Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 30889 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 154(@200wpm)___ 124(@250wpm)___ 103(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 30889 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 154(@200wpm)___ 124(@250wpm)___ 103(@300wpm)
He shrugs, but smiles. “As much as they can.”
And he likes it. “Bet they cheer the loudest. Wave signs and all that.”
He scratches his jaw, a little embarrassed. “Yes. That obvious?”
I hold up a thumb and forefinger. “Just a little. That’s nice though. At least, it sounds like it is.”
“I don’t mind it,” he says. The spark in his brown eyes says he not only doesn’t mind it. He likes it.
I nod to the door, so we can take off. “So you really are Mister Wholesome?” Maybe teasing him will take my mind off my resentment.
He narrows his eyes. “I’m trying to be.”
“You sure about that?” I prod.
His smile falters. He locks eyes with me, chin up. “Positive.”
I swallow. I should stop. Truly, I should. There are a million reasons why messing around with Adam is a bad idea.
Starting with reason number one. We play the same fucking position. Doesn’t take a genius to know what’s coming next.
Once I reach the ballpark, our manager, Becker, calls me into his office.
“What’s up, Skip?” I ask when I step inside.
“So, Miller, here’s the thing,” Becker begins, in his grizzled voice, looking like he’s about to deliver the anvil drop I’ve been waiting for since Adam’s trade was announced, trying to formulate whatever words will soften the blow.
My gut twists. I wish this weren’t coming, but I pride myself on being a realist. I know the game too well to miss the signs—namely, how Adam’s playing well. And how I’ve been playing well enough. I decide to make it easy on Becker. “Let me guess—you’re moving me.” I try to keep how I’m feeling out of my tone, though some must leak through.
“Second base,” he confirms. “It could be temporary.” Though he says it in a way that means it probably isn’t.
Great. Fucking fantastic. Turns out losing your spot sucks even when you see it coming. “Understood,” I say, trying to take the news like a champ.
“You’ve played second before,” Becker points out like that softens the blow. Which I have, though not since the minors. “We figured it’d give you some time to focus on your offense.” A reminder that I’m having a down year, even if my “down” is better than a good chunk of the league.
“Yep,” I say tightly, “got it.” I grit my teeth, but try to shake off the annoyance as I trot out to the field. Maybe the sunlight will burn off some of my irritation. When I reach the diamond, Adam’s taking ground ball practice.
That’s annoying too.
If he looked good sitting in my kitchen earlier, he looks even better now, throwing while wearing a pair of baseball pants and a team T-shirt that shows off his toned body. When Adam spots me, he flashes me a grin, then scoops up the ball the coach sends to him like it’s no harder than breathing. “Hey, Miller,” he calls, “get out here.”
I do, jogging out with a glove. The team’s been patchwork about who’s been playing second this year, so at least I’m not taking anyone’s permanent spot.
“You up for practicing double plays?” he asks, as if he can tell I’m irritated about getting moved.
He doesn’t press me when I just nod. I’m grateful for that.
Grateful too that he doesn’t make a thing of it. He just wants to play ball. I know that feeling well. Baseball—it’s reliable when nothing else is.
It does the trick today, loosening up the tension running up my back. I hope it works on some of the tension between us. I’ll get over this. I always do. Doesn’t hurt that Adam’s too damn nice to be mad at. Too bad I like that about him.
Our first base coach hits balls to Adam, who turns, tossing them to me, and I throw on to Travis, who’s set up at first. Hit-toss-catch-throw, hit-toss-catch-throw. Easy, the way the rest of the day hasn’t been. Easier when Adam yells, “Good hands,” after a particularly nice turn.
As I scoop the ball, and toss it his way, I serve the compliment back to him. “Same to you, Chason,” I say.
And he gets a flush to his cheeks that has nothing to do with the grim Seattle weather.
Another reminder of that night.
He fights off a smile, but I can tell where his mind went.
I told myself I wouldn’t linger on one quick hookup, but the way he acts around me—curious, flirty, and, let’s be honest, really fucking interested makes me wonder if I was wrong about why he left.
Maybe he wasn’t racing away from me.
Maybe he was running from whatever was happening in his life.
I might be reading something into nothing, but my instincts tell me Adam Chason thinks more about the night of the fundraiser than he ever expected.
And my instincts are rarely wrong.
But that doesn’t mean I should act on them. I definitely shouldn’t.