Walker. I wanted this just as much as you did.” I reach up and kiss his chin. “So, would you say this was your perfect day?”

“Yeah, easily. Probably my best day in a really long time. I spend so much fucking time training and being in and out of the locker room with the guys. I grow tired of the masculine banter, the talk of baseball, Penn being so fucking snarky. When I’m in baseball mode, it’s hard to get out of it. It’s hard to take a step back and enjoy life outside the game. It’s one of the reasons why I’m secretly jealous of the guys on the team who have wives or girlfriends. Those relationships offer them an escape. And now I understand why. This day alone has energized me.”

“You mentioned Penn—do you think you two will ever get along?”

He shakes his head. “No. Never. I’ve zero respect for the man. He’s a waste of talent and the reason . . .” His voice fades as he takes a deep breath. “No, we’ll never be friends.”

“Were you ever friends?”

“Maybe at some point, we got each other. We understood each other. But I never called him up to hang out. We ran in the same circle, so we were always around each other. That’s how he knew Dawn as well. We grew up in a small town, so it was hard not to hang out with each other.”

“Makes sense.” I nod. “Is Penn the only one you don’t get along with on the team?”

“Yeah, everyone else is pretty cool. I’m closest with Ryot.”

“I’ve noticed that.” I chuckle lightly. “I love Ryot’s Instagram stories of him zooming in on you when you’re brooding in the cafeteria.”

“What?” he asks, surprised.

“Did you not know about that?”

“No.” He drags his hand over his face. “I’m going to kill him.”

“Don’t. It’s really funny. He always has one of those stupid emojis dancing on your head. Literally makes my day.”

“Glad you can find humor at my expense.”

I poke his side. “Don’t get all cranky on me.”

“I might need convincing.”

I prop myself up and ask, “And what could I possibly do to convince you to not get cranky?”

He reaches out and tweaks my nipple. “Blow job wouldn’t be a bad option.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re such a fool.” And then I lower my body to between his legs and take his growing erection in my hand. “You realize, if you wanted me to blow you, all you had to do was ask? You didn’t have to pretend to be cranky.”

He props both of his hands behind his head and smirks down at me. “You’re facing the wrong way.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“You think I’m going to let you just blow me?” He shakes his head. “Nah, you need to sit on my face, babe.”

He doesn’t have to ask me twice.

“WHEN ARE YOU LEAVING?” Walker whispers.

I’m pulled tight against his chest, his arm is around my stomach, and he’s spooning me protectively, not allowing an inch in his hold.

“Probably in an hour or so,” I say. It’s four in the morning. I know this because I keep looking at the clock on the nightstand, counting down the hours until I have to remove myself from the fantasy.

“Please don’t sneak off. Let me say goodbye.”

“I won’t sneak off.”

“Promise?” He kisses my shoulder.

“Promise, Walker.”

He sighs and squeezes me even tighter. “Thank you for staying. I know saying goodbye will be painful, but I needed this.”

“I did too,” I admit, my eyes starting to sting with heartache.

“When you see me in the halls or at events, are you going to ignore me?” he asks, his breath sending tingles across my naked shoulder.

“I wouldn’t ignore you, but I would keep my distance out of fear that I might do something stupid, like touch you, hug you, or kiss you.”

“Are you worried I’m going to do something? Say something?”

I shake my head. “I know you’d never risk my job like that.”

“Never. I care about you too damn much.” He kisses my shoulder again and I squeeze my eyes shut, willing back the tears.

I care about him too . . . too damn much.

Chapter Fifty-Five

WALKER

I walk out of my bathroom, breath fresh, a pair of sweatpants hanging low on my hips, and a heavy heart tripping in my chest.

I didn’t sleep a second last night, knowing it was the countdown of having to let Kate go.

I’m not sure she did either. Early in the morning, I heard her sniffling and was tempted to talk to her about it, but what is there really to talk about? We’ve gone around in circles about it. She’s damn good at what she does. The Bobbies are lucky to have her on staff.

Also, who the hell knows what’s happening to me at the end of the season? Yeah, my bat has picked up and I’ve grown to have a better relationship with my manager, but that doesn’t mean much if someone dangles a younger catcher in front of the Bobbies front office. I’m not a Knox Gentry or a Carson Stone, staples on the Bobbies team, fan favorites. Nor am I a Penn Cutler, which I hate to admit, but he also has a solid relationship with not just the fans, but with our manager and the front office, despite what I perceive as his lack of dedication and focus.

I could be gone by the end of the season and shipped off to another state, far, far away from Kate. Starting something with her is pointless, even though I know, deep in my bones, that she’s the girl I’m meant to be with.

I felt it all yesterday. The ease of holding her in my arms, of talking to her about the difficult things in my life. I’ve never connected to someone so easily. I didn’t have to keep up the façade of hard and indifferent. Unsociable. I’m not a soft man, never will be, but I do feel as though Kate dug deep enough that she found the man I want to be. Kind. Giving. Generous. I felt as though she knows me, likes me. I felt it in her touch, in her kisses, in her willingness to hand over her body to me with no fear, no apprehension.

Fuck.

I head to the entryway of my apartment, where Kate is putting on her flats, wearing the same outfit that she wore yesterday when she first came into my apartment with coffee and a determination to apologize for something she didn’t need to apologize for.

As I walk toward her, I study her nervous movements. I check out her legs in her leggings, the curve of her hips, the way she fills out the top of her sweater, her wet hair from the quick shower she took while I was still lying in bed. She’s so goddamn perfect. Everything about her. But most importantly, her heart is what I’m falling for.

If only there were a way for us to be together . . .

She stands up and sighs as she makes eye contact with me. Her eyes well with tears and I immediately step up to her to catch them as they fall.

“Don’t cry.”

“I told myself to hold it together.” She shakes her head. “I can’t. I’m not strong enough where you’re concerned.”

I pull her into a hug and she wraps her arms around my waist.

“It’s just not fair,” she says. “I wasn’t supposed to grow attached to you. You were a broody asshole who never spoke. Who knew you were going to capture me with your heart?”

“Want me to go back to being a broody asshole?”

“No.” She laughs. “I just wish this weren’t what we had to do.”

“Me too.”

She pulls away and looks up at me with her tearstained face. “But this has to be it, Walker. No more sneaking off, no more days of just us, I can’t do this goodbye more than once. When I walk out of this apartment, it’s over.”

Fucking hell, when she puts it like that . . .

“Do you understand?” she asks.

My teeth grind together as I look away. I hate the finality in her voice. I hate the way she’s starting to pull away.

“Walker, I need you to understand.”

I drag my hand down my face. Frustration tumbles through me. “Yeah,” I breathe out. “I understand.”

Her hand falls to my chest. “Please don’t be mad at me.” Her eyes well up again.

“I’m not mad at you, Kate. I’m mad at the situation.”

“Well, don’t end this time with being mad.” Her hand glides up to my neck. “Please.”

She’s right. I have probably a few minutes left with her. I can be mad later. I need to focus on her now.

Letting out a frustrated breath, I try to push past my anger and be in the moment. With my hand on her hip, I gently push her up against the wall. Then I take her hands in mine and pin them on either side of her head. I lower my forehead to hers and just breathe for a few seconds, soaking in the space we share.

“What we have between us, it won’t fade, it won’t escape my mind over time.” I press a kiss to her cheek. “This will stay with me, stay in me.” I kiss her other cheek. “Yesterday, you branded me. You claimed me. I’m yours, Kate.”

Tears fall down her cheeks as I lower my mouth to hers and keep her pinned against the wall. My frenzied kisses match hers as we both try to soak up as much as we can in these last minutes before she walks out the door.

Frantic, our tongues dance, our mouths slide, our moans tangle together and then . . . we both slow down. I drop her hands and grip her cheeks. Her hands go to my waist and she pulls me closer.

An immense amount of emotion passes through me as I kiss this woman. Fear, anger, irritation . . . but the biggest one, the one that hits me harder than all of them—is love.

I fucking love this woman. I know I do.

It’s simple. She makes me a better person.

She understands me.

And she sees me.

No one has ever treated me the way that she does or given me the wholehearted attention that she has. She’s special, and I know I’ll never find another woman like her.

She releases my mouth and steps away from the wall, tears cascading down her cheeks. She wipes them away and takes a deep breath, moving another foot away from me toward the door.

My heart seizes in my chest, my feelings on the tip of my tongue.

Tell her you love her.

Tell her you’d do anything to be with her.

Tell her she’s the reason you don’t have the burning ache of losing Dawn searing through your chest anymore.

Tell her she’s meant to be with you.

But all those confessions fall flat as she picks up her purse and loops the strap over her shoulder.

Her hand grips the doorknob and she slowly looks up at me. Head tilted to the side, eyes glossy and red-rimmed, she says, “You’re incredible, Walker. And . . .” She gets choked up and shakes her head. “I’m going to miss being with you.”

Before I can reply, she heads out the door and shuts it behind her, as if to block me from chasing after her. Anger fills me up like an empty cup and I spin on my heel, pulling on my hair as I shout, “Fuck,” right before picking up a lamp and throwing it across the room. It slams into a wall and shatters to the ground.

Standing in the middle of my apartment, fists clenched, I stare down at the broken lamp and can’t help but see the resemblance to my own heart.

Broken.

Shattered.

Un-mendable.

I want to go after her.

I want to beg her to give us a chance. To keep it a secret until we can figure things out.

But I know there’s no use in it. There’s—

My phone rings in the other room, and out of pure desperation to see if it’s Kate calling, I run down my hall to my room and pick up my phone.

Hell.

Slumping on my bed, I take a seat and answer, “What?”

“I can see we’re in a good mood this morning.”

I drag my hand over my eyes. “Just get on with it, Roark.”

“Very good mood indeed.” He clears his throat. “So, I spoke with the general manager. Rumors have been surfacing about a trade with you to Phoenix.”

My body stiffens. “What? I thought you said they weren’t going to trade me.”

“That’s what I thought too,” he says. “But then I caught wind of some behind-the-scenes conversations.” My heart thumps in my chest and panic breaks out through my veins. My mind goes to Dawn and being torn away from her. I grew up south of Chicago, a two-hour drive away and not being close enough to visit her when I get the courage. And then I think about Kate, and not being able to see her walking through the stadium halls. I can’t have her, but at least I can see her. The thought of not . . . fuck, the pain runs deep.

“What did you hear?” I ask, hearing the panic in my voice.

“Phoenix is pursuing you. Offered a few pitching prospects and a monetary trade, as well.”

“Fuck,” I mumble. “Are they taking it?”

“Chuck Skaggs called me to let me know about the trade.” Fuck . . . fuck! “Asked where your head is at.”

“What?” I ask. “What do you mean where my head is at?”

“Seems as if the front office has been pleased with your recent turnaround and all-around composure on the field, minus a few clipped interviews. The fans ate up the apology to the water cooler, and they’ve been very happy with your performance lately. But they’re unsure about where you’re at mentally. You don’t have many years left in you. Three or four more seasons. They weren’t sure if you’re thinking retirement.”

“Fuck, no,” I say. “I’m not ready to retire. That was never my intention. Those were rumors that were spread by what I assumed was the front office.”

“Well, they wanted to know your level of commitment, because they want to sign you on for three more years with an option for one more year when the season is over, pending your performance at the end of the year, but they’re also willing to trade you if your head is elsewhere.”

“My head is here,” I say, faster than expected. “I don’t want to go anywhere.”

“That’s what I thought you were going to say but I wanted to check with you first. This is good, Walker. This means they want to make a commitment to you, and it’s not just because of what you do on the field—they said Hopkins has been impressed with your authority on the field and in the dugout, especially while handling Penn. Even though I know you hate it, you seem to be the only one who can push him to perform.”

“Fucking Penn,” I mutter.

“I know—not what you wanted to hear, but if you want to keep going with the Bobbies, the opportunity is there.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” I ask.

Roark is silent and then clears his throat. “Seemed as though you were a little distracted last time I spoke with you.”

“Yeah,” I drag out.

“And I was speaking with Ryot.”

Jesus fuck.

“What did he say?”

“Nothing much, just that he thought there was a lass in your life who was helping you loosen up. Someone special. Was he right?”

“Can’t see how that’s anyone’s business,” I answer.

“Well, either way, keep her around—”

I let out a sarcastic laugh before I can stop myself.

“What’s the meaning behind that?” Roark asks.

“Nothing,” I answer, standing from the bed and going to the bathroom, where I turn on the light and put my phone on speaker before setting it on the counter.

“It’s not nothing. What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” I answer while examining my chest and the scrape marks Kate left behind. I remember the exact moment I realized she was marking me. She was riding me, her hair floating over her shoulders as she dug her fingers into my skin. It was so goddamn sexy, seeing her come undone like that.

“Walker . . . be straight with me. I can’t protect you without knowing what’s happening, and I swear to Christ, if something comes out and I’m surprised, I’m going to have you by the balls.”

I blow out a heavy breath and stare in the mirror. A small part of me wonders if Roark could help. My mind goes to the last kiss I shared with Kate, the way her lips burned mine, branding me as hers. What I wouldn’t give for another kiss, for another moment like that.

Without giving it another thought, I say, “I’m in fucking love, man.”

“Seriously?” Roark asks. “When the fook did that happen?”

“Not sure, but I’m in love with someone I shouldn’t be in love with.”

“Shit,” he grumbles. “Is she married? Does the husband know? What kind of cleanup are we talking here?”

“No, she’s not married. She’s single, nothing like that.”

“Okay, and she’s of age?”

“Jesus Christ. Who the fuck do you think I am?”

“Just checking. So, what’s the problem?”

“It’s Kate,” I say, feeling a weight lift off my chest from admitting that to one person.

“Kate? Kate who? Wait . . . Kate Chapman?”

“Yeah.”

“As in—an employee for the Bobbies?”

“Yeah,” I repeat, prepping myself for a lecture.

“Have you done anything with her?”

“What do you think?”

“Jesus,” he breathes out. “Fuck, Walker, if this gets out, it could end badly for both of you. You know the Bobbies don’t mess around with their policies, especially when it comes to employees and players. You just got back in the team’s good graces, but this will guarantee you a trade. Not to mention, Kate would lose her job, a job she’s damn good at.”

“You really think they would take it out on me?” I ask.

“Yes. Bernie Barnes was traded for the exact reason three seasons ago. Granted, he wasn’t as high profile as you, but when I spoke with his agent about the trade, it was based entirely on his off-the-field conduct.”

Panic rips through me again.

“Who knows?” he asks.

“You and Kate’s friend, Vivian. That’s it.”

“Ryot doesn’t know?” he asks.

I shake my head even though he can’t see me. “No, I haven’t told anyone.”

“Good. Keep it that way. And you have to end it. If you both want to keep your jobs, you need to end it now.”

I swallow hard and say, “It ended this morning.”

“For good?”

“Yes,” I say, the answer like cold steel on my tongue.

“So, this isn’t something I have to worry about?”

“It’s not.” Looking in the mirror, I add, “Kate and I are done.”

Chapter Fifty-Six

KATE

Kate: Are you here?

Walker: Yes.

Kate: Can I see you for a second?

Walker: No, Kate. It’s over.

I stare down at the text, my throat growing tight. I wasn’t asking to see him in that kind of way, I just wanted to make sure he was okay. After all, he’s doing a speech tonight that involves talking about his father that he hasn’t spoken to in years.

But looks as though I don’t even get to check up on him.

Maybe it’s for the better. I spent last night crying, unable to control my anguished emotions. All I could think about was how much I missed his strong arms wrapped around me, how much I missed the little kisses to my shoulder. And I only had him for one night, but that one night felt like an eternity, as if that’s how my nights were meant to unfold . . . with him.

I was tempted to text him. To ask him how he was doing. If he missed me like I missed him. But I turned my phone off instead and curled into my pillow, wishing it were him.

And today was a new day. I knew coming in to work the Firefighters Ball that I was going to see him, have to talk to him, but I didn’t think he was already going to be so cold. I didn’t think he was going to brush me off as if nothing at all happened. Although, that’s not really fair, if I think without my heart for a moment. Or perhaps, if I use it. He is a good man, one who’s being firm on the no-contact. I told him it was over. He said it was over. But we both completely hate this situation.

So, he’s not being mean or brushing me off.

He’s following through on our agreement.

He’s still the same enigmatic, warm man, trying to protect me. I need to accept that, but there will be times I need to communicate with him in regards to tasks and events. It’ll be horrendous—being completely task focused—but necessary. And I’ll need him to still be polite with me, or that will break me even more. Please don’t treat me cruelly, Walker. Please still be the noble and respectful man I love.

“You look gorgeous,” Vivian says as she walks up to me, pulling me out of my Walker-laced thoughts.

Over the last few hours, we painstakingly set up the fundraising event, making sure every last detail was perfected. The room looks positively breathtaking with the draped fabrics, uplighting, and casino gaming tables scattered throughout the space. Large bulb lights line the arches of the venue, casting an amber light over the room, and the classy, white, block vases we found and decorated with black dots to resemble dice look positively adorable full of deep red roses.

It’s sophisticated perfection.

And I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the high-priced auction items we’ve lined up that were donated by the team and other local companies. I have a feeling we’re going to raise a wealth of money for the firefighters and their families in need.

After everything was set up to our liking, I quickly took a shower—thankfully the venue had one—did my hair and makeup, and slipped on a red cocktail dress that plumps up my breasts, wraps tightly around my waist, and flairs at the hips. I paired the dress with a killer pair of glittery, gold shoes, fire-red lipstick, and a small red flower fastened behind my ear.

I would be lying if I said I didn’t dress for Walker today. While doing my hair and makeup, I kept thinking about his reaction when he sees me. Would his eyes go dark? Would his jaw tick as he takes me in? Would he be tempted to pull me into a corridor and tell me how beautiful I am?

Foolish thinking.

Patting down my dress, I say, “Thank you.” I take in Vivian’s more modest black dress. “You look stunning.”

She presses her hands against her hips. “Wearing Spanx was a bad idea. Within an hour, I know I’ll be peeling these things off.”

I chuckle, even though my laugh falls flat on my ears. “These heels will be the death of me tonight.”

“Let’s make a deal—by the end of the night, you take off my Spanx, and I’ll take off your shoes.”

“Deal,” I say, taking her hand in mine and giving it a firm shake.

“It’ll be the most action I’ve gotten in months, so I’m looking forward to it.” Vivian winks.

“There you are,” Audrey says, coming up from behind us. “Wow, you two look great.” She squeezes both of our hands. “You truly made this event come to life. Thank you so much, ladies.”

“Of course,” I say. “Is there anything else we need to do?”

“I don’t think so. The venue is already filling, our waitstaff is circling, drinks are being poured, and hopefully wallets are opening up.”

“Have any of the players arrived yet?” Vivian asks.

“Penn, Torres, and Brad, I believe. They’re all hanging out at the blackjack table right now. I think they’re trying to out-bet each other.”

“Are they drinking?” I ask.

“I believe so,” Audrey says. “I think we need to make sure they stay sharp, though. Can you girls handle that for me? I would hate for something stupid to happen because alcohol was involved.”

“We can keep track of that.”

Audrey turns to me. “And please, don’t let Penn and Walker get too close to each other. The last event we had where they were both involved, they caused a scene in the back. Luckily it was only Coach Hopkins who found them. But the more we can keep them separated, the better.”

“Sure,” I say, swallowing hard.

Audrey checks her watch. “At quarter to eight, we’re going to start the speeches. Kate, would you be able to round up everyone for me so I can work with AV on preparing the room?”

“Not a problem,” I answer with a smile.

“Lovely. Okay, ladies.” She claps her hands. “Let’s make this the best event to date. We’re raising a million dollars tonight.” Audrey takes off in one direction, Vivian in another, leaving me to look around the room.

The event really did come together beautifully, and so far, the patrons already here seem to be enjoying themselves. I scan the tables, looking for the players. I spot Torres and Brad, but don’t see Penn. I glance toward the live band to see if Walker is over there—because that’s who I’m really looking for—but don’t spot him, either.

Wanting to check the back of the venue, I head in that direction, but as I’m about to walk through the door, my phone rings. I glance down at the screen and my brow pinches together from the sight of Roark’s name. And then . . . oh no, is Walker not coming?

“Hello?”

“Kate, did I catch you at a bad time?”

I eye the bustling event and say, “Uh, I’m currently at the Firefighters Ball, is everything okay?”

“Damn, I thought I’d catch you before. My time was off, I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay. Is there something I can help you with?”

“Do you have a moment now that I have you on the phone?”

“Yes,” I answer, wishing I could avoid this conversation more than anything.

Is this about Walker? Would Roark call me to tell me he’s not attending? Or that he’s been traded? The All-Star break is wrapping up and the thought of Walker being traded sends a deep-rooted bout of anxiety through me.

I heard there were rumors about Phoenix, but I thought they were just rumors. Walker has done a good job changing how people perceive him. He could be better with his social media, but for the most part, he’s really made a valiant effort of making sure he did what the front office asked of him.

“Was Walker traded?” I ask before I can stop myself, and then I realize what I said and attempt a cover-up. “You know, just wanted to see if I’ve been doing my job well. He was a hard image to turn around. Want to keep a good success rate.” I laugh awkwardly.

“Because Walker is my client, I need to keep his contract negotiations confidential.”

Oh God, he was traded. That’s your typical “I can’t answer” answer, which means . . . yes. Disbelief and sorrow hit me all at once. Was it to Phoenix?

“I understand. Sorry I even asked,” I say, my throat clamping up on me as I try to hold it together.

“But I did call to talk about Walker.”

“Oh, is everything okay? I haven’t seen him at the event yet, not sure if he left or—”

“I believe he’s there. At least, he told me he’d be attending. I checked up on him this morning because he informed me of what’s been going on between you two.”

What?

Walker told Roark?

What happened to us not telling a single soul?

And out of all people, he tells Roark—why on earth would he do that?

“From your silence, I’m going to assume that’s not what you expected me to say.”

“Not really,” I answer, my throat feeling crackly. “I know he’s your client, but can I ask why he told you that?”

“I was pressuring him, and I believe he got frustrated with me and told me what was going on. I want you to know something—I have no intentions of saying one goddamn word to anyone. Both of you would be at risk of losing your jobs.”

“Even Walker?” I ask.

“Very much so. The Bobbies don’t take things like this lightly. But the reason I’m calling is because I’m checking up on you. I want to know how you’re doing.”

“I’m . . . fine,” I say, my heart nearly beating out of my chest.

“You don’t sound fine.”

Taking a deep breath, I say, “Roark, I appreciate you calling and checking up on me, but if anything, I’m a professional, and yes, I might have slipped, but that won’t happen again.” My eyes begin to sting and I curse myself for being so emotional. Pull it together, Kate. “There’s nothing going on anymore, it’s ended, so you don’t need to worry. I won’t hurt Walker or his attempt to get things straight.”

“I’m not worried about him. I’m worried about you.”

I slap on a fake smile even though he can’t see me. “I’m doing fine, but thank you for your concern. I hate to cut this short, but I need to check on a few things before the speeches begin.”

“Sure, okay,” Roark says. “If you need anything, let me know. Got it?”

“Thank you, I appreciate it. Bye, Roark.”

I hang up the phone and take a deep breath.

Oh shit. Oh shit.

Why would he tell Roark? I’m 99.9 percent sure Roark would never say anything to anyone because he’s protecting Walker as well, but it was still a risk telling him.

Anxiety mixed with irritation swirls inside me just as someone swings open the nearby door for me. I glance to my right, where I find Penn with a devastating smile on his face.

“Hey there, Katie Girl.” The scent of whiskey falls off his tongue as he winks. “May I have a word?”

Oh God, he’s already drunk. “Penn, how much have you had to drink?”

“Penn? Come on, Katie.” He creases his brow and leans against the door that leads to backstage. “What’s that about? We’re alone. You can call me Dan.”

Dan is the nickname I gave him back in college because we were huge Gossip Girl fans. We’d spend hours watching episodes when we should’ve been studying. He claimed he watched because of Blake Lively, but I’m pretty sure he cared more about the storyline than anything. Since Penn Badgley played Dan Humphrey, I nicknamed my friend, which he loved.

I glance over my shoulder and whisper, “I told you, not when we’re at work.”

“And why’s that again? Ashamed of me?”

“You know that’s not the truth.” I tread carefully. When Penn is drunk, he loses control of his mouth. “I just don’t want people to know you’re one of the reasons I got this job. That you pulled a bunch of strings for me.”

“Who cares?” He shrugs. “You’ve clearly proven yourself.”

I point to my chest. “I care.”

He smiles. “I’ve always admired your determination. Ever since college, you’ve had this drive to prove something. I love that about you.” He reaches out for my hand, but I move away. “Katie Girl, come on.”

“Penn, I’m serious. Keep it professional.”

He sighs heavily and lets his head fall to the hard wood of the door. “What about after the event? What are you doing?”

“Cleaning up.”

“After that? We haven’t hung out in a while. I miss you.” He looks to the side. “Brenn broke things off with me.”

“Brenn?” I ask. “I didn’t know you were even seeing someone. Last time we spoke, you said you weren’t.”

“Didn’t want to make you jealous. I know how you’ve always had a thing for me.”

I know he’s teasing, but I don’t appreciate the teasing right now, at a work event, when I’m already feeling raw from Walker.

“That’s not funny.” I move past him and into the back of the event space. He follows me into the cream-colored hallway. When the door shuts behind him, I say, “What do you want, Penn?”

“Jesus, you’re in a mood. I’m just looking for some time,” he says. “Time with you.” He comes up to me and pins me against the wall.

“Penn,” I say in a warning tone. “You need to get it together. You’re drunk. Go get some coffee.”

He shakes his head. “Are you seeing anyone?”

“What?” I ask, my eyes widening. “Wh-why would you think that?” My voice deceives me and he hears it. He’s known me for too long to not detect the shakiness in my voice. Did he hear me talking on the phone with Roark? Panic ensues from the thought of Penn finding out. I can’t even imagine the ramifications of him holding that kind of knowledge in his hands.

“Who is he?”

I try to push past him, but he doesn’t let me through.

“Penn, this isn’t the time or the place for this conversation.”

“Then meet up with me after . . . at my place.”

What the hell has gotten into him? He’s never like this. His eyes are glassed over, his mood is bordering on aggressive, very unlike him, and it feels like he’s out to prove something. But what?

Chapter Fifty-Seven

WALKER

“Try the crab thing?” Ryot asks, mouth full.

“Nah, I don’t like crab.”

“Your loss,” he says, grabbing another one as a waiter passes by with a tray. “Are you going to eat anything or are you going to stand there, scanning the room like a creep?”

“I’m not being a creep,” I defend, even though I feel like one.

Fuck, is it obvious I’m looking for Kate? Ever since she texted me, I’ve been scanning the room, looking for her. It was painful texting her back that I didn’t want to see her, because, hell, I want nothing more than to catch a glimpse of her. A glimpse of her dressed up, walking around the event, proud of herself and the work she put in to everything. I want to pull her off to the side, press a kiss to her lips, and tell her how proud I am.

“You look like one,” Ryot says. “A creep, that is. Your eyes are all shifty.” He takes a sip from his beer. “What’s going on, man?”

Staying calm, trying not to show my true emotion, I put on a mask and say, “I don’t like events like these.”

“Afraid someone is going to grab your dick? I get like that too.”

My brow furrows as I turn toward my friend. “What?”

“You know”—he makes a squeezing motion with his hand—“the old pass-and-grab trick.” I don’t say anything so he continues, “Come on, you’ve never walked through a crowd of people and had someone knock on your nuts?”

“What is wrong with you?”

He casually shrugs and pops another crab cake in his mouth. “Just me, then?”

“Yeah, just you.” I turn around and survey the room again. Kate is nowhere to be found.

“Are you nervous about your speech?”

“No.”

“You look nervous.”

I glance at Ryot. “Are you trying to make matters worse?”

“Not my intention, but it’s fun to see you squirm.”

“You’re an amazing friend,” I say sarcastically. Not being able to hold back any longer, I say, “I’m going to find Kate, make sure my speech is ready.”

“Ha, and you said you’re not nervous.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re all twitchy. It’s okay, big guy, you can be real with me.” He puts his hand on my shoulder.

I glance at his hand and then back at him. “Let go.”

His eyes widen for a second before he shakes his head and starts laughing. “Yeah, not nervous, my ass.”

Like a smart man, he releases me, and I take off toward the stage, looking for Kate. I convince myself it’s just because of the speech, that I want to go over things with her before I have to stand in front of all these people and talk about my dad, but even I know better than that.

I need to see her.

Despite everything Roark said, despite the warnings, I still want to talk to her. If only for a second, or only if it’s purely professional. Just to hear her sweet voice, look into her beautiful eyes.

I pass Vivian, who has a glassful of wine in hand and a huge smile on her face.

“Do you know where Kate is?” I ask her.

She turns to me with a knowing gleam in her eye. She better not say a damn thing about our “conversation” the other night.

Thankfully, she’s professional and points with her hand that’s holding the wine glass. “Backstage.” She takes a sip. “Unless I can help you with anything.”

“I’m good.”

The corners of her lips turn up before I get a chance to look away. I can only imagine what’s going through her head right now. Did Kate tell Vivian about our day together? Girls talk about personal shit way more than guys, but I don’t think Kate would be one to gossip like that.

Straightening my blue velvet suit jacket, I head toward the back of the stage and past the curtains. The noise from the main banquet space dies down drastically. Something in the back of my mind tells me I shouldn’t be back here, that I should probably be out at the tables, playing games with the patrons, and putting a good name for myself out there, especially with all the progress I’ve made. But I can’t stop my feet from moving farther into the backstage area. As I step into a hallway, I hear voices down the hall.

One voice coming in almost perfectly.

One voice that’s really clear.

“Katie Girl, meet with me after this event. Please.”

Penn.

And he’s with Kate.

And why the fuck is he calling her Katie Girl?

“Stop calling me that when we’re at work events.”

“No one is around, just like college. Katie Girl and Dan.”

Dan?

College?

Where . . . fuck, when Kate talked about a guy named Dan . . . was she talking about Penn?

My mind reels as I try to comprehend what I’m hearing. All the times Kate has talked about Penn, defended him, when she asked if we’d ever be friends. Is she good friends with Penn?

“Penn, I’m not kidding, let me go.”

My ears perk up and fire streams through me from the sound of distress in Kate’s voice. Before I can stop myself, I turn the corner to find Penn pinning Kate against the wall with his hand on her hip. Rage eclipses me and I storm up to him and shove him away.

“Walker,” Kate gasps.

I turn toward her. “Are you friends with this fucker?”

Her eyes widen and they flit back and forth between me and Penn.

“What does it matter to you?” Penn asks, straightening his suit jacket. He walks up to Kate and slips his arm around her shoulders, and it takes everything in me not to fucking lose it from that touch. That familiarity.

It shouldn’t matter that they’re friends. It shouldn’t even concern me, but here I am, ready to crack a molar from how tense my jaw is.

“Penn, let go of me,” Kate says, her voice terse. Tense.

When he doesn’t let go, I say, “She said let go, you fuck.”

A laugh pops out of Penn’s mouth—it’s dark, dangerous. “What are you? Her protector? Did you two grow close while trying to fix your image that . . .” And I can see it—the minute the lightbulb flicks on in his inebriated head. “Wait a goddamn second.”

Fuck.

My fists clench at my sides.

He smiles and turns to Kate. “Katie Girl, did you get yourself involved with a player?”

“What?” Her eyes widen and I can see the panic that slips into them. “Wh-why would you say that?”

Penn lets go of Kate and then stands back, hand to his chin, studying us. “Well, I just so happen to know that Walker has had his eyes on someone lately but couldn’t have her. I thought it was some poor, unsuspecting girl who was trying to flee from his delusional state of mind, but if he has eyes for you, that makes way more sense. You two have been spending a lot of time together. There’s some guy in your life you’re not telling me about, and of course, the obvious tension in this hallway that I know isn’t from me. Oh, and don’t forget the way he came rushing to your defense.” Penn folds his arms over his chest. “This is too fucking good.”

“You’re way off base,” I say, trying not to growl at the man.

Penn’s head tilts back and he laughs. “Please, I’m pretty sure I just nailed it on the head. I’m right, aren’t I, Katie Girl?” Kate doesn’t say anything. She looks as if she just saw a ghost, pure panic etched all over her expression.

“Penn . . . I . . .” Kate looks terrified.

“You can call me Dan. I’m sure Walker wouldn’t mind. He has known me longer, after all, but I’m pretty sure his nickname for me isn’t as sweet. What do you like to call me again?”

“Cutler,” I say sternly. “Get to the goddamn point.”

“Oh, did you think there was a point to all of this?” he asks and then shakes his head while leaning against the wall. “No, I just enjoy watching you squirm. And Katie Girl, if you were going to risk the job I helped you get, I think you could’ve leveled up more than Walker, you know . . . with someone like me.” He tacks on a smile, and that does me in.

I charge after him, fists drawn, ready to pounce, but Kate steps between us, her arms extended. Cutler laughs manically as Kate says, “Walker, don’t.”

I gesture to Cutler. “Do you not hear the way he’s talking about you?”

“He’s drunk.”

“That’s not a goddamn excuse. Is this how he always talks to you?”

“Aww, look at him protecting you, Katie. That’s cute.”

“Walker, leave him alone,” Kate says, hand to Penn’s chest. She turns to him and continues, “Penn, go get some coffee.”

Stunned, I ask, “Are you really taking his side right now?”

Cutler laughs. “Did you really think she was going to take yours? It’s funny how delusional you are.” He slips his arm around her shoulder and says, “She’s my girl, not yours.” He leans down, places a kiss on her cheek, and says, “I’ll go get some coffee, but only because you asked. Catch you later, Katie. Think about tonight. I would love to have you over.” He winks and then walks past me, bumping me in the shoulder on his way.

My shoulders are so goddamn tense that I can practically feel them up against my ears. I don’t turn to watch the asshole walk away. I keep my eyes locked on Kate the entire time, and she meets my gaze head-on.

“You call that a friend?” I finally ask.

She shifts on her feet. “He doesn’t normally act like that.”

“Really? Because that’s how he acts all the time, and I’ve known him longer than you have.” I shake my head. “Are you going to go to his place tonight?”

“Why does it matter?” she asks.

I take a step forward and say under my breath, “You said nothing happened between the two of you.”

“Nothing has happened.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” I say, my mind swarming with insecurity and jealousy, emotions only he can pull from me simultaneously.

“Are you serious right now?” Kate’s brow pulls together. “Don’t you even start with that shit. Whatever is going on between you and Penn is between you and him. Don’t drag me into the middle.”

“Yeah, because I know what side you’ll take,” I say while turning away.

“You have no right to be angry at me right now. If anyone should be angry, it should be me.”

“Why’s that?” I ask, turning to face her again.

She folds her arms over her chest and cocks her hip out. “Got a call from Roark.”

Fuck.

Why the hell would he call her?

“From the blanched look on your face, I’m going to assume you know why he called.”

“I don’t know why he called.” And I fucking told him not to say anything.

“He told me you told him about . . . us,” she whispers, taking a step forward. “How could you do that?”

“He pulled it out of me,” I say in defense. “He called minutes after you left me, and I couldn’t . . . He said he wouldn’t say anything. Fuck, why did he talk to you?”

“To make sure I’m okay, probably to make sure I wasn’t going to say anything—because, you know, wouldn’t want to hurt Walker’s career.”

“Fuck my career. I’m more worried about you.”

“Are you?” she asks. “Is that why you just got all territorial on me, practically shining a neon sign over our heads right in front of Penn, the biggest loudmouth on the team? It’s not me spilling the beans that you have to worry about.”

“I’m not worried about you, I’m . . . fuck . . . I don’t know what the hell is going on.”

“I’ll tell you what’s going on.” She takes another step forward. “You just showed Penn that something is going on between us, and now we very well might be fucked. I’m going to have to go to his place and talk to him.”

“Is that all you’re going to do?” I ask before I can stop myself.

“You have got to be kidding me, Walker.”

“Well, what the hell am I supposed to think?” I say. “Why didn’t you just tell me he was your friend, that he was the Dan guy you were talking about?”

“Because I didn’t want people to know he was the reason I got the job,” she shout-whispers. “I didn’t want anyone to know that he was the one who pulled me out of a terrible situation and hooked me up. I didn’t want to be looked at differently, and I especially didn’t want anyone thinking there’s anything beyond a friendship between us. Because there’s nothing going on there, not that I owe you an explanation.” She takes a deep breath, smooths her hands over her dress, and says, “And this is exactly why we should never have gotten involved. We’re at a work event and you can’t seem to hold it together.”

“Me?” I point to my chest. “I was fine until I heard you asking Penn to let go of you and he wouldn’t. I was fucking helping you.”

“I don’t need your help, Walker,” she hisses. “I need you to put on a smile, stop worrying about Penn, and go do a speech.”

So, she’s taking his side. Just like that. Like every-fucking-one else, she cannot see that there is much more to Penn Cutler than a charming chameleon. He’s lazy, undedicated, careless, and sly. And no one fucking sees that. Not even Kate. She’s not going to admit that he’s a huge fucking problem in this organization. But because he helped her get the job, that’s where her loyalty is going to rest?

He could’ve gotten her in trouble a few moments ago—yes, so could have I—but I’m not the one drunk at a fundraiser where there’s enough press for the entire state of Illinois to ensure we’re all on our best behavior.

And I’m the one with a problem?

Of course.

Isn’t that how it always is? Why would Kate see it any differently?

“Got it,” I say, straightening my jacket and tacking on a professional expression. “Where do you need me?” I pull my speech from my pocket and hold it up. She studies it for a second and then looks at me, her brow pinched together.

“You can’t go up there angry.”

“Despite what you might think of me, Kate, I can be a professional when I need to be. Let’s get this over with.”

Just then, Vivian finds us in the hallway and says, “There you are. I was looking for you. Thought you might be occupied, so I got AV queued up and ready to go.”

I turn to Vivian and say, “I’m ready.”

Startled from my abruptness, Vivian turns and says, “Well, we have Torres going first.”

“Switch the order, then,” I say with a clenched jaw. “I need to get the hell out of here.” I glance back at Kate. “As soon as I fucking can.”

Vivian cringes and looks between the two of us. “Is everything okay . . . you know . . . with—”

“Everything’s fine,” I say. “Just get me out of here, now.”

She nods. “Okay, yup, sure. Let me just get Audrey. I’ll let her know something came up and you need to get your speech done now.”

“Thank you,” I answer in a clipped tone. She glances at Kate one last time and then disappears to the main stage.

Keeping my gaze fixed toward where Vivian disappeared, I try to calm my racing heart and ignore the silence that’s fallen between me and Kate. An apology is on my tongue. An apology for my emotions getting the best of me. They’re heightened because, fuck, look at her. She’s so goddamn gorgeous it actually hurts not being able to tell her that. Not being able to take her hand in mine and twirl her into my chest, where I would claim her with my mouth, and tell her just how beautiful she is. It’s painful seeing her with Penn . . . her friend. Where the fuck did that even come from? How could she be friends with him? With someone so volatile, so toxic?

“Walker,” Kate says quietly from behind me. “He’s really not as horrible as you think he is.”

I clench my fists together and slowly turn to face her. Looking her in the eyes, I say, “He was one of the reasons why I lost Dawn.”

“You can’t—”

“Don’t, Kate. For the sake of salvaging any sort of communication between us, don’t fucking defend him where my sister is concerned. That’s a line you don’t want to cross.”

But then it hits me. She’s known who Penn was to me all this time. The man, whom she considers just her friend, someone she must have known hates my guts . . . she listened to my story about him and said nothing. She gave herself to me, knowing it would totally piss off her best friend. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

And I thought I knew her. There’s no way we could’ve ever been more, because I’m not someone who would ask her to choose between anyone or anything. But Penn Cutler would. And she’s shown me that their history will always usurp anything to do with us.

Fuck. Me. Get it together, man. Grieve later.

She nods solemnly just as Audrey comes backstage. “I got everything set up with the switch. I’m sorry that you have to leave early. I hope everything is okay,” Audrey adds.

“Yes, don’t worry, I’ll stick around and shake some hands. I won’t leave you guys hanging. Just need to get this speech over, take a deep breath outside, and I’ll be back.”

“Sure. Of course, whatever you need. We just appreciate you doing this for us.” Audrey turns to Kate and asks, “Can you keep Walker company until he’s called out? Should only be a few minutes.”

“I’m good,” I say. “Kate doesn’t have to babysit me. She can get on with her work.”

“If you’re comfortable with that, Kate, I could use your help finding Penn. He seems to have slipped away.”

“Sure,” Kate says.

I stand back, cross my arms over my chest, and look out toward the crowd.

“Let me just make sure Walker is set and then I’ll go out there.”

“Great.” Audrey gives her a thumbs up and then takes off.

Kate turns to me. “Walker, I’m sorry. Okay? I think this is too much for both of us to handle.”

“Which means it’s a good thing we called it off, right?” I say tersely. I’ve shut down—I can feel it and she must sense it because her shoulders have deflated and she’s struggling to even look me in the eyes.

“Can we please not be mad at each other?”

“I’m not mad.”

“Walker. You’re mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

“Yes, you are,” she insists.

“Say it again, and see what I say after that,” I growl out before retreating to the side of the stage, where I wait to be called up.

I can’t get out of here quickly enough.

Chapter Fifty-Eight

KATE

Hold it together, Kate.

I take a deep breath, but it’s shaky. I’m on the verge of losing it, of breaking down right here in the middle of an event. And this is exactly why you should never get involved with anyone at work, because I’m off my game. I’m supposed to be performing my job duties, but instead I’m juggling two men important to my life: one who I felt like saved me when I needed saving the most, and the other who made me feel whole again, like he’s been the missing puzzle piece in my life and finally completed me.

And the man who I feel the most attached to, the one who I need more in my life, is the one I can’t have. Sure, Penn and I can be friends, and my willingness not to share that with others is basically so I can showcase my talent, be accepted for me and not pre-judged. But Walker . . .

My lip quivers thinking about what just happened. Penn’s actions. His drinking. It’s never stopped. Ever since I’ve known him, his drinking has been the leading factor in his life. It’s what has driven him from day to day. And honestly, I’m surprised when I don’t see a drink in his hand. But something was different about him today. As if he were trying to prove something.

The way he cornered me against the wall, at a work event, where anyone could’ve seen us—I would like to say that’s not the kind of man Penn is, but he thrives off taking risks like that. It gets his adrenaline pumping. But why now? Why today?

“Kate, we’re starting the speeches,” Vivian says, looking concerned. “Are you okay?”

I nod and push off from the wall. “Yeah, fine.” I plaster on a smile that barely reaches my cheeks.

Audrey’s voice booms over the speakers, thanking everyone for coming tonight. She spends a few seconds going over the purpose of our event and then quickly introduces Walker. A wave of cheers erupts over the crowd, warming my frostbitten interior from the inside out. There’s so much love for this man, if only he’d spend a little more time accepting it.

And then his voice echoes through the mic, like a crash of boulders falling from the side of a mountain, deep and rough. The sound sends a chill up my spine, igniting goosebumps over my skin. As much as I’d like to say it’s over, that we’re done, my heart has other plans.

“Are you going to come out front and watch?” Vivian asks, noticing that I haven’t moved away from the wall.

“Uh, I think I’ll just stand back here for a second.”

Vivian tilts her head to the side, a furrow in her brow. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Fine.” I motion to the stage. “Go on, I’ll be there in a second.”

“Okay,” she answers skeptically but thankfully, turns away and heads out to the stage.

I just need a second to catch my breath, to stop my head from reeling. In the matter of a few minutes, I bounced back and forth between Penn and Walker, and then talking about Roark, and defending Penn, listening to Walker get angry at me . . . I can barely stand from the whiplash of that conversation, and I’m pretty sure it ended with Walker shutting down, tuning me out, and building that wall back up again that I meticulously tore down, one brick at a time.

“I remember the day my dad came home—” Walker clears his throat. “Uh, he came home with soot all over his face.” A pause. He clears his throat again. “Sorry.”

Is he . . . crying?

Unable to stand back here without knowing, I walk behind the curtain to the side stairs and make my way out into the event space, where I can get a good look at Walker. When I round the corner, I’m not surprised to see the tension in his shoulders, the veins in his neck like cords of steel, and the hard set of his jaw.

“It was hard to see,” he continues, his voice choppy, his grip on the podium causing his knuckles to turn white.

He rakes his hand through his neatly styled hair and then pulls on the back of his neck as whispers start to fill the silence.

Come on, Walker. Don’t lose it here, out of all places, don’t lose it here.

I might be angry at him. I might be irritated. I might be sorry—so many emotions cloud my mind—but I want nothing more than for him to succeed, and right now, my heart is slowly tripping out of my chest with each clearing of his throat and every second that goes by when he doesn’t speak.

“I, uh . . .” Another pause as his head tilts down.

Please, Walker, you can do this.

He shifts the paper on the podium. “He came home . . .” Walker looks up, his eyes finding mine.

“Just get through a couple more sentences,” I whisper as my stomach twists in knots.

He mutters something and then shakes his head.

No. Keep going. Don’t stop now.

I twist my hands together. He looks up at me one more time and then blows out a long sigh.

“I’m sorry. I can’t do this.”

He turns and walks toward the back of the stage, the crowd’s whispers growing stronger. Thankfully Audrey quickly steps up to the podium and says, “We knew this was going to be hard on Walker tonight, but we’re so grateful he came anyway. Please give him a little love for supporting such a great cause.”

The crowd claps, but the enthusiasm isn’t there, instead, their applause is confused and lackluster, with a hint of empathy. I don’t have time to examine their reactions. I head to the back but Penn catches me by the wrist.

“Where are you going?”

“Let go of me, Penn. Right now.”

He drops my wrist but then asks again, “Where are you going?”

“To check on Walker.”

“He’s fine.”

“He’s not,” I counter.

When I take another step toward the stage, he says, “He’s not worth your time, Kate.”

The way he says my name, with such scorn, causes me to look over my shoulder and take in the warning.

“Stay away from him. Do you hear me?” His eyes sear into mine, bloodshot and almost slightly crazy.

Thankfully, we’re off to the side when I respond, “It’s my job to check on the players at events. I suggest you go grab a glass of water and get ready for your speech.”

Not giving him a chance to reply, I take off toward the back of the stage in search for Walker. He’s a huge man, he should be easy to find.

I make my way toward the bathrooms in the back, wondering if he fled to them for some privacy, when a strong arm snakes me from behind and pulls me into a dark room.

I squeak as the door shuts behind me, leaving me in the dark with a large presence standing in front of me.

I don’t need there to be a light on to know it’s Walker. My body instantly reacts to the woodsy smell of his cologne and the strong hold his hand has on my hip.

“Walker, what are you—”

“Don’t say another goddamn word,” he barks out quietly. He moves in closer, pressing me into the wall, his forehead falling to mine. “I can’t do this. Any of this.”

“Any of what?” I ask, breathless.

“I can’t be near you and get the job done. It’s too goddamn hard.” His hand snakes up my stomach, to my rib cage. “I’m calling Roark. I’m telling him to make the trade.”

“What?” I let out a loud gasp. “Walker, don’t do that. This will subside—”

“It won’t, don’t you see that? This intense energy between us, this won’t subside, it’s only going to grow and double and triple, and before we know it, we won’t even be able to be in the same room anymore.”

“You can’t be traded, Walker. Everything is here. Dawn is here.”

He squeezes his eyes tightly and looks down at the ground. “I know. But you’re here, too, and I can’t be fucking near you, not when I can’t have you. I don’t want to fight with you. I don’t want to get angry or possessive. But I know there’s no way I can act normal around you. I can’t fucking do it, especially with Penn knowing. He’s going to rub salt in the wound every goddamn day.” He lets out a heavy breath. “I can’t fucking do it.”

“You can’t be traded,” I say, tears close to falling. My hands go to the lapels of his jacket. “I’m sorry about earlier. I’m sorry about Penn. I’m sorry about everything. Please, just don’t leave.” Please don’t leave me.

He pushes off the wall, putting space between us. A wave of emptiness hits me all at once as he buttons his suit jacket.

“Can’t you see, Kate? This isn’t a choice, it’s a necessity.”

And then he walks out the door, leaving me to crumble to the floor. Because I think my heart just broke into a million pieces. Ripped away from its wall inside my chest.

He’s leaving.

He’s leaving because of me. And he’ll leave the shell of the woman I once was behind, because that’s what happens when the man you love takes away your light.

Chapter Fifty-Nine

WALKER

“Leaving so soon?” Penn’s voice cuts through the night air of Navy Pier. The waves of Lake Michigan lap against the solid structure of the pier, which extends out into the vast abyss, and from the outside of the venue, you can hear the faint sound of the fundraiser still moving forward, even without my embarrassing speech, or lack thereof.

I’m going to have to do some explaining later. That’s for damn sure.

“What do you want, Cutler?” I ask, feeling mentally and emotionally exhausted. I already handed the valet attendant my card, but I know it’s going to take a while to retrieve my car. It’s probably deep in the mix of the small parking area, especially since all cars were mandatory valet.

Penn sways to the side as he walks toward me. “Just checking to see why the cat got your tongue up there on stage.” He lifts a beer up to his lips and takes a sip.

Ignoring him, I turn away, knowing there’s no use talking to him, especially when he’s drunk.

“Get choked up since you haven’t spoken to your daddy in a while?” he asks, clearly not satisfied with my dismissal. I clench my jaw, not letting him get to me. Or at least attempting to.

He takes a step closer, his shoes crushing against some loose gravel on the pavement. “I wouldn’t want to talk to you either if you were my son. Although, I will admit, the time you broke the bat over your knee, that was impressive.”

Eyes straight.

Wash him out of your mind.

He’s just trying to get a rise out of you.

“Kate looked hot tonight, didn’t she? That red dress, her tits all propped up, her legs in those heels. She’s always had a banging body.”

My teeth dig into my bottom lip as my fists clench at my side.

Don’t do anything stupid.

Don’t get into it with him.

“So . . . how long have you been fucking her?”

Motherfucker.

I snap.

I spin on my heel, grab him by the shirt, and cock my arm back. The fool laughs, not even putting up a goddamn fight.

“Go ahead,” he says, “hit me. See how far that gets you.”

I bring him closer, anger pulsing through my veins, the need to lash out so strong, so heavy, that I can feel my will cracking beneath me—crumbling and falling—releasing the pent-up hatred I have for this man.

“Hit me,” he repeats. “You know you want to.” He lifts his beer to his lips, and instead of hitting him, I smack the bottle out of his hand, sending it crashing into the concrete. Then I release him with a push of my hand and turn away.

“You’re not worth it,” I mutter, sticking my hands back in my pockets so I’m not tempted to touch him.

“But Kate was worth it, right? To risk her job. Yours. Was her pussy that good?”

I spin on my heel, cock back my arm, and before I can stop myself, I punch Penn in the stomach, bending him over in a grunt. But instead of groaning in pain, he laughs again, almost as if this is what he wants, this is what he needs. He wants self-inflicted pain, but instead of doing it himself, he’s pushing all my buttons so I do his dirty work for him.

Buckled over, he steps back until he hits the side of the building to help hold himself up.

“You’re too easy, Rockwell. Predictable.”

“Was there a point to you coming out here?” I ask.

He places one hand on the building behind him to prop himself up. “Yeah, wanted to see where your head was at.”

“What do you mean?”

He stretches to standing but grimaces at the same time. Good. “Was she an easy fuck for you, or was she more?”

I’m tempted to tell him she was an easy fuck to get him off my back, but I can’t demean what we had like that, and I sure as hell can’t devalue Kate in such a way. Not when she’s so much more than an easy fuck. She buried her soul into my veins and helped pump life through them with her kind, compassionate heart and brutal understanding of who I am as a man.

Sighing, I look up to the sky and say, “She was more. So much fucking more.”

Silent for a brief second, Penn asks, “Are you in love with her?”

I don’t hide it. I don’t even bother to skip over the question. It’s a simple answer. “Yes.”

“I see.” Penn straightens up, adjusting his tie, and smoothing his hand over his hair. “If that’s the case, then you need to leave her the fuck alone.”

My brows narrow. “Why’s that?” I ask, curious. I know I have to leave her alone. I have plans on leaving her alone.

“Because.” He takes another step closer, and this time, he’s only a foot away. From the corner of my eyes, I can see a pair of headlights driving slowly toward us, most likely my car. “If you don’t, I have no problem reporting your relationship.”

“She’d lose her job.”

He nods. “She would, so what’s more important to you—your happiness or hers?”

“Why would you do that if she’s your friend?”

The lights draw closer. “Because I don’t believe you. I don’t believe that you actually care about her. Right now, in this moment, I can see the vengeance in your eyes, the hatred for me. You lost Dawn, and there isn’t anything you wouldn’t do to fuck up someone else’s world.” He rubs his palms together. “Kate is part of my world, and I wouldn’t put it past you to fuck it up.”

I stick my hands in my pants pockets, keeping them solidly in place. I hate him. I hate this sick fuck so fucking much. He’d throw his best friend—the friend who just defended him—under the bus. For what? For fucking what? “That’s the difference between us, you fucking dick. I don’t seek revenge. I don’t play with people’s livelihoods. I’m loyal. I’m honorable.” It’s why I’m backing away and giving up the one woman I’ve ever loved. “I’m asking to be traded.”

This time, it’s Penn’s turn to be shocked. “You’re what?” he asks as my car pulls up to the curb.

From my pocket, I pull out a fifty and give it to the attendant when he hands me my key fob. He gives me a quick nod and a thank you and takes off toward the valet station.

Staring down at the fob in my hands, I say, “There’s an opportunity for me to leave.” I look at him. “And I’m taking it.”

“Just like that?”

I walk around to the driver’s side door and say, “Yup, just like that.”

Without another word, I get in my car, start it, turn on the lights, and dial up Roark as I pull away, leaving Penn with a confused look on his face.

It takes two rings before Roark answers.

“This better be good,” he says. “It’s fookin’ late and me girl is looking fine.”

“Make the trade.”

“What?” Roark asks.

“I want out. Make the trade. Send me to Phoenix.”

“You’re sure about this?”

I drive down the pier, headed toward the city. “I’ve never been surer of anything in my life.”

Chapter Sixty

KATE

Two months later . . .

“KATE, can I see you in my office?” Audrey asks, standing outside my door.

“Of course. Can I quickly finish up this email?”

“Sure. Come see me when you’re done.”

“Thanks,” I say with a smile. When she takes off down the hall, I turn back to my computer and type out a response to Vivian, who I’ve been messaging all morning.

Kate: Oh my God, she just asked me to her office.

Vivian: Shit, really?

Kate: I feel like I’m going to puke.

Vivian: Don’t be nervous. I’m sure it’s going to be fine.

Kate: Vivian . . . I spilled coffee all over Coach Hopkins’s crotch at a meet-and-greet, burned his skin, and then swore up a storm in front of a class of fourth graders.

Vivian: We all make mistakes.

Kate: That was a huge mistake.

Vivian: You won’t be fired.

Kate: I heard he has blisters on his legs from the hot liquid.

Vivian: That’s a rumor, we don’t have evidence. Maybe ask Coach Hopkins to see his crotch.

Kate: Are you trying to get me fired?

Vivian: You’ll be fine. I promise.

Kate: If not, it was great working with you. I appreciate how you bring in a new breakfast item for us to share every Friday. Be nice to the new hire.

Vivian: Just GO!

I pick up my water bottle, take a large sip, and then slip off the slippers I caved and purchased and slip on my heels. When I stand, I right my skirt, make sure my blouse is tucked in, and then with my shoulders held back, I head toward Audrey’s office.

What a nightmare yesterday was.

I was completely off my game. Hell, I’ve been off my game since the Firefighters Ball.

I haven’t spoken to Penn since then, despite his repeated phone calls and cookie baskets he sent to my apartment. And my silence is taking a toll on the both of us, because he hasn’t been able to pitch worth shit lately and is in one of the biggest slumps of his life. And I haven’t been able to get my head on straight.

It doesn’t help that I haven’t seen or heard from Walker either, but we won’t get into that dark subject of my life.

To sum it all up, I’ve sucked at my job. Yesterday, I tripped in my heels, poured coffee over the Bobbies manager’s crotch, and introduced some colorful new words to a bunch of elementary-aged children.

Needless to say, I’m pretty sure I know what Audrey is going to talk to me about, and I’m mentally preparing myself to pack a box when we’re done.

When I reach her office, the door is open, but I still knock. “Hey, can I come in?”

“Of course. Shut the door.”

Yup, the old shut the door request. This is not good.

Once I take a seat, I cross my legs at my ankles and sit up tall, proud, despite the less-than-stellar feelings I have about myself.

Audrey shifts in her chair and before she can say anything, I start blurting out apologies. “I’m so sorry about yesterday. My heel got caught in the rug, I can’t believe I burned Coach Hopkins’s penis . . . was it his penis? Either way, his crotch area.” I motion at my crotch with my hand. “I burned it and that’s very unlike me. I don’t go around looking to burn crotches, especially with piping-hot coffee. I heard there were burns, did he burn? Is that a private question? Should I get him a fruit basket or something? Although receiving a banana might be a tad below the belt, if you know what I mean. Maybe some popcorn? I’m not sure what the protocol for a burnt crotch is. Do you know?”

Audrey studies me, the corners of her lips tilted up. “I heard there was a touch of blistering, but nothing he can’t muster through.”

I bring my hand to my mouth. “Oh, dear God, I blistered him.”

“It’s fine. He was upset but he knows it wasn’t your fault.”

“He told you he was upset?”

“There might have been a few choice words, maybe some suggestions about footwear so nothing gets caught in the flooring.”

“Does he want me to wear flats? I’ll wear flats—that’s if I still have a job.” I wince. “Do I still have a job?”

Audrey chuckles. “Yes, Kate, you still have a job.”

I let out a long breath and relax into the chair. “Thank Jesus.” I motion some prayer hands up to the sky. “So, you’re not mad at me?”

She shakes her head. “More concerned.” She picks up a pen and plays with it, flitting it through her fingers. “I feel as if you’ve been distracted lately.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, playing innocent.

“You’re doing your job, but there have been little things I’ve noticed, like why aren’t you signing Penn up for any more events? He’s one of our more charismatic guys.”

Because I don’t want to see him.

Talk to him.

Look him in his drunk eyes one more time.

Clearing my throat, I say, “I thought I would give the players who have been struggling lately a chance to focus on their game and not so much on the extracurricular stuff.”

Audrey taps her pen to her chin. “That actually makes a lot of sense.” She chuckles. “I didn’t think about that. I kind of thought it had to do with your friendship with him.”

“You, uh . . . you know about that?” I ask, trying not to freak out.

Tilting her head to the side and giving me a look, she says, “Penn personally wrote me a letter of recommendation for you. He was very adamant about giving you the job and that you’d be good at it, which you are.”

“Thank you,” I say.

“But I have a feeling the job isn’t what you thought it was going to be.”

“What would make you think that?”

She studies me again and answers, “At the beginning of the season, you were very much involved in what was happening. You were bound and determined to get to know these players and elevate their community presence. Now it seems like you’re maxing out at the bare minimum. I wanted to make sure there wasn’t a problem, there wasn’t something that was holding you back.”

Well . . . maybe I’m holding back because I fell in love with one of the players and I wasn’t supposed to do that. Maybe because I found myself getting too close too fast with the players. Maybe it’s because I’m an idiot and ruined the best job I’ve ever had while going after the most affectionate and loving man that I can’t have.

Yup, pretty sure that sums it all up.

“I think I’m a little worn out from the season,” I answer. “I wasn’t expecting it to be so long, so many hours, and so mentally draining at times. First year conditioning problems, you know?”

“Ahhh.” Audrey nods. “Welcome to the sports industry, where we barely get any sleep and we’re needed at all times. The first year is a doozy.”

“I’m finding that out the hard way. I promise I’ll pick it up. I don’t want to let you down.”

“How about this,” she says while folding her hands on top of her desk. “Take the next two days off, recharge, and then come back strong. The boys are in the playoffs and hopefully headed to the World Series against Phoenix if we have any luck. We need you charged up and ready to go.”

“Oh, Audrey, that’s not necessary. I can handle everything, I just need to drink the coffee, not spill it.”

She chuckles but then grows serious. “No, you need this time off. Take two days, and I’ll see you back here on Saturday. Okay?”

I know she’s not going to take no for an answer, so I nod and stand from my chair. “Okay, but this is paid time off, right? I’m not being punished for the burnt crotch?”

She smirks. “You’re not being punished, I promise. Now go give yourself a spa day, do something nice for yourself, and come back Saturday ready to work.”

“Okay.” I fold my hands together. “I’m sorry again. I’ll write Coach Hopkins a letter apologizing one more time.”

Audrey holds up her hand. “Not necessary . . . but maybe let someone else handle his coffee from now on.”

“Done.” I chuckle and give her a quick wave before heading straight to Vivian’s office. I don’t even bother knocking, I just walk right in and shut the door behind me.

Vivian’s eyes snap up to mine and she quickly asks, “Were you fired?”

“No.” I shake my head and take a seat across from her. “But she did ask me to take two days off to recharge.”

“Really?” Vivian crosses her legs and says, “Man, I need to start spilling coffee on people’s crotches.”

I chuckle and relax into my chair. “God, Vivian, I really thought I was going to be fired, and do you know what I kept thinking about the whole time?”

“What?”

“Would it really be that bad?”

“If you got fired?” Her eyes widen. “Yes, Kate, that would be bad.”

“I know financially it would be devastating, but mentally, I’m not sure it would be such a bad thing.” I shrug wearily. “I’m not sure I can keep doing this. It’s taking a toll on me.”

“Audrey is right, you need some time off. Collect yourself. Do something fun or relaxing, or . . . hell, just spend the day binging on food and movies. Lord knows you’ve lost weight and should probably eat a stick of butter.”

“It’s not that bad.” I have lost quite a bit, though, my curves are barely curves anymore and my pencil skirts don’t fit the way they used to. I don’t feel sexy in them now that they don’t cling to me anymore, but rather, I feel frumpy from the way they hang off my body.

“Seriously, though, do something for you. I know you haven’t in a while.”

“Because I haven’t deserved it.”

Vivian shakes her head. “There were two people who participated in that relationship. You and Walker. You both made mistakes. And he was the one who pushed the line first, you just fell along with him. You can’t take all the blame. Stop punishing yourself.”

“I know, but I just can’t help it.” I bite the inside of my cheek and say, “Penn hasn’t pitched the same since.”

“Penn is a big boy and his performance is none of your concern. You’re not responsible for that, you’re only responsible for yourself at this point. Now get out of here and stop sulking. I better get pictures of you spoiling yourself.”

Grumbling, I stand and head to her door, but before walking out, I ask, “Do you think I even deserve this? I’m the one who caused the headache, why should I be the one who gets to relax?”

“You didn’t cause a headache. You fell in love, there’s a difference.”

“I never should’ve fallen in love.”

Vivian shrugs. “It’s funny how people try to control their heart with their brain. It’s never going to work, no matter how hard you try.” She nods toward the door. “Get out of here, and don’t forget to send pictures.”

Chapter Sixty-One

KATE

I stare into the mirror for the twentieth time today and sift my fingers through my new haircut. God, I don’t even look like the same person. Going from long, honey-colored locks to a short, blunt bob just above my shoulders with ice-blonde, ombré highlights, I look . . . different.

I sent a picture to Vivian, and she freaked out and texted back with a ton of heart eye emojis followed by multiple eggplants. Her response gave me a small chuckle. But even at that, I couldn’t muster the happiness I’m looking for. Everything just seems so gray, even after a day of shopping and picking up some new outfits that fit better. I only got a few because I know me—once I kick this funk I’m in, I’ll be heading back to my favorite bagel shop every morning.

Sighing, I head into my bedroom, strip out of my clothes, and open up my drawer for a pair of pajamas. My eyes land on the blue T-shirt that has been folded in there for months, the shirt I took from Walker, the shirt I wore that entire day we were together.

One day.

One freaking day is all it took to solidify my feelings for the man.

They came on strong. They hit me harder than expected, and now they’re sticking, and no matter what I do, I can’t shake them.

I run my fingers over the worn fabric. I’ve yet to wear it again since that day, but every night when I open my drawer, I consider putting it on, though I always shy away, believing I don’t deserve to wear it. And I don’t. I don’t deserve to have him wrapped around me.

I’m reaching for another shirt when I pause and stare at Walker’s shirt again.

Maybe it’s what I need. To feel him again, just this once.

Before I can second-guess myself, I pick up the shirt and shut the dresser drawer. With nothing else on besides a pair of underwear, I slip the extra-large shirt over my head, letting the fabric loosely hang over my body. I sit down on my bed and wrap my arms around my waist, as if I’m hugging the shirt, and take in the slightest scent of him that’s left in the fibers of the fabric. It’s very faint, but it’s there.

I bring the shirt up to my nose and take a deep breath just as there’s a knock at my door.

Knowing it’s probably Vivian with some sort of treat, I head toward my front door and fling it open, only to be stunned to see Penn on the other side.

“Penn, wh-what are you doing here?”

Leaning against the doorframe, he looks completely deflated. He barely squeaked out a win tonight, and the only reason I know that is because there were cheers outside of my apartment building around the time the game would’ve ended. I then, of course, checked the game stats and saw, once again, that Penn had another shit showing, and if it weren’t for Knox Gentry hitting a three-run bomb over the left field fence, there wouldn’t have been a W next to Penn’s name.

Since the Firefighters Ball, Penn has been a disaster. He hasn’t cut his hair, his eyes are sunken, and I’m pretty sure if the Bobbies allowed beards, he’d have one. He barely meets the minimum of a shaved face that’s required by the goodie-two-shoes ball club.

“Can I please come in?” When I go to tell him it’s not a good idea, his eyes plead with me and he adds, “Please, Kate, I need to talk to you.”

Damn it.

No matter what else, Penn was the one who helped me crawl out of the darkness when Jordy passed. He was once the friend I relied on the most. I push the door open and let him in. When he passes me, I take in a deep breath, checking to see if I can smell any alcohol on him so I know what I’m dealing with, but when I don’t smell anything, I shut the door, slightly shocked. He either hasn’t had enough for me to smell it, or he’s done a good job concealing it, because he doesn’t look sober right now. He looks beat up, ragged . . . busted.

He makes his way to my kitchen, where he circles around for a second.

“What are you looking for?” I ask.

“A glass for some water.”

I slip into the kitchen as well, the space small, and pull down a glass for him. I can feel his eyes on me as I fill it up with some water and turn to hand it to him.

“You’re wearing his shirt.”

“I also got my hair cut, but that’s what you choose to acknowledge?”

His eyes flash up to my hair and he says, “You look beautiful, Katie.”

I move past him and head into my living room, taking a seat on the couch. I spread a blanket over my lap to cover up the shortness of the shirt and wait for Penn to join me. It takes him a few seconds, but when he finally sits down, he decides not to face me, but instead, leans back on the couch and looks up toward the ceiling.

“Are you going to speak or should I grab you a blanket so you can pass out on my couch?”

He takes a sip of water. “I’m not drunk. I haven’t had a drink today.”

“What about yesterday?”

“Now that’s a different story,” he says. “Drank myself to sleep.”

“So, you pitched hungover.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he says, and then quietly adds, “I wish it were the last.”

“You need help, Penn.”

He turns his head to the side. “You really aren’t going to call me Dan?”

I look away from his bloodshot eyes. “I can barely entertain being in the same room with you, let alone call you a nickname from college.”

“I told you I was sorry.”

“And sorry isn’t good enough,” I shout at him. “You can say sorry until you’re blue in the face, but until your actions speak for themselves, I’m done.” I will back the tears. “That night . . . it was embarrassing, Penn. Do you realize that? It was embarrassing for me, and it was so unprofessional I can’t even begin to talk about what might have happened if Audrey walked in to see you pinning me against the wall, to see the fight between you and Walker, to hear the words you said about me.”

“But she didn’t.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I shout at him, one tear slipping down my face. “I stood there and, for some reason, I defended you when I should’ve seen right through what you were doing. You were trying to get a rise out of Walker. You were pushing his buttons and using me—your friend—at my expense. Me—someone who’s stuck by your side for years, who’s defended you, who’s turned a blind eye to your drinking. Well, that’s over. I told you, until you can fix your problem, I’m no longer going to be there for you.”

“You can’t just cut me out of your life like that,” he shouts back, now sitting up and facing me. “I need you, Kate. Don’t you see that? I’m a goddamn wreck. I can’t pitch—”

“That’s not on me.” I hold up my finger. “That’s on you. Whatever shit you’re going through, it’s all self-imposed. You could fix things, you could make it all better, but you choose not to. Instead, you walk around trying to throw pity parades for yourself, but haven’t you noticed? No one is jumping on board, no one is running the route with you, and do you know why? Because you’ve pushed them all away. That’s what happens, Penn, when you think you’re on top of the world and your actions have no consequences.”

“What do you want me to do? Grovel?”

“No, I want you to stop drinking,” I shout at him. “I want you to realize the life you have is worth something and that you’re wasting it away, one bottle at a time.” Walker was right. And he was right that I shouldn’t have defended him. What Penn has been doing is wrong. It’s wrong for himself, and it’s wrong for the Bobbies, who pay him millions a year to represent them.

“You don’t get it.” He looks away. “You have no fucking clue what it’s like to live inside my head.”

“There are plenty of professional athletes who deal with—”

“That’s not it,” he says, while driving his hands through his hair. “I don’t give a fuck about my professional career. It’s just a distraction, something to occupy my time. To help these demons slow down for one goddamn second.”

Confused, I ask, “What demons?”

He hangs his head, fists curled into his hair, so I can hardly see his face. Quietly, just above a whisper, he says, “I killed her, Kate. I fucking killed her.”

“Killed . . . who?” But the moment the question leaves my lips, I know exactly who he’s talking about. “Dawn.”

He sits up, fear encompassing his expression. “He told you? Listen, I didn’t fucking know they were going to get in an accident. If I knew, I never would’ve encouraged Walker to send her home. I never wanted anything to happen to Dawn. She was a sister to me too, even though Walker never saw it that way. Dawn encouraged me when I was pitching. There are moments I remember where she’d sit on a bucket and toss me ball after ball to pitch into a net while Walker was working on his hand-eye coordination. I never wanted anything to ever happen to her.”

“Penn . . .” I scoot close to him and put my hand in his. “No one could’ve known what was going to happen that night. Just like I told Walker, you can’t take the blame for something that’s out of your hands.”

“He didn’t want her to go in the car. But I pushed him to do it. I told him it was going to be fine.” He shakes his head. “It’s fucking haunted me every day. Every fucking day I think about Dawn and the sad look on her face as Walker sent her away from the party. I think about how upset she was that we didn’t want her around, and I think about how scared she must have been right before the car hit her. It fucking eats away at me, Kate. To the point that I can’t do anything but drink. That if I don’t drink, I’ll remember, and I can’t fucking remember. I just can’t.”

“Penn, you realize how unhealthy that is, right? Self-medicating with alcohol isn’t going to solve the problem.”

“There is no solution to this,” he yells. “There’s no cure to the pain and the regret I feel every goddamn day. I can only try to forget it.”

“There is a solution,” I say, keeping calm. “You can talk to someone—you can talk to Walker.”

He scoffs. “Walker would never talk to me about that, not after everything we’ve been through, not after years of me masking the pain. There’s no way he’d ever believe me.”

“You never know until you try. He might be tough on the outside, but he’s actually a very understanding and sweet human being. You just have to give him a chance to open up.”

Penn studies me and says, “Walker wasn’t lying.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, my stomach doing somersaults from the mention of Walker’s name.

“Before he took off that night, I asked him what you meant to him. I asked him if you were an easy fuck or if you meant more to him.” Penn’s eyes connect with mine. “He said you were so much more.”

My chest tightens.

“And then I asked if he loved you.” Penn rubs his eye with his palm. “I thought he was bullshitting me when he said he did, but now—fuck . . . he was telling the truth.”

“He—he told you he loved me?” I ask, my hands shaking in my lap.

Penn nods slowly. “He did. And from the look of shock on your face, I’m guessing that you not only didn’t know that, but that you probably feel the same.”

Finding my voice, I say, “It doesn’t matter either way. That’s in the past.”

“You could make it work—”

“Don’t, Penn. Please, just drop it.” I take his hand in mine and say, “Let’s focus on you and getting you better.” He starts to shake his head, but I move my fingers to his chin and force him to look me in the eyes. “You need help and I’ll be there by your side, but only if you’re willing to put in the time to do it.”

“I have to focus on the goddamn playoffs,” he says.

“Which means the season is almost over. One step at a time, Penn. Every day, you make one small step toward sobriety, even if it’s just finding someone to help you first. It’s a step in the right direction.”

“I don’t know. . .”

“How about this,” I say, growing serious. “I’ll help find you an AA meeting and go with you. But you need to find a sponsor, and I’m not going to do that for you. You and me . . . Dan. We can do it.”

His eyes flash to mine, a small ounce of hope reflecting in them. He wraps his arm around my shoulder and pulls me into a hug. He holds me tightly.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

Chapter Sixty-Two

WALKER

“You ready for tonight?” Dempsey, our center fielder, asks as he sits next to me in the locker room. He’s a bit of a talker, doesn’t quite get it yet that I like to be left alone, and he’s always asking around to borrow deodorant—what the fuck is that about? Either way, he’s fucking fast in the outfield, runs down balls like they owe him money, and he’s a decent guy to talk to, when I want to talk.

“Yup,” I answer while taping my fingers so Flanderson can see the pitches I call better. Some catchers paint their nails, others tape their fingers. I wouldn’t be caught dead with a bottle of nail polish, so I tape up. There’s a certain way to do it, too, that doesn’t hinder my ability to throw down to second.

“Did you see the neon-pink tape I got for you?” He nudges my shoulder. “You should use that.”

“That’s my last resort.”

He laughs out loud. “Why did I think that was going to be the case?”

“Because I’m not the kind of guy who goes around sporting pink fingers.”

“That could be it.” He wiggles his finger at me. “Did you take an extra bucket of balls in the cages this morning? I heard someone down there, beating the hell out of the ball.”

“Yeah, that was me,” I answer.

“Damn, dude, you’re relentless. No wonder you have the best batting average on the team.”

“Anything to help the team win,” I answer as the locker room doors open and a few other pitchers file in from their conditioning workout. Flanderson warmed his legs up, which is why he was part of the group, but I’m surprised to see who’s behind him, walking in with a towel around his shoulders.

Cutler.

I can’t remember the last time I saw him condition with the guys, let alone show up this early to a game.

“Check that out,” Ryot says, sitting next to me. “Cutler, actually sweating, and it’s from a workout, not a hangover.”

I eye Penn as he takes a seat in his locker and reaches for his water bottle. He squirts water in his mouth and then leans forward, elbows on his knees. He looks . . . exhausted.

After I left the ball, I started packing up my apartment, ready to get the fuck out of Chicago, but then the next day, Roark called me and said he didn’t make the call for the trade. After an earful from me, he explained that he wasn’t going to make a professional move based off an emotional reaction. I told him he was fired.

Two days later, he showed up at my apartment with a red velvet cake and we sat down and talked. He made me open up, which was painful. I told him how I wasn’t handling being around Kate very well and, thankfully, he took care of that. He spoke with the front office and told them that my image was good enough for now and that since we were going into the second half of the season, he wanted me focusing on batting and making sure it was the best it could be. Thankfully, the front office agreed, and that’s what I’ve been doing. And it’s showing.

I haven’t seen Kate in two months, not even passing in the hallways, and I’ve been able to tunnel vision myself through to the end of the season, which is when Roark said we’d reevaluate how I felt about staying on with the Bobbies.

So instead of trading me during the All-Star break, the Bobbies traded a few prospects for Dempsey, who’s been a killer addition to our lineup, batting in the number two spot, right after Knox. Between the two of them, the speed on the bases is insane, and it’s taken us right up to the playoffs.

“Think Coach finally said something to him?” Ryot asks.

“Not sure, haven’t spoken to Penn, not for months.”

Leaning in closer, Ryot asks, “Do you think that’s why he’s pitching like shit? You know he thrives off pressing your buttons, off the challenge you present him. You don’t even talk to him when he’s on the mound now. When he’s throwing like shit, you don’t call him out on it. It’s like the animosity is gone and you’re just numb toward him.”

That’s exactly what I am—numb.

I’ve given up on caring.

I’ve given up on even trying to get into his head.

Why should I, after he threatened Kate’s job? There’s no fucking point. As far as I care, all I have to do where Cutler’s concerned is sit behind the plate, catch his balls, call the game, and move on. And that’s all he gets from me.

Nothing else.

He doesn’t deserve any more than that.

“He doesn’t deserve a second of my time.” I stand from my locker and stretch my arms above my head. “I’m heading to the cafeteria. Coming?”

Ryot and Dempsey stand, and together we head past Penn and out of the locker room, down the hall to the cafeteria. There are a few guys lingering with empty plates. We hand out some high fives and a few jokes—well, Ryot does—and I head straight to the plates, where I fill one up with chicken and broccoli. I grab a Gatorade from the fridge and take a seat at a table in the back. I stacked my plate with chicken, wanting to get in as much protein as I can before the game. I’ve really focused on my diet as well these last two months while putting in more time in the weight room. The result—the ball is popping off my bat, my throws to second are faster and more precise, and my body is a well-oiled machine.

“It bothers me that you stopped eating pretzels with me before the game,” Ryot says, taking a seat next to me. “It hurts my feelings.”

“You’ll live,” I say just as my phone buzzes in my pocket. I take it out and see that it’s a text from Jason Orson, the catcher for the Rebels, our rival team, and the founder of The Lineup.

Jason: I know you’re Mr. Hot Shot up at the plate lately, but figured I’d try my chances at getting a response from you. [Pray hands] I’m desperate to talk to you.

Smirking, I lean back in my chair and shoot a text back to Jason.

Walker: I think I can grace you with my presence for a second.

Jason: Jackpot!

Walker: What do you want?

Jason: A date.

Walker: Don’t you have a wife?

Jason: Not for me, for a friend. She’s new to town, a teacher, super pretty, and fun. Also, former Division I athlete, coaches volleyball, and she’s really good at repartee.

Walker: Dude, I’m not dating right now.

Jason: Puhhhhh-lease! Just one date. You guys would be perfect for each other.

Walker: Is this your way of trying to throw me off my game?

Jason: No, it’s me trying to make you enjoy life. Come on, man. What’s it going to hurt?

Little does he know.

Walker: I’m not ready.

Jason: Did you just get out of a relationship I don’t know about?

Walker: Something like that.

Jason: Well, then just go have fun. If anything, you’re going to have a good time.

Sighing, I set my phone down and pick up my fork. I look up to see Dempsey and Ryot both staring at me.

“What?” I ask.

“Uh, care to share what the snorting was all about?” Ryot asks.

“Snorting? I wasn’t snorting.”

“You were,” Dempsey says around a mouthful of chicken. “There was a lot of snorting.”

“An uncomfortable amount of snorting,” Ryot adds. He nods at my phone. “So, who was it? Share with the table.”

Succumbing to their badgering, I say, “Jason Orson.”

“Uhh . . .” Dempsey looks around and then whispers, “Are we allowed to talk to the rivals like that?”

“Jason and Walker work together on a foundation that helps kids with physical disabilities compete in sports.”

“That’s awesome, man. So, we really aren’t rivals with the Rebels?”

Ryot shakes his head. “All media. Well, and Maddox Paige doesn’t mind throwing a fist our way every once in a while just for the hell of it.”

“Dude has a killer curveball.” Dempsey shakes his head. “Can’t tell you the number of times he’s struck me out.”

“It’s why he’s one of the best,” Ryot says and then nudges me. “What did Jason want that made you all snorty?”

Rolling my eyes, I say, “He wanted me to go out with some girl he knows.”

“Like on a date?” Ryot asks, a confused look on his face.

“Yes, a date. Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because you don’t date,” Ryot says and then points his fork at me while talking to Dempsey. “He doesn’t date. Ever.”

“How does one even date while playing a professional sport? I’m so glad I met my girl in high school and she’s put up with me,” Dempsey says. “Are you going to say yes?”

Just then, the cafeteria door opens and Penn walks in, followed by a blonde with short hair. They sit together at a table and it isn’t until the blonde sets down her iPad on the table that I realize it’s Kate.

My Kate.

The Kate that I’ve been dreaming about almost every goddamn night.

The Kate that I push out of my mind when I reach the stadium.

And holy fuck does she look different. Not different bad, but . . . different. Thinner, her clothes don’t sit on her like they used to, and her facial features are sharper than before. Her posture seems stiffer and her composure serious. Her contagious smile is missing, and not to mention her hair is shorter, sexier.

I watch as she pushes her hair behind her ear and then quietly talks to Penn as she scrolls through her iPad. He nods here and there and I can’t help but wonder . . .

What are they talking about?

Are they together?

Does he think about her the way that I think about her?

“Dude, are you going to say yes?” Dempsey laughs next to me.

“Huh? Oh.” I turn back to my plate, trying to block Kate out. You don’t think about her when you’re inside these walls. Focus. Clearing my throat, I spear a piece of broccoli and say, “Not sure . . . maybe.”

Chapter Sixty-Three

KATE

Deep breaths.

Don’t look his way.

Keep your eyes focused on your iPad.

He’s usually not in here two hours before the game, so what is he doing here?

No, don’t worry about him. Focus.

“Kate,” Penn’s voice says softly. “You’ve turned into a brick wall over there.”

“Huh?” I look up from my iPad and straight into Penn’s eyes. His clear eyes.

Privately, we found him a sponsor who he’s been working with the past week. Every day, they talk either via FaceTime or on the computer. Nothing has changed overnight. I know that Penn has been drinking, but I also know there’s been two nights where he didn’t. Where he focused on a puzzle instead. He attempted to draw but realized he was awful at it and within an hour was drinking again. His counselor told him to find something that would occupy his mind, like a puzzle. So, that day, he went out and bought ten different thousand-piece puzzles. And that’s been helping him. At least the two days where he didn’t drink, he was immersed in sorting and putting pieces together.

They spoke about rehab after the season and I’m pretty sure that’s something Penn is going to take part in. He hasn’t committed yet, but he was the one who brought it up, so at least that’s a step in the right direction. He’s just trying to get through the season now.

We also have been filling his time during the day with community events, a strict training schedule, and keeping his mind occupied with other things so he’s not sitting around, just thinking. He hasn’t felt confident to go to any AA meetings yet, but he was able to get a sponsor via an online AA meeting and he’s starting the process of finding forgiveness. Penn has enjoyed the murder mystery podcasts he suggested. Just last night he listened to a podcast and did his puzzle, and even though he itched for a drink, he kept his mind straight, and I was proud of him for it. He’s made a little progress. But a little is better than none.

“Is he here?” Penn asks right before looking around the room and spotting Walker in the corner with Ryot and Dempsey, our newest acquisition during the trade deadlines. He was a great snag, too. Wonderful to work with and amazing with kids, plus his wife reached out to me and asked if there was anything she could do for the community, because she’d love to get involved. Apparently, she used to work for a professional hockey team in New England before Dempsey was traded, so she has solid experience. The kind of experience I love.

“He is here. Fuck, I’m sorry, Kate,” Penn mumbles. “Want to go somewhere else?”

“No.” I shake my head. “I’m fine. Let’s uh, let’s get to work. Are you going to be okay with showing up to the school on Monday to read books with the kids?”

“Kate, we don’t have to do this right now.”

I look up from my iPad and say, “This is on your schedule. We stick to your schedule no matter what. Do you understand?”

He nods. “Yes.” And then whispers, “Thank you.”

There has been a real change in Penn. He’s not the outgoing, charismatic asshole he used to be, but more somber, aware of how he’s fucked up, and trying to make changes. His teammates are confused, especially since he hasn’t shared his problems with anyone, but they’re also giving him space, which is exactly what he needs.

“No need to thank me. You know I’m here for you.”

“It’s why I love you,” he says and then clears his throat. “I need something to occupy me . . . need a drink?”

This has been common for him. Penn gets fidgety if he doesn’t have something to drink during our meetings, so I always make sure to join him.

“Blue Gatorade, please.”

He taps the table. “You got it.” He heads to the fridge just as Walker, Ryot, and Dempsey stand from their table. And even though I’m trying to avoid looking at Walker, I can’t help but glance in his direction.

God, he looks incredible. He’s wearing a skintight Under Armour shirt and his baseball pants, socks still drawn up high. His waist is narrower than before and I can see the indent of the V at his hips from how tight his shirt is, not to mention every indentation of his abs. His shoulders look broader, his biceps look thicker, and his hair is just a touch longer, making him look even more mysterious than before.

What I wouldn’t give to have him walk over here, pick me up from this chair, and pin me against the wall, to feel his muscles and strong arms wrapped around me, to taste his lips one last time. Or, hell, just to hear his deep, rumbly voice say my name or whisper it in my ear.

My eyes deceive me as they track him across the room. I tell myself to look away, to stop torturing myself, but then, he glances up and our eyes connect. Like the fool I am, I quickly look away, but not fast enough—because that one connection feels like he burned me. His expression, his dark moodiness, it’s branded on my brain, just like that.

All the emotions and feelings I’ve pushed to the side over the last two months come flooding back to me like an unexpected tidal wave, crashing into my heart and inundating me with what used to be. What I used to have, even if it was for only a second, I still held his heart in my hands.

Penn takes a seat and hands me my drink. I silently take it, unscrew the cap, and take a drink. When I’m done, I feel Penn’s eyes on me. “You still love him, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” I sigh. “I do.”

I TURNED off the TV an hour ago, unable to concentrate with the game on, especially since the announcers keep highlighting Walker and the hitting streak he’s been on. They’ve talked about his routine, his training, his diet . . . pretty much everything, and it was more than I could take, especially after seeing him in the cafeteria the other day.

Instead, I turned on some music and got to work on emails, emails that I’ve been putting off, given my workload has been pretty heavy lately with fan requests.

It’s the distraction I need, even though I’m growing tired of making dreams come true. I hate to be the martyr, but a part of me hates making dreams come true when I know my dream will never come true. Selfish, I know. I’m admitting how messed up it sounds. I never claimed to be perfect, and it’s how I feel.

I press send and then open another email. “‘Dear representative,’” I read out loud while trying not to roll my eyes. “‘We’re in desperate need of assistance and would like to speak with one of your players about a monetary donation. Please advise who would be most giving. Thank you.’”

I’m chuckling to myself when I hear someone ask, “Do you normally read your emails out loud?”

Startled, I look up from my computer to find Roark McCool standing in my doorway.

Tall, dark, handsome, with an Irish accent and a killer look, he no doubt turns heads.

“Roark.” I stand from my desk and meet him halfway. I extend a hand and he takes it, giving me a firm handshake. “I didn’t know you were in town.”

“Had some meetings with clients. Thought I would pop on over and see how you’re doing. Last time we spoke, I was worried about you.”

“I’m doing . . . okay,” I say while leading him to the cozy seating area in my office. I cross my legs at my ankles and direct my body language toward him.

“‘Okay’ doesn’t sound all that great.” He makes sure the door’s shut behind him before he asks, “Have you been bumping into him a lot?”

I shake my head. “No, I’ve been able to avoid him up until a few days ago.”

“And let me guess, it shook you?”

“I mean, it wasn’t great.” I shrug. “But it is what it is.”

“I could tell something was up, because when I spoke with Walker yesterday, he was tense, slightly unfocused. I wondered if something happened between you two.”

“Nothing happened. We just saw each other.”

“Hell”—he shakes his head and laughs—“if that’s what happens when you two are just in the same room, I would hate to see what happens when you have to speak to each other.”

Over the last two months, Roark and I have exchanged emails using my personal account so nothing was tracked through the Bobbies IT system. It’s been nice to talk to him about everything, even though at first, I was apprehensive discussing a personal matter within a professional relationship, but Roark has been pretty cool about it. Not probing too much, just checking in.

“I’ll get over it.”

“Will you, though?” he asks. “It’s been over two months, Kate.”

“I know.” I take a deep breath. “I think once the season is over and I can collect myself, it’ll get better.”

“And what if it doesn’t?”

“Learn to live with pain. It’ll fade. Just might take some time.”

“And what if he’s traded at the end of the season?” Roark presses, causing my breath to escape my lungs.

“Is that a possibility?”

“Trades are always a possibility unless you’re someone like Knox Gentry or Carson Stone, a Bobbie for life. I like to think Walker has the same respect from the fans and front office, but he’s more on the conditional basis. Loved if he’s winning games and performing.”

“Which makes me sad, because he’s such a great guy.”

“He’s one of the best I know, even if he is grumpy at times.”

My heart feels sore just from the thought of our first interactions when he was the biggest grump I’d ever met and how it took a lot to get him to crack the smallest of smiles, or even talk to me, for that matter, but his affection was well-earned, and devastating to lose.

“How is he?” I ask, breaking a promise to myself that I would never inquire about him. But after seeing him, I’m desperate.

“Same as you. Okay. At least, that’s what he tells me. He’s occupied, grinding, and has tunnel vision right now, getting through the playoffs.”

“I figured as much. He seems really focused.”

“He is, but I also think that’s because if he gives himself a second to think, he’s going to think about you.”

“Has he said that?”

Roark shakes his head. “But I know him. I know how he works.”

I give him a soft smile. “Well, I guess this is all a pointless conversation because it’s not like anything will ever come of it.”

Roark shifts in his chair and leans forward while bringing his hands together. “What if I told you something could come of it?”

Swallowing hard, I ask, “Are you saying he could be traded? Because I’m pretty sure long-distance would be just as painful.”

Shaking his head, he says, “What if I told you I have a position open in my agency and I want you to take it?”

“Wh-what?” I ask, stunned. That’s the last thing I thought he’d say to me when he came into my office.

“I’m expanding to have another office here in Chicago since my clientele seems to be growing rapidly in the windy city. And now that I’m married to Sutton and we’re expecting—”

“You’re going to have a baby?”

His smile is pure joy when he says, “Yeah, I’m going to be a dad.”

“Roark, that’s amazing. Congratulations.”

“Thanks, but with the baby coming along in a few months, I’m not going to want to be traveling out here as much and I need someone to take care of business here. I want that someone to be you.”

My heart starts to beat rapidly in my chest. “But I don’t know anything about being an agent.”

“Don’t worry about the contract stuff and negotiations, I’ll be taking care of that. I need someone here to keep all the guys on track, to represent the agency in meetings, take phone calls, basically be the point person for all clients here. It’ll be a lot of work, but I know if anyone can handle it, it’s you.”

“You’re serious?” I ask, still stunned.

“Dead serious, and the great thing about working for me”—he smirks and leans back—“I don’t have a no fraternizing with the players policy.”

I swallow hard.

My mind whirling with what this means. With what could possibly happen.

With his knuckle, he knocks my knee and says, “You could be with him, Kate. He could be with you. This nonsense of denying the inevitable, what’s meant to be, could be over.”

“I . . . I don’t know,” I say. I’m completely thrown off, not expecting this at all.

“Tell me this. Do you still love him?”

I nod slowly.

“And do you love the work you’re doing here?” He motions to my computer. “Staying here late and reading begging emails out loud to yourself?”

“It’s not particularly appealing at the moment.”

He chuckles. “With me, you could do the fun things, like pick and choose what the guys do, go to their photo shoots with sponsored partners, be there during interviews and commercial shoots. This is next level, Kate, and I want you to do it. No one else. And if you happen to patch things up with Walker, well, that’s a bonus for everyone.”

“Wow, this is . . .” I blow out a long breath. “This is a lot to take in.”

“And I’ll pay you five times as much as what you make here.”

My eyes nearly pop out of my sockets. “F-five times?”

He chuckles. “Yes, Kate. Five times. The agency is growing fast and I want you to be a part of it.”

“So, this is real . . . like really real?”

He chuckles again. “It’s real, Kate. So, the only question is, will you take the deal?”

Chapter Sixty-Four

WALKER

“How was it?” Ryot asks as I get into the elevator of my apartment.

“It was great,” I answer, punching my number and then leaning against the wall.

“Really? Dude, look at you, you’re dating.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m not dating.”

“Then what would you call tonight?”

“I would call tonight a mutual understanding between two people who are in love with other people.”

“What?” The sound of disappointment and then— “Wait . . . WHAT? You’re in love?”

I lean my head against the elevator wall as I travel up through my sky-rise building. “Yeah, I am, and I’m not about to talk about it with you, so don’t ask a goddamn question about her.”

“But . . . when . . . how? I’m so . . . why have you been holding out on me? Wait, is this with the girl you can’t have?”

“Yup.” I sigh.

“So why did you go on the date?”

“Because Jason begged me. The first thing I told her was that I was interested in someone else, and so was she. Jason thinks he’s a matchmaker, but he’s far from it, unless he wants to be a professional at matching people who are already in love with other individuals.”

“When you said it was great, were you being sarcastic?”

The elevator dings and I walk toward my apartment. “No, it was good. We helped each other see what we wanted. It was nice talking to someone who was going through the same thing. It was a good date,” I say, coming to an abrupt stop.

Sitting at the foot of my door, legs crossed, eyes wide, is Kate. She scrambles to her feet as I say into the phone, “Call you back.” And then I hang up and put my phone in my pocket.

“Kate, what are you doing here?”

“Sorry, this was—” She shakes her head. “This was stupid. I wasn’t thinking. I should go.”

“Wait.” I step in front of her path to exit. “Why are you here? Is everything okay?”

Her eyes search mine and she twists her hands together. “Everything is fine. I just . . . um, I think I was having a weak moment. It was stupid. Clearly, you’re occupied with other things.”

Are those tears welling in her eyes?

She slips past me and I call after her, “Kate, wait.”

She waves over her shoulder. “Sorry. Forget this happened. Have a good night.”

Because I just got off the elevator, it’s waiting for her when she presses the button.

“Kate.”

She gets on and the doors close before I can figure out what the hell just happened.

“WHAT HAPPENED LAST NIGHT?” Ryot says, coming up to me in the weight room. “You never called me back. You know, it’s shit like that, that drives me crazy. Follow through, man.”

Still confused from last night, I lean back on my bench and grip the barbell above me. “Forgot.”

“Clearly,” Ryot says while spotting me.

I count out my reps and then rack the weight before sitting up and resting my hands between my legs. I take a breath, but I can feel the questions on Ryot’s tongue. I can feel his eyes searing me in my back.

“Who is she?” he finally asks.

“Not saying,” I answer just as Audrey walks into the weight room with Dempsey’s wife at her side.

“Hey, guys.” She waves. “Thought I would catch more of you in here, but it seems as if you’re the only two committed to bigger muscles.” We both chuckle, even though my laugh comes out flat. “You both know Amy Dempsey, right?”

“Yeah. Hey, Amy,” Ryot says.

“Well, she’s taking over for Kate and is ready to hit the ground running.”

“What?” I ask. “Kate’s no longer working here?”

Audrey shakes her head. “Unfortunately, no. We will miss her, though. But thankfully, she hooked us up with Amy and there will be a smooth transition, so no need to worry. I’ll be sure to email you all of her information, but since I was giving her a quick tour, I thought I’d introduce you. And don’t you worry, she understands the no fraternizing policy with the company, which means, things are strictly professional when she’s at work, so make sure you keep Dempsey on track.” Audrey winks.

“What about all the events we don’t want to do? Can we pass those off onto Dempsey? I mean, he can’t complain, you’re his wife,” Ryot says.

“I got your back.” Amy winks as I sit there, stunned.

Is that why Kate came over last night? To tell me that she was no longer working for the Bobbies? Was she fired? Did they find out about us? Did Penn fucking say something?

Fuck, so many unanswered questions and nothing I can ask Audrey.

“If you don’t have any other questions, I’m going to keep showing her around the facilities. Look out for my email.” They both wave and leave the locker room.

“Man, Penn is going to be upset,” Ryot says. “I think he was growing attached to Kate, and it seemed as if she was helping him straighten out.”

Ryot really is in the dark and I’m not about to tell him anything.

Taking a deep breath, I lie back on the bench and grip the bar, my hands slightly shaking from the news.

What the fuck am I going to do about it?

As I rep out, I know there’s only one thing to do . . . nothing.

Chapter Sixty-Five

KATE

“Kate, open up.”

I blow my runny nose and stand from my couch. My holey sweats hang off my hips and my oversized shirt has a large ice cream stain on it from when I dropped a spoonful about ten minutes ago as I was devouring a pint in record time.

My hair is a damn mess and I know yesterday’s mascara is streaked down my cheeks, but that doesn’t stop me from stumbling to the door. I open it and return to the couch, lying face down on the cushions.

Penn closes the door behind him and I hear the sound of a crinkling bag. Whatever he brought, I know I’ll eat it, because I’m at the point of eating my feelings. I’m eating them so hard right now.

“It smells in here,” Penn says while rolling me over and pushing my legs up. “And you look like shit. Is that ice cream on your shirt?”

“Cookie dough, to be exact,” I say.

On the coffee table, he places a takeout bag that smells a lot like a bakery item.

“Congrats on the win,” I say. “One more and you’re going to the World Series.”

“It was a good pitching day,” he says. “Felt like I found my rhythm for a second, and that’s all that matters. Helped that Walker hit a three-run shot.”

“Yeah,” I sigh. “That helped a lot.” I can still see his face rounding third. Not a smirk, not even a hint of excitement. Instead, he stoically ran around the bases, head tilted down, and offered a simple fist bump to his teammates. His strong stature captured my attention, his dark eyes held me captive, and then when he took off his helmet and his forearms flexed as he removed his batting gloves, I buried my face in a pint of ice cream.

“So, care to inform me why you didn’t respond to my text?”

“Was percolating my response,” I answer.

“I asked how you were doing.”

“Yes, and I’m still trying to figure that out.”

He nudges my leg. “What’s going on? I thought you were excited to start working with Roark. And didn’t we talk about you going to see Walker? What happened to that?”

“I did go to see him.”

Penn frowns. “Did he turn you away?”

I shake my head as tears well up in my eyes again. God, when will this sorrow stop? When will this gut-wrenching pain end? I’m not sure I can take much more of it. “He wasn’t home when I got there, so I waited, only to see him return from a date.”

“A date?” Penn’s frown deepens. “Walker doesn’t date. Are you sure?”

“Yes. I heard him talking about it on his phone. And he was dressed up . . .” He looked so good. Handsome, rugged . . . sexy, especially with his hair styled. His cologne was divine too. God, he did that for another woman? Just the thought of it feels like a knife stabbed through my heart, but, then again, I have no right to feel that way. What’s he supposed to do? Wait around for something that’s never going to happen? Well, at least that he thought was never going to happen.

“What did you say to him?”

“Not much. I panicked and told him I was stupid for even showing up at his place. He tried to talk to me, but I couldn’t face him, not like that, not after he got home from a date. It was too humiliating.”

“So, you didn’t tell him?”

“No, of course not.” I shake my head. “What’s the point? He’s moved on.”

“Kate, you know I’m not a huge fan of the guy, but he told me, to my face, he loves you. You just don’t get over love like that.” He opens up the bag and pulls out a giant piece of cake.

I eye it. “Where did you get that?”

“Uh, some diner. I think it was called Eleven. I heard the guys talking about it.”

More tears form, and before they can fall, I bury my head in a throw pillow and let it all out.

“GOOD MORNING,” I say as Roark pops up on my computer.

“Mornin’,” he says, his Irish accent always heavier in the early hours. “How’s the new office?”

I glance around the empty space Roark rented in a bustling high-rise. “Uh, pretty desolate.”

He chuckles. “Furniture will be coming shortly. At least you have a computer and a desk. Did you get all the applications for your assistant position?”

“I did. I leafed through them and a few people really stood out. I’ll be making calls today for them to come in for interviews. Would you like to be a part of those?”

Roark shakes his head. “No, I trust you. I’ll have HR send over the benefits information in case anyone asks.”

“Thank you.”

“Of course. Did the company credit card come in?”

“Yes. Got it in the mail yesterday.”

“Perfect. Feel free to buy whatever you need for the office, and don’t skimp; that office represents the agency, so make sure it’s fully stocked with drinks, snacks, and looks presentable. Spend the money. Do you understand?”

“You know me too well. You know I wouldn’t spend anything.”

“I know you wouldn’t. That’s why I’m giving you three days to set things up and then you’ll walk me around the office and I’ll approve it or not.”

“Three days?” I say, my stress level gearing up.

“Yup, don’t worry. I have a truck full of memorabilia coming your way as well as signs to hang. You just need to make sure it looks good. That’s all for now.”

“Okay.” I write down a few notes.

“And then, of course, make up with Walker.”

I peek up at him. “Uh, I didn’t think that was a job requirement.”

“Listen, he’s headed to the World Series and I’ve seen a change in him. I know whatever is going on is affecting him mentally. I had a conversation with him last night and he couldn’t focus. His mind was elsewhere.”

“I actually wanted to talk to you about Walker,” I say, nerves spiking through my veins.

“What about him?”

“I was wondering if I could make a big ask and not handle him. I can work with everyone else, but I can’t with him. It’s too raw.”

Roark’s brows angle together. “What the hell happened, Kate?”

Sighing, I say, “I went to go tell him about the job and he was coming home from a date.”

“Bullshit,” Roark says. “Walker doesn’t date.”

“I heard him say it. He was just getting home from one. I really don’t think there’s a chance there. He’s moved on.”

“He hasn’t moved on, Kate. There’s no goddamn way.”

I take a deep breath and say, “Please, Roark. I’ll do anything for you . . . anything, please, just don’t make me handle Walker.”

He rocks back in his chair and wipes his hand over his face. Finally, he says, “Sorry, Kate, but you took the job and you’re going to have to figure out how to work with him.”

Chapter Sixty-Six

WALKER

The locker room is buzzing.

The feel of playing ball in late October is in the air.

The team is pumped and ready to destroy Phoenix.

And even though my life feels as if it’s in shambles, I’ve left that in the parking lot, crossed the threshold of the stadium, and I’m gearing up for the first game in a series of seven. Well, hopefully we won’t have to play seven.

The Bobbies are the favorite to win this year, and I can’t possibly see how Phoenix could win, not with our stacked lineup.

“I woke up with a boner this morning,” Ryot says, sitting next to me. “Fucking willy was ready and excited to play ball.”

“Can you not talk about your boner? Jesus Christ, man.” I put on one of my socks, pull it all the way up to my knee, and then situate my pants accordingly.

“You’re telling me you didn’t wake up with a World Series boner?”

“No, I didn’t.”

Gathering the attention of the locker room, Ryot shouts, “Did anyone wake up with a World Series boner?” He raises his hand, but to his dismay, no one else does.

I chuckle. “You’re such a fucking idiot.”

Ryot drops down on his chair and huffs out, “They’re all liars.” He then smacks Dempsey in the arm as he takes a seat. “You had a World Series boner, right?”

“I had one last night because my wife wore my jersey and nothing else and then proceeded to give me such a good fucking night that there was no way in hell I could wake up with a boner.”

“Damn it,” Ryot mutters. “I need to find a girl. Also, we work with Amy now—can you not say shit like that?”

“Oh hell, I forgot.” He winces. “For the love of God, don’t tell her I said that.”

I just finished slipping on my other sock when two pair of turf shoes come to a stop in front of me. I look up to see Penn, arms crossed.

I sit up and ask, “Yes?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“About?”

He glances at Ryot and Dempsey. “Something private.”

“Can it wait? We take the field in an hour.”

He shakes his head. “It can’t.” He nods toward one of the empty offices off to the side that’s used for players to talk to their families without the ruckus of the locker room in the background.

Agitated, I follow him into one of the rooms, and when he takes a seat, I shut the door and lean against it.

“Take a seat for fuck’s sake, Walker.”

“Is it really going to take that long?”

“Not sure. If you’re receptive, then no, but if you’re going to be a dick, then we could be here all goddamn night.”

Knowing how relentless Penn is, I take a seat and lean back in my chair, arms crossed.

“What do you want?”

“For you to listen.” I don’t say anything so he sits up and folds his hands on the table. “I’m sorry.”

Okay, wasn’t expecting an apology.

“Sorry for what?” I ask, feeling skeptical.

“For what happened to Dawn that night.” The hairs on the back of my neck spike up and nausea rolls around in my stomach. My flight instinct kicks in and I go to stand, but Penn says, “I’ll pin you the fuck down if you try to leave. Don’t test me.”

“I don’t want to talk about this,” I shoot back at him.

“Too bad. I’m currently in AA and need to apologize to people. You’re the first person on my list.” He pauses and then says, “The most important person.”

He’s in AA? Hell, when did that happen?

Probably when I decided to bury my head in the ground and focus on nothing but myself.

But what’s really confusing me is why he thinks I’m the most important person to apologize to.

When I don’t say anything, he continues, “I don’t know if you knew this, but Dawn and I were pretty close. When you used to work with Coach, she’d work with me. Toss me ball after ball to pitch. She was the sister I never had, but we always kept that a secret because of the whole rivalry between you and me.”

“What?” I ask, confused. “No, you weren’t friends.”

From his pocket, he takes out a folded photo, opens it up, and pushes it over to me. My heart swells at the sight of Dawn, her beautiful smile lighting up the picture. She’s at the ball field, sitting on a bucket. And next to her is Penn, baseball glove in hand, his arm around her.

I glance up at him and catch the pain reflected in his eyes.

“She never told me.”

“It was our secret. She always told me that someday you’d come around and realize that you and I were never actually foes, but meant to be friends. And to give you time to come around. That night, she was trying to get us to hang out more, she begged me to be nice and try to include you.” He shakes his head and takes in a deep breath. “I should’ve listened to her. I should’ve asked her to stay, to help me grow closer to you. Instead, I thought it would be better to attempt to be a lousy wingman and send your little sister away so you could score with some chick.” He takes a second. “It’s all my fault, and to this fucking day I regret it. I regret it every goddamn day of my life. Because not only did I lose Dawn, one of the only people who truly cared about me, I lost the chance at becoming your friend. My actions—my decision—created hostility between us.”

I don’t know what to think. What to say. This was not what I was expecting.

“And that regret, the nightmares, they’ve fueled me to take a bottle in my hand every night to forget. But I realized I can’t do that anymore, that I need to get healthy. After the series, I’m checking into rehab.”

“Seriously?” I ask, completely shocked.

He nods. “I have one person who cares about me right now and I can’t let her down. But I need you to know that I’m sorry. For not only losing Dawn, but for all the stress I’ve put you through over the years, for being a horrible teammate, and for intentionally provoking you so you’d be seen negatively, as a way to take the spotlight off my drunk ass. And you don’t have to forgive me. I don’t want an empty, ‘it’s okay.’ I want you to think about the apology and let it settle in you on your own time.”

I nod, still unsure of what’s going on.

“I, uh, I appreciate you apologizing.” I shift in my seat. “I take the blame for Dawn, as well. I never should’ve listened to you, I should’ve kept her by my side. I’ve gone over that night so many goddamn times in my head and what I would do differently. But most recently, I’ve realized, no matter how it played out, we couldn’t have known a drunk driver would hit her car. And that’s a fact.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Yeah,” I say, growing quiet. I glance up at him. “It’s going to take time, man.”

“I’m well aware. I’m not looking for you to forgive and forget, but I’m hoping for a cracked door, a small opening back into your life.”

“Why?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“Because my best friend is in love with you and that’s not going to change.”

I blink a few times, wondering if I heard him right. “She, uh . . . she’s what?”

“She’s in love with you, man.” He shakes his head. “She tried to tell you the other night, but she swears you were on a date.”

“Fuck,” I groan. “She heard that?”

“You were actually on a date?” Penn’s voice rises in volume. “What the actual fuck, man?”

“No, it’s not what you think.” I let out a harsh breath. “Jason Orson wanted me to go out with his friend. Come to find out we’re both in love with other people. I went just to be nice to Jason, but the first thing I said was I’d fallen for someone else.”

“Jesus Christ.” Penn grips the back of his neck. “She thought you’d moved on.”

“Is that why she left? Did she move? Is she still here?”

Penn smiles. “She works for Roark now.”

“My agent?”

Penn nods. “The bastard offered her a job and straight up told her he didn’t care if she fraternized with the players, highly encouraged it with you. She was going to your place to tell you the other night.”

I lean back in disbelief. “Holy fuck.”

“Exactly.” That smarmy smile I’m so used to seeing from Penn makes an appearance. “Don’t you feel like a dickhead?”

“Fuck, I do. So, we could be together?”

“Yeah, everyone involved is actually just waiting for it to happen now. Besides Kate. She’s a mess. She thinks there’s no shot at getting you back. But from the look in your eyes, I’m going to guess that’s not the case.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Are you going to win her back?”

I nod, my mind whirling with thoughts of going to see her.

“Well, you better make it good. She deserves a happily ever after.”

Chapter Sixty-Seven

KATE

“And when can you start?” I ask Freddy, a prime candidate for the assistant job.

“Anytime. This would be a huge opportunity for me. I’d make it work.”

A little desperate, but his qualifications are amazing and he has a degree in sports management, so he’s right, this would be a huge opportunity for him. Everyone else I’ve spoken to has executive assistant experience, but that’s not necessary in the sports field, and I really want someone who’s passionate about sports.

“That’s good to know.” I hold back my smile, knowing I’m going to change this guy’s life with a phone call tomorrow. I’ll make him sweat it out for now. “If you don’t have any other questions for me, then I think our time is up here.”

“Sure, it was a pleasure speaking with you, Miss Chapman.”

We both stand and I extend my hand to him. We shake hands, and then I lead him out of my office and into the small lobby where the elevator is located.

“I didn’t get to say it before, but I really love the office space. It’s dope, especially the jersey wall.”

Dope—I couldn’t ever imagine saying that in a job interview, but I can also see the stars in his eyes.

“Thank you. I would like to take credit for the furniture and memorabilia, but that was all Roark. The jersey wall, though, that was my idea.”

“It’s pretty freaking phenomenal and impressive.”

“Roark has procured the best of the best in the sports industry; it’s why we’re looking for the best of the best to help us here in the new Chicago office.”

The elevator dings and I hold the door open for him.

“I hope I gave you something to think about with my qualifications and goals, and I just want you to know, Miss Chapman, I’ll work my ass off for you. Excuse my swearing, but I would work so hard.”

“I believe it.” I release the elevators. “I’ll be in touch, Freddy.”

The doors close and I finally let out my smile. I liked him a lot. Very knowledgeable, respectful, and ready to work. Plus, I loved hearing his story about being the first kid in his family to go to college, a huge accomplishment in itself.

I walk past the empty assistant desk and into my office, where I pick up my phone and text Vivian.

Kate: I think I found my assistant.

Vivian: Really? A man or a woman? Frothing at the mouth with the need to impress?

Kate: LOL. A man, and so much frothing.

Vivian: That’s how we like them. Willing to do anything.

Kate: He even complimented my shoes when he first walked in.

Vivian: Oh, his parents taught him well.

Kate: Single mom, actually. Grew up in West Garfield Park. First in his family to go to college. Worked three jobs to pay for it.

Vivian: Damn. He wants success bad. And that’s what you want in a candidate.

Kate: Exactly. I’m going to call him tomorrow and offer him the job.

Vivian: Make him sweat it out?

Kate: You know me too well.

Vivian: We might have only worked a short time together, but I still get you. Which, by the way, game tonight?

Kate: I don’t know . . .

Vivian: Stop. You have to watch. It’s game two. Today will set the tone. If the Bobbies win, they’ll be sitting pretty going into Phoenix. Please.

Kate: Fine. My place.

The elevator doors ding and I set my phone down as I glance around my office. Did Freddy forget something? I don’t see anything, so I step out into the lobby and stop cold.

Walker.

Walker standing in the lobby of my new office, holding flowers.

Looking devastatingly handsome.

What—what’s he doing here?

“Hey,” he says, his voice rolling over me like a warm blanket.

“Hey,” I say, feeling my breath seize in my lungs as my heart beats more rapidly from the sight of him. How is it possible that I forgot how handsome he is, how domineering he is in person? “Uh, can I help you?”

“I heard there was a new woman working for Roark who would be stationed here in Chicago. Thought I’d welcome her.” He closes the space between us and hands me the flowers. “These are for you.”

I take them into my shaky hands and say, “Thank you.”

Hands in his pockets, he looks around the office space and says, “It looks great in here. Congratulations. This is a great opportunity.”

“Yeah,” I say awkwardly. “I still wonder sometimes what Roark was thinking.”

“He was thinking intelligently. You’re the right person for the job, to handle all of us idiots.”

I chuckle. “I mean, I did break you down.”

“That you did.” He glances down at the ground and then says, “Listen, I want you to know something.” When I keep my eyes trained on him, he continues, “What you heard the other day, when you came to visit me, it wasn’t what you thought it was. Jason—”

“You don’t owe me an explanation.”

“Yes, I do,” he says firmly. “Jason wanted me to go out with his friend. I agreed because he was badgering me, but right off the bat I told her I was into someone else. As luck would have it, so was she. We spent the night trying to help each other out with our problems.”

“Oh.”

“It wasn’t a date.” He shakes his head. “I couldn’t even think about dating someone else, not when I’m so deeply in love with you, Kate, that I can barely think about anything else when I’m not at the field.”

He takes my hand in his. He brings my palm to his mouth, where he presses a kiss. A zip of need pulses through me from that little touch, and I find myself moving closer to him.

“These last few months have been torture,” he says. “I tried to forget about you. I tried to push you out of my mind. I tried to convince myself that I didn’t need you, but seeing you in the cafeteria that one day broke down every wall I put up. I realized no matter how hard I try, you’re engrained in my marrow. I need you like I need air, Kate. Not having you in my life isn’t an option, and if that meant I needed to be traded in order to be with you, then that was what I was willing to do. That was the plan for after the series, and then to beg you to go with me. I didn’t care where—as long as you were with me, that’s all I needed. But now”—he links our fingers together—“now I can ask you a question I’ve been wanting to ask you for a very long time.” He kisses my knuckles.

“What’s that?” I ask, my voice wobbly and emotional.

“I wanted to know, when the series is over, if you’d go out on a date with me.”

I let out a watery laugh. “An actual date?”

He nods. “Yeah, a date where you dress up, I pick you up, I tell you how goddamn beautiful you are, you tell me how sexy I am—”

I chuckle.

“And then I take your hand in mine and I walk with pride, showing the world who my girl is, who’s claimed my heart. You entertain me with your nonsense over dinner, we share a dessert, tempting each other while we lick it off the fork, and then we go back to my place, where I slowly peel off your clothes and show you just how much I love you, how much of a lucky man I am to have you in my life.” He reaches out and cups my cheek, letting his thumb pass over my soft skin. “Would you let me do that? Would you let me take you out?”

A tear slips down my cheek as I nod. “I would.”

He smirks and pulls me in close, then pinches my chin with his thumb and forefinger, angling me up toward his demanding mouth. He presses a soft kiss across my lips. He groans and deepens the kiss, but only for a few seconds before pulling away. With a sigh, he presses his forehead to mine and whispers, “I love you, Kate.”

I set the flowers down on a side table and move my hands up his chest to his cheeks. I hold him tightly and say, “I love you, Walker. More than anything. I love you, and I’ll never stop loving you.” I kiss him. “You were meant for me.”

“No, babe, you were meant for me.”

He brings his lips to mine again and for the first time in months, I feel as if I can breathe.

Everything feels right.

No more roadblocks.

No more walls.

It’s just me and Walker and the rest of our lives ahead of us.

Epilogue

WALKER

“Happy birthday, babe,” I say, whispering into Kate’s ear.

“Kate’s still sleeping,” she mutters while curling into her pillow.

I chuckle and slowly move my hand over her naked body, barely grazing my fingers across her skin, just the way I know she likes it.

“Mm, okay, maybe she can be awake.” She twists to her back and spreads her legs while moving my hand past her stomach and right to her sweet spot.

I chuckle and pull down the comforter and sheets, exposing her breasts.

God, she’s so sexy. Her body fucking destroys me every day. And since we got back together, she’s filled out her skirts better, showing off those delicious curves again, making it hard for me to keep my hands off her and allow her to get up and go to work.

After we won the World Series—yeah, we fucking won in five games, at home, in the Bobbies stadium—I took Kate out on our first date. It was an utter disaster. Note to self: don’t win the World Series with a game-winning home run and expect to be a normal, everyday citizen after that. We were bombarded. So, our public dates were postponed until everything calmed down. Instead, we came up with different date ideas we could do at home. One weekend we went up to Jason’s wife’s cabin for a getaway. Another weekend we spent at a lake house. And we even took a four-day weekend to the Caribbean where I drooled all over Kate’s bikini choices. The girl’s thighs were on fucking fire. We barely spent any time on the beach because we could barely get out of the hotel room.

But for her birthday, I have a trip planned for her, one I cleared with Roark, to give her some time off. Time she hasn’t been taking off because she likes to prove herself. So of course, now that I have time off, she’s working her ass off, as the off-season is one of the busiest times for an agent representative, what with navigating all our sponsors and requests for our time.

But for the next week and a half, I’m going to have my girl all to myself.

I slip my hand past her slit and then back up her stomach.

“Walker, don’t tease me.”

I kiss her jaw and up her cheek. “Don’t worry, I’ll be getting my fill of your pussy shortly. But first, presents.”

Her eyes open and she smiles. “You got me something?”

“I’m your boyfriend, aren’t I?”

She rolls over and props her hand on my chest. “You are.” She kisses my chin. “Now, is my gift your dick? Because I’m ready for it.”

I chuckle and shake my head. “It’s one of them, but I’ll give that to you in the shower, just the way you like it.”

Yeah, Kate is a big shower-sex girl. Can’t get enough of it.

“Mm, you know the key to my heart.”

I lean over the bed and reach for the little box I wrapped for her and hand it over. “Here you go.”

She eyes the flat box and then, like a rabid beast, tears it open.

“Jesus, thank Christ I had no intention of wrapping my cock.”

She laughs and then opens the box, revealing a picture of the villa that rests over the water I rented for us in Bora Bora. Her eyes widen and she asks, “Are you taking me on a trip?”

“Yup. We’re going to Bora Bora, babe.”

“Stop. Seriously? When?”

“Today.”

“Today?” Her eyes widen. “Seriously?”

I nod. “Why do you think I woke you up? I planned enough time for us to fuck in the shower, get dressed, and head to the airport where Penn hooked us up with a private jet.”

“Oh my God—wait, does it have a bed in the back?”

I smile. “It does.”

She sits up, her beautiful breasts on full display. “Hold on a second. Are you telling me that not only do I get to go to Bora Bora, where I can watch my sexy, athletic boyfriend waltz around in a Speedo—”

“Swim trunks.”

“My birthday, my choice,” she says with a smile. “You walk around in a Speedo, but I also get to join the mile-high club?”

“A birthday for the ages.”

“God, I love you. And Penn really did that for us?”

I nod. “It was a thank you for all we’ve done during his rehab. He said he couldn’t have made it through without us.”

And that’s true. He had a rough go of it, struggled the first two weeks, hated having to talk about his feelings. But slowly he started to open up with our encouragement, and he left rehab a week ago. Ryot has been hanging with him, as well as Dempsey and Kate and I. We’ve been rotating and checking in on him and going to AA meetings with him. He’s done great so far, and luckily, the Bobbies have been extremely supportive as well, not chastising him, but helping him thrive.

“I can’t believe it. Gah, I have to pack.”

“Already done. Vivian came over and packed yesterday. You’re set, babe.”

She shakes her head in disbelief. “Wow, Walker. Just . . . wow. If you’re trying to keep me forever, you’re doing a good job at it.”

I smile up at her. “That’s the plan, babe. That’s the plan.” After all, Kate Chapman is the perfect catch for me. The perfect future.

Keep reading for an excerpt from my teacher romance, Earn Your Extra Credit

And if you haven’t already read my other Brentwood Boys baseball romances, you can find them here:

The Locker Room

The Dugout

The Lineup

The Trade

The Change Up

The Setup

The Strike Out

The Perfect Catch

Read all of Meghan’s books in Kindle Unlimited.

Excerpt - Earn Your Extra Credit

Prologue

ROMEO

“Do you want to sit next to Stella on the airplane?” Arlo asks.

“What? Fuck, no,” I say while turning up the game so I can hear the announcers over my tedious, wedding-planning best friend.

Arlo snatches the remote from my hand and turns off the TV. The room is silent for a moment before uproarious objections fill the air.

“Gentry is up next,” Gunner, my other best friend and former teammate, complains from next to me. “He’s three for three so far.”

“We need to talk,” Arlo says in that stern, alpha-like voice that won over his fiancée. Little does he know it doesn’t work on me.

I reach for the remote but he swats my hand with a resounding thud, causing me to yank my hand back. “What the actual fuck, man?”

When I decided to have the guys over to my loft, I assumed we’d tear up some wings, drain some brews, and watch the Bobbies game. Never in my wildest fucking dreams would I have pictured Arlo Turner, the grumpy curmudgeon of the Forest Heights English department, to roll in like a beaming bride, holding a wedding planning folder to his chest, and consume the night with questions about what he should wear and if coconut cake is too “Hawaiian-y” for his Maui destination wedding.

But here we are.

“Cut the crap, Romeo.”

“Cut what crap?” I reach over to the coffee table and pick up my almost empty glass of beer.

“I’m not about to have the Bickersons attend my wedding, so what the hell is going on with Stella?”

“Nothing is going on,” I answer, then take a small sip of my beer, making the liquid last so I don’t have to get up for a refill.

Gunner leans in and asks, “If we get to the bottom of the problem, can we turn the TV back on?”

“Yes,” Arlo answers.

“Then it was the baseball game he took her to.”

“Dude,” I say in protest while sitting up on the couch. “What the fuck happened to don’t say anything?”

Gunner unapologetically shrugs. “I really want to watch the Bobbies kill the Rebels in interleague play.”

“What baseball game?” Arlo asks. “Do you mean the game you took her and Cora to?”

“Yup.” Gunner pops a chip in his mouth from the bowl on the coffee table. “Except Cora wasn’t supposed to go. It was supposed to be a daaate,” Gunner drags out.

“You asked Stella out?” Arlo asks, shocked.

“Way to sell me out for a game, you dick.”

Not showing an ounce of remorse, Gunner stands from the couch and takes my glass from me. “I’ll top you off. You’ll need it.”

Seething, I pass my hand over my head and say, “Yeah, I asked her out. She invited Cora. End of story.”

“That’s not the end of the story,” Gunner says from the kitchen, the open concept of my loft allowing his voice to carry to us easily.

When you think a friend is trustworthy and then they go and shock your fucking nuts right off by divulging everything you told them in secret . . . without even a blink of an eye. Gunner is dead to me.

You’re probably wondering why I didn’t say anything to Arlo about what happened, given he’s one of my best friends, right? It’s simple. Gunner got me drunk and I relished in the comfort of far too many cold beers and a listening ear. If it wasn’t for that, I’d have kept my mouth shut, because the entire incident was fucking humiliating.

Between you and me, I’ve liked Stella Garcia, the Spanish teacher at Forest Heights, for a while now. Far too long actually. I can’t quite pinpoint when it happened, but all I know is over the three years I’ve known her, I’ve been pining after the girl for the majority of the time.

Fucking bold, quick-witted with a sharp tongue, loves sports, shy when it counts. Flat-out gorgeous with her long, wavy brown hair and fascinating green eyes that have a ring of brown around the pupil. She’s had my attention for a while and last year, I decided to finally make a move.

Enough was enough. We shared too many dinners together as friends. She’s pressed her lips to my beer glass without a second thought way too many times. The moment presented itself, I grew a pair, and asked her out to a baseball game knowing she loves watching the sport as much as I do.

But fuck did it backfire.

“What’s the end of the story?” Arlo asks, growing agitated. His patience runs thin, which is surprising, given his profession of educating the youth.

He’s not going to drop it.

Arlo’s relentless when he wants to know something.

Dragging my hand down my face, I say, “It was supposed to be a date.” Gunner sits next to me and hands me my refilled glass, which I gladly take. “She invited Cora. Which was fine. We had a good time, I still sat next to Stella, and we shared jokes even if there was a third wheel. But it was what happened afterwards that—”

“That gutted him,” Gunner finishes for me. When I snap a look at him, he smirks. “That’s what you told me. Just thought I’d help tell the story.”

“I wasn’t gutted.”

Maybe I was a little.

Hell . . . I was humiliated.

Gutted isn’t a strong enough word for what happened.

“What the fuck happened after? Christ. Why are you taking so damn long to get to the point?” Arlo practically growls.

“Go easy on our guy.” Gunner grips my shoulder. “He was embarrassed, man.”

“It’s fine, I’m over it now,” I say in a passive-aggressive tone.

“You’re clearly not if you and Stella can’t even be in the same room together. I don’t want anything ruining this trip for Greer, and your constant arguing with Stella is driving everyone fucking crazy.”

“Great, then I just won’t talk to her. Simple.”

“Just tell him,” Gunner says, nudging me.

Christ.

Staring down at my beer, I quietly say, “She went home with someone else that night.”

The room falls silent.

They don’t have to react for me to know what they must be thinking. They know I’ve liked Stella for a while. They know I’ve been trying to figure out a way to ask her out.

And this . . . hell, this was an epic fail on my end.

It wouldn’t be as bad if I weren’t already carrying a chip on my shoulder about the way I was forced to twist my life around.

Five years ago, everything changed.

Five years ago, I was stripped of the one thing that brought me life.

A ruptured Achilles tendon ended everything for me.

I never got the chance to appreciate my last game.

I never had the opportunity to sit on the field and say goodbye.

Instead, playing professional baseball was stripped from me and I was forced to fall back on my teaching degree I earned while playing in college.

To say I’m bitter, resentful, and fucking angry . . . yeah, that’s an understatement.

I live with regret daily and harbor more animosity than anyone should.

So, when I took Stella to the game, on a date, hoping to tell her how I feel, and she went home with someone else, it fucking stung.

Do you know what stung more, though?

The fact that she looked right past me and instead went for a rookie on the Bobbies.

Why go out with a washed-up baseball player turned phys ed teacher with a slight limp in his walk, when you can go out with an unmarred professional baseball player?

Yeah. There’s resentment for a reason. She chose the star. That’s who she wants.

That’s who I’ll never be.

And that’s why I plan on staying as far away from Stella Garcia on this trip as I can.

And when we get back to Chicago and the school year starts, everything will go on as planned.

Avoid. Avoid. Avoid.

Too easy, right?

Chapter One

STELLA

“This place is amazing,” Cora says, lost in the ambiance of the grand lobby of the Four Seasons Resort Greer and Arlo chose for their wedding locale.

I’ll give it to them, fantastic choice. Thanks to the time difference, we arrived right at noon. The car service that picked us up from the airport offered us fresh fruit, snacks, and champagne. I indulged in all of it.

And I realized something—it might be the tropical breeze, or the fact that I can already feel my body starting to relax, but the pineapple here tastes a thousand times better than on the mainland.

Yup, I’m using the terminology already.

“Greer informed me of the absence of any person younger than the age majority while we holiday,” Keiko, my wonderfully brilliant, slightly quirky, always awkward friend says as she adjusts her glasses on her nose. She went all out on the Hawaiian prints when packing for the trip. She went with a light blue print featuring palm trees and rainbows for her first day, tucked into a pair of khaki Bermuda shorts.

Cora, Arlo’s sister, and a member of our Ladies in Heat Book Club, gives me a confused look. “What did she say?”

“I think she’s trying to tell us there won’t be kids here.”

“Affirmative,” Keeks says while reaching into her pocket and pulling out a pair of sunglasses that attach to her glasses. “Shall we comb the grounds and make ourselves familiar with the exotic vegetation?”

“Uh, I think I’m going to head to the bar,” I say. “After that flight, I need a Mai Tai.”

“I second that.”

“Was the flight unsettling to you?” Keeks asks, confused. “I don’t recall much turbulence nor an uproarious baby that could deter a flight from being enjoyable. In fact, you had two and a half mimosas, the egg and bacon sandwich, which the flight attendant paired with a lackluster bowl of fruit, a strawberry yogurt cup, and an uninspiring croissant. After you nourished yourself to satisfaction, you delighted in a role reversal romantic comedy, What Men Want, and then proceeded to take slumber on my shoulder, where you sleepily salivated, leaving a one-inch diameter wet stain on my sleeve. If anyone had a rough flight, it would be me, having to fend off your hot breath on my shoulder while I attempted to compete in a challenging game of travel chess against myself.”

Did I mention Keiko has no problem telling it like it is?

Nor does she have a filter.

“My breath wasn’t hot,” I mutter.

“All human breath is hot—”

“Okay,” Cora cuts in, eyes wide. “Let’s not get into the core temperature of our breath. I think Stella was referring to the way Romeo was sneering at her the entire flight.”

“Oh.” Keiko nods. “Why, yes, I did happen to arrest a contemptuous glance from him. But I considered the object of his disdainful glare to be the lusterless fruit bowl.”

“I wish it were the fruit bowl,” I say while scooping my long hair up and quickly tying it into a knot on the top of my head with my hairband. “He has something against me and I don’t know what it is.”

“I feel as though it’s been going on for months. You two have not been fun to be around,” Cora says.

“Which is why I don’t plan on being around him at all during this trip.” I take in a deep breath and let the ocean breeze wash over me. “This is my time to relax and enjoy watching Greer marry the most pompous and arbitrary man I’ve ever met. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need a drink.”

I head toward the bar when Keiko says, “Although relaxation of the human spirit is much needed when basking in the glow of paradise, have you forgotten about the detailed itinerary?”

I pause midstride and swivel on my heel to face Keeks. “Uh . . . what?”

She adjusts her glasses, chin tilted up. “The itinerary. It was attached to your flight information. There are quite a few excursions the happy couple planned for the group.”

“Oh, yeah,” Cora says. “I remember something like that. There was some sort of chocolate tour I was excited about.”

“Itinerary?” I groan. “Is it mandatory?”

“Indeed,” Keeks says. “The Arlo and Greer company were all summoned to the excursions, which would include Romeo.”

“I connected the dots, Keeks.” I sigh. “Well, whatever, doesn’t mean I have to talk to him. It’ll be fine. Is there anything going on tonight?”

From her pocket, Keiko takes out a piece of rolled-up paper and, as if it’s a paper scroll, she unravels it and holds it like the town squire about to announce “hear ye, hear ye.” Her eyes travel over the paper and she says, “After giving the itinerary a quick overview, tonight is scheduled as free time.”

“Thank God for that.”

“As well as tomorrow.”

“Hey,” I say, smiling. “See? This is starting to be better than we thought.” I take Cora’s hand in mine. “Let’s get a drink.”

“It would behoove you to hydrate after a long flight,” Keeks calls out.

“That’s what we plan on doing,” I say over my shoulder. “Hydrating with Mai Tais.”

In the distance, Keiko starts rattling off how alcohol actually dehydrates the human body, but we press forward with one thing on our minds—tropical inebriation.

“I like rum,” I say, licking the rim of my glass rather aggressively. “I’ve never been this attracted to rum, but I’m feeling . . .” I pause and roll my head to the side. “Dare I say, I might have a crush?”

“I’ve had a crush on liquor before,” Cora says while sucking on the end of a cherry stem. “It ended poorly. We broke up the next morning while my body revolted over giving the intoxicating beverage a chance.”

“What was it?”

“Fireball.”

I wince and give the rim of my glass one more lick before tipping back the rest of my Mai Tai. “Fireball is a devious bastard. Grabs your attention, makes you feel all warm inside, and then BAM!” I smack the table. “Trouble. That’s what it is . . . just trouble.”

“Fireball is like the bad boy you should stay away from.”

I nod. “If Fireball had a mode of transportation, it would be a motorcycle, and you know Fireball wouldn’t wear a helmet.”

“Or a condom,” Cora adds. “Fireball is too good for a condom. For any protection.”

“Fireball says FUCK condoms and then shoots its load on your back.” I gesture with my hand.

“And it’s a cinnamony load.”

“So much cinnamon.” I sigh and sit up. Turning to face Cora, I say, “I believe we’ve reached the threshold of loving Mai Tais or hating Mai Tais. If we drink one more, we’re going to regret our decisions, but if we stop here, we’ll remember how much Mai Tais make us feel valued and respected, unlike the shrewd Fireball.” I press my hand to hers and speak with my heart. “I want a long-term relationship with Mai Tais, a meaningful vacation fling that will mean something to me when I’m sixty and thinking about my younger years. I don’t want to be resentful and rigid when thinking about them . . . like how you feel about Fireball.”

She nods. “I hear you and I see you.” She drops her cherry stem to the counter and takes a deep breath. “I need a Pop-Tart.”

“Pop-Tarts by the ocean,” I say, the idea so grand in my head that I can’t imagine doing anything else. I can’t possibly fathom something bringing me more joy. I tap the bar top and say to the bartender, “Dear sir, we shall take two Pop-Tarts.”

The bartender, whose name we don’t know, turns to me and says, “Sorry, ladies, we don’t have Pop-Tarts here, but you could check the gift shop.”

“You’re a gem.” I smile at him. “We’d like to close our tab.”

He chuckles. “I have it on your room. Just need your signature.” He slips me a receipt attached to a board and I quickly sign across and up the paper, and then draw a palm tree after my name. I hand the receipt back to him and say, “The palm tree is a little treat for you.”

“That was very kind of you. Let us know if you need anything else . . . like a shot of Fireball,” he says with a smirk.

My eyes widen as Cora gasps next to me, hand to her chest. “How dare you bring up an ex-lover? You know we’re in a weakened state.”

“That’s why Fireball is the bad boy of liquor. It doesn’t care about your feelings; it just keeps you coming back for more.”

I stand from my chair as Cora reaches out her hand. “No,” I say into her ear. “You’re strong. You don’t need Fireball. It’s not good to you. It doesn’t care about your feelings.” I wrap my arm around her chest and slowly pull her away from the bar.

“It loves me.”

“It doesn’t,” I snap back and then calm my voice to a whisper. “It . . . doesn’t.”

Resigned, she nods, and I hold her hand, guiding her away from her toxic lover. Our flip-flops snap against the beige tile as we drunkenly navigate through the luxurious hotel. With a lack of walls, the entire lobby and dining area are open to the sea breeze and lit up by strategically placed tiki torches. Faint Hawaiian music plays in the background, and because the hotel isn’t crowded this weekend and is free of kids, it’s quiet. Serene. Just what I need.

Yes, I do believe I’ll have a love affair over the next two weeks. A love affair with Mai Tais, the sun, and the sand.

“Thank you for being there for me,” Cora says quietly. “What you just saw was a low point. Bottom of the barrel. I’m hoping it’s only up from here.”

“I pass no judgement. I know what it’s like to be in a weak moment like that. It’s hard to see past what your heart wants. But I’m proud of you. You held strong. Now we can enjoy our Pop-Tarts and think about how we’re strong, confident women who don’t need Fireball to make us feel good.”

Cora gives me a side hug. “I’m so glad you’re here. I was feeling like the third wheel coming on this vacation. It seems as though everyone is hooked up with someone. Arlo and Greer, Gunner and Lindsay, Keiko and Kelvin—well, when he gets here. I assumed you’d be tied to Romeo the whole time.”

“Ha!” I let out a loud guffaw. “Yeah, no thank you. Trust me, there will be no tying myself to Romeo.”

We turn the corner and find the gift shop, which is still conveniently open. “The motherland of snacks,” Cora whispers. “Do you think they have Pop-Tarts?”

“Not sure, but if we put out good vibes, we might be able to manifest it.” I pause in our pursuit to the store and take a deep breath. “Dear Hawaii, please provide us with the sweet, sugary nectar from Kellogg’s.”

“Preferably blueberry nectar,” Cora adds.

“Blueberry, really? I never pictured you as a blueberry Pop-Tart girl. You’re more like a brown sugar.”

“What? How so?”

I loop my hand through her arm and continue to walk toward the store while divulging my logic. “You’re fancy. You have a posh upbringing. I’m not saying you’re the kind of girl who would frown upon a Pop-Tart, but you do have a more refined palate, and in my head, brown sugar is more refined than an artificial fruit flavoring.”

“They’re all artificially flavored, but I understand what you’re saying.” She gives it some thought. “You know, I am a brown sugar kind of girl. If I’m going to eat a Pop-Tart, by God, it will be fancy.”

We step into the store and we’re greeted by the attendant behind the register. “Aloha.”

“Aloha,” I say, diving right into the culture. Look at me. Mai Tais and alohas. Next thing you know, I’ll be firing up the pit for the luau. Is it called a pit? Hmm, something I need to look into. If I’m firing it up, I need to know the terminology.

“Can I help you find anything?”

Hands clasped together, Cora asks, “Do you have Pop-Tarts?”

The attendant smiles and points to the back of the store. “With the snacks.”

“Oh, thank God.” Cora bows and then says, “Mele Kalikimaka.”

“That means Merry Christmas, you nitwit,” I say, laughing.

Cora pauses while the attendant laughs as well. “It felt like a Mele Kalikimaka moment, didn’t it?”

“Thank God you didn’t have the Fireball,” I say while dragging her toward the back.

“I won’t see her at Christmas. Maybe I was wishing her Merry Christmas in advance. That’s just kind.”

“Is that what you were trying to do?”

She shakes her head. “No, I think I was going for God bless.”

“Exactly.” I move around a rack of kid souvenir shirts, and from the corner of my eye spot the familiar blue package. “Gasp,” I say. “There they are.”

“Where?” Cora whips around, looking frantic. “Do they have my fancy flavor?”

I direct her head toward the Pop-Tarts just as I hear, “Stella?”

My entire body freezes as the authoritarian voice I grew up with shakes me to my bones. Slowly, I turn around and come face to face with my dad. My dad, shirtless, wearing swim trunks and a straw hat.

I’m going to tell you right now—this isn’t normal.

Growing up, my dad was straitlaced. Rigid, almost. He woke up, worked out in the garage, ate breakfast with the family, and then went to work, where he did something like computer processing. Still not quite sure on the details. When he’d get home, Mom would have the food on the table, ready, and then he’d check over our homework while Mom cleaned the kitchen. If we were lucky and he was in a good mood, he’d play a round of cards with me and my sisters. He wore a button-up shirt until he had to take it off to go to bed, and his hair was always perfectly parted to the side and slicked down with gel. Not a hair out of place. Always a freshly shaven face.

That is not the man I’m looking at right now. Yes, he might have the same stern look in his deep chocolate eyes, but that’s as far as it goes when it comes to the man I know as my father.

“Dad?” I ask, still unsure if it’s him.

“Stelly, have you been drinking?”

My spine immediately stiffens, and I’m about to answer when Cora tumbles into me. “Oh yes. The Mai Tais are fantastic and we plan on procuring a long-lasting relationship with them while here, but don’t worry, Mr. Stella’s Dad, we stayed away from Fireball.” She taps her nose and then points at my dad. “We’re keeping it classy.”

Yup . . . really classy.

My dad has never seen me drunk.

And the fear coursing through me of acting like a fool in front of him is real.

But to my shock, he says, “The Mai Tais just about took me down last night.”

Umm . . .

What?

Dad reaches his hand out and says, “I’m Donny.”

I nearly choke on my own saliva. Donny?

**EYES POP OUT**

DONNY?

Uh . . . never in my ENTIRE twenty-nine years has my dad EVER referred to himself as Donny. He’s always been Donald, and nothing else.

Donald Garcia with the pressed pants.

Donald Garcia with the sensible Volkswagen, which wasn’t allowed to be eaten in.

Donald Garcia who would polish his shoes at night as a relaxation technique.

Never once was he ever called Donny. My mom never called him Donny. She wouldn’t dare. Maybe that’s why they fell out of love—the inability to call each other nicknames.

No. I know why they divorced.

They never really loved each other. Thrown together by their parents, they married, had kids, raised them, and when we were all out of the house, they called it quits. They’re friendly with each other, but not friendly enough to call each other nicknames like Donny.

“Coraline, but everyone calls me Cora.” She shakes my dad’s hand. “Wow, what a surprise, finding your daughter in Hawaii, at the same resort. What are the odds?”

Yeah, what are the odds?

I’ll tell you. They’re slim, but that seems to be the kind of luck I have.

Perplexed and still trying to figure out if this is a side effect of the Mai Tais, I ask, “Dad, what, uh . . . what are you doing here?”

He rocks on his heels. “Oh, you know, just living the good life.”

Okay. This is definitely the Mai Tais. There’s no way in hell my dad would ever say something like living the good life. And here I thought I’d have a long-lasting relationship with the rum concoction.

Oh hell no. Not if it’s making me have strange conversations with my dad where he says things like living the good life.

Chuckling, I shake my head. “Sorry, I thought you said ‘living the good life.’ These Mai Tais must be hitting me really hard.”

“No, that’s what he said,” Cora says. “And I couldn’t agree more. Life is too short. We have to enjoy it when we can. By the way, love the board shorts. Men are so scared to wear the short ones, but, dare I say, great legs, Mr. Donny.”

“Why, thank you. Your friend is smart.” Dad looks at me and smiles before opening up his arms. “Where’s my hug, Stelly?”

Before I can even consider what it would be like to be pressed against my dad’s naked chest, he envelops me against him, and I’m caught up in the smell of sunscreen and beer as he snuggles me against his furry chest.

Curly hairs rub against my nose.

His pecs encase my cheek.

And I can honestly say, I’ve never been this intimate with my father.

“It’s good to see you. You’re always so busy, I never get to see you anymore.” When he pulls away, I try not to flinch as I feel the imprint of my dad’s gray chest hair against my cheek. Not sure I’ve ever seen him shirtless, let alone hugged the man when he’s running around topless.

This shop must be another dimension. Alternate reality. A threshold for what-the-fuck situations. I hate to say it, but I don’t think the Pop-Tarts are worth the trouble. And that’s saying a lot, coming from drunk me.

“Why aren’t you visiting with your dad?” Cora chastises me.

“What?” I blink, still trying to comprehend what’s going on. “Uh, I teach a lot.”

“Not during the summer.”

“I teach workout classes during the summer,” I say, dazed.

“What kind of workout classes?” a female voice asks to my right.

Now who the hell is that?

I turn to see who spoke up when my jaw nearly hits the ground.

No.

Fucking.

Way.

“Stella Garcia, as I live and breathe.” Turning to my dad, she asks, “Donny, did you plan this?”

Dad rests his hand on his stomach and in a jolly tone says, “I had no idea she was here.”

Please excuse me while I brace myself against a clothing rack.

The cool fabric of the souvenir shirts, which have been hanging in the air-conditioned space, are a contrast to my heated skin.

What in the fresh hell is happening?

Ashley Broome, my high school nemesis, is standing in front of me. The girl who made my freshman and sophomore years on the volleyball team a living hell is standing . . . right . . . there . . . looking at me with those perfect blue eyes, long blonde hair and—oh, wow.

And she’s calling my dad Donny.

Swallowing back the bile that has risen in my throat, I say, “Ashley. Wow, what are you doing here?”

She laughs and pushes at my shoulder as if we’ve been friends for years. “Oh, always the joker.”

She steps toward my dad and, in absolute horror, I watch as she slips her hand into my dad’s.

My eyes zero in on the connection. My vision begins to tunnel.

She’s holding on to him.

But not just like “oh no, I tripped on my ho-y sandals and I need to brace myself.”

No, she’s holding him as if—as if . . . she belongs to him.

As if they’re—I swallow bile—together.

What in the devil is happening?

“We’re here celebrating,” Ashley says.

Mouth dry, my heart pounding, ready to escape my chest, I say, “Celebrating what?”

She chuckles, and I watch as she takes her other hand and presses it against my dad’s naked chest, just where my cheek uncomfortably rested a few moments ago. She smiles up at him as if he’s her entire world, and that’s when my eyes see it.

The glint of a diamond.

The sparkle of promise.

The eternal commitment between two lovers.

No.

No fucking way.

There’s no fucking—

“We’re celebrating our engagement, of course.”

“Oh . . . shit,” Cora whispers next to me as I blink rapidly, attempting to comprehend what’s unfolding in front of me.

“Isn’t it amazing?” Ashley reaches out and takes my hand in hers. “I’m going to be your new mom.”

I . . .

There’s . . .

WHAT?

That’s it.

No more Mai Tais. Here I thought it was Fireball that was going to wreck us, that was going to swoop in with its wild ways and make us regret our decisions. We didn’t give Mai Tais credit where credit is due.

Can we cue up a slow clap for the rum concoction? Because, well done on the mindfuckery.

Well fucking done.

Boss-level mindfuckery.

Bringing a parent to an island in the middle of the ocean, changing his personality completely, and then attaching him to the girl—two years my senior—who used to torture me all throughout volleyball practice. Not just attaching, but marrying him.

Ha.

Oh, good one.

This is really freaking good.

“Why are you slow clapping?” Cora asks me.

I look down at my hands—they’re moving without my knowledge. I shake my head. “Can’t tell you, but I do think I’m having some sort of weird episode.” I clear my throat. “I think there was something in the Mai Tais that’s making me delusional.” I swallow, my saliva feeling like a boulder trying to squeeze down my throat. Clutching the back of my neck, I say, “You see, I thought I saw my dad in Hawaii and engaged to a girl two years older than me.”

“She’s two years older than you?” Surprised, Cora looks past me and asks, “What’s your skincare routine? Your skin is flawless.”

“Aw, thank you,” Ashley says, making me nearly jump out of my flip-flops. “But this is just me, nothing special. I just seem to be lucky.” She pushes my shoulder again. “But I do recall someone having a tremendous amount of acne in high school. Looks as though you’re all cleared up now, Stella. Good for you.”

Still uneasy, I face the sight in front of me, my dad looking jolly—yes, freaking jolly—holding Ashley Broome’s hand, her bosom high and large and in your face, a pink sarong wrapped around her stomach making her look like Hawaii Barbie.

This is real.

This is actually real and happening.

My dad is engaged to Ashley Broome, an absolute witch.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” Ashley says to Cora.

Waving, Cora says, “I’m Coraline, but everyone except my brother calls me Cora. Arlo never took to the nickname.”

“Cora, nice to meet you. Are you Stella’s partner?”

“Partner?” Cora asks. “Ohhh, like her lover?” Cora starts giggling like a moron.

“No, she’s not,” I say.

“Oh, sorry. She just seemed like your type,” Ashley says offhandedly.

My dad clears his throat. “I wasn’t aware that you like women. Is this a new development?”

“What? No,” I nearly shout.

“We always thought she was into girls,” Ashley says.

“Who’s we?” I ask.

What is happening right now? Why is my sexual orientation a point of topic? And why is Ashley bringing it up? Not that it would be a bad thing to be gay. I envy lesbians at times, not having to deal with the disgusting intricacies of the male population. Is it too much to ask to wash your hands after you go to the bathroom? You touch your private parts to pee, therefore WASH YOUR HANDS. The amount of times I’ve seen male teachers come out of the teachers’ lounge bathroom with dry hands is—

“Kristin, Tiffany, and Madison,” Ashley answers, interrupting my thoughts. “We actually thought you and McKenna were a secret couple.”

“No.” I shake my head. “She was my best friend.”

“McKenna would spend the night often at our house,” Dad says, a raise to his brow.

“Because she was my best friend.”

“You’d giggle in the back of the bus on school trips.”

“Because she was my FRIEND!” I shout, drawing attention from the shop attendant.

“Well, it doesn’t matter.” Ashley waves me off. “I was just confused because your dad was telling me you’ve never been in a relationship, so I figured you were just hiding yourself.” Ashley touches me again on the arm and I swear if she does it again, I’ll— “It’s okay to be open with me. I’m going to be a big part of your life. I’m quite maternal. If you want to come out to me—”

“I have a boyfriend,” I shout, surprising Cora and myself.

“What? Since when?” Cora asks, taking a step back to look me up and down.

Christ, if only she could read a room.

Jaw clenched, I say, “Uh, we’ve been keeping it secret.”

“Oh my God, who is it?” Cora asks, completely oblivious.

I try to communicate to her without talking but we’re both too wasted to have any sort of mindreading communication translated so I say, “Uh, he’s, uh . . .” Think. Think, Stella. Who’s your boyfriend?

Chris Pine.

Chris Evans.

Chris Hemsworth.

No, no, no. Why is Chris in my head right now?

Think of a name.

Any name.

A man’s name . . .

“Romeo,” I say before I can stop myself.

Oh no.

“Shut . . . UP,” Cora shouts. “God, I knew it. I freaking knew it. I told Greer the other day you two were totally together and putting on a front.” She parades around the small space in the back of the store, fist-pumping the air with certainty. “I can’t wait to tell Greer and shove it in her face. This is fantastic. And he’s here, in Maui. Oh my God, are you two sneaking off to be with each other?”

“Uh, no, it’s not—”

“He’s here?” Ashley asks, jumping up and down, her boobs bobbing with her. “Oh my God, Donny, we need to meet him. Tomorrow night, let’s have dinner together.”

And this is why you don’t say a name people know.

Damn you, Mai Tais, we’re done.

You had your chance, and you didn’t play your cards right. It’s over between us.

“You know, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Oh, so you’re not really together then?” Ashley asks, a challenging glint in her eye.

And that right there, that one look, pushes me over the edge.

Something in me snaps.

Maybe it’s the athlete in me.

Maybe it’s the Mai Tais.

Maybe it’s my jealous breasts who wish they were as perky and nice as Ashley’s, but I up the ante on the delusional situation I seem to be in.

“Oh, we’re together. We, uh . . . we’re actually engaged too but we’re not saying anything since we’re here on our friends’ wedding trip.”

“You’re ENGAGED?” Cora brings her hands to her head in utter shock.

Ugh, how could I forget she was still here?

Ignoring Cora, I say, “So, yeah, happy and in love.”

“Stelly, I’m so happy for you,” Dad says in a warm tone as he scoops me up into a hug and presses a kiss to the top of my head like he used to when I was growing up. “This calls for celebration.” He holds my shoulders and looks me in the eyes. “Tomorrow night, dinner. You, me, Ashley, and Romeo. I’ll text you the details.”

Ashley smiles at me. “I can’t wait.” And then she comes up to me and pulls me into a hug. “We’re going to have the best mother-daughter relationship.” When she lets go of me, she pinches my cheek and then steps away. Giving me a small once-over, she says, “And maybe while you’re here we can go shopping together, get you something more . . . modern?”

“That would make me very happy, seeing you two spend some time together.”

Over my dead and Mai Tai’d body.

Dad tips my chin up. “See you tomorrow.” And then with his hand to Ashley’s lower back, he guides her out of the souvenir shop.

Leaning against the wall with an open Pop-Tart package—when did she grab that?—Cora says, “Wow, just wow. Family reunion, two secret engagements, and no Fireball to skew our thoughts. What a night.”

I swat the Pop-Tart away and watch it hit the floor before looking into Cora’s eyes. “We’re not engaged, nor are we in a relationship, nor have we ever come close to touching each other. I just said that to save face.”

“What?” Cora whines. “Ugh, come on. You literally just peed all over my parade.”

“Ugh, you just had to escalate it with your oohing and ahhing.”

“I didn’t ooh and ahh, and why are you lying, anyway?”

“Uh, did you not happen to notice that my dad is engaged to a woman two years older than me? Or better yet, to a woman who was my archenemy in high school?”

Cora gasps. “Noooooo, really? Ooo, plot twist.”

“No, not plot twist. This is my life.”

Cora starts to giggle. Then snorts. Loudly. “How do you suppose you’re going to get the Master of Sneer to attend dinner with you?”

Shit.

Things I didn’t think through.

Ugh . . . crap.

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Table of Contents

Full Page Image

Copyright

Connect with Meghan

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Epilogue

Excerpt - Earn Your Extra Credit

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