Page 28 of Off Limits: The Firsts

“And twice in a matter of minutes you make me feel like a complete heel.” He releases my fingers and drops his head into his hands, his laugh ringing out as he scrubs them through his hair. The simple mannerism makes me smile, even more so when he looks at me again, eyes intense, smile bewildered. “Seriously?”

“If I was gonna play, I wanted to play the best position on the field. The one that holds all the control.”

“Control freak.”

“Ditto.” I murmur back, my smile soft, the alcohol warming me from the inside out.

“Incredible.” His voice is part awe, part surprise, and it makes every part of me stand tall with pride.

“My dad used to say the best place in the park to sit was behind home plate. And so when I was about ten, I figured if I was going to play, I wanted to make sure I had the best seat in the house.”

I can hear my dad’s voice saying it now, the memory bittersweet.

“And my dad told me to play first base instead,” he says with a shake of his head, “because catching caused too much wear and tear on your body and could shorten your career.”

“So you’ve always rebelled against him, then?”

His laughter is quick and his smile arrogant. “That noticeable, huh?”

“There was just a touch of tension in the locker room.”

“A touch? Was that all?”

Relieved he can laugh now at what upset him earlier, I put my thumb and index finger half an inch apart. “Just a smidgen.”

The soft smile on his lips does nothing to ease the conflict in his eyes as he lowers his gaze to watch the condensation run down the side of his beer bottle. He collects his thoughts before he looks back up at me to explain. “He means well. He’s just very particular and extremely determined that I live up to the Wylder name. He doesn’t want me to disgrace the legacy he left behind, especially since I play for the club he spent his entire career playing for.”

“That’s a lot of pressure.” I can’t imagine.

“I’m sure the situation you’re in is no different, living up to the legendary Doc Dalton.”

I twist my lips and consider his statement. “Pressure, yes. But it’s something I want to do, love to do . . . to make him proud.” But I get the feeling that while Easton feels similarly about his situation, at least I had the choice whether I wanted to follow in my father’s footsteps. For some reason, I don’t think he did.

“Every kid wants to make their parents proud,” he muses as he angles his head to the side. “But every parent holds a different standard for what exactly it is that will achieve that.”

And that comment confirms my assumption that Easton feels like he’s never been good enough to live up to his father, the legend. My heart hurts for him, working as hard as he does, playing a game he is more than gifted at, but living a life to earn someone’s approval.

“True. That must be hard for you.”

He shrugs again. Averts his eyes. Takes a swig of his beer. “When I’m playing good, it’s not.” He laughs, and I can tell he’s uneasy with the topic of conversation.

“Tell me something else about yourself,” I say, more than curious to find another piece to complete this puzzle of a man.

“You sure are full of questions,” he teases.

“Please,” I say drolly. “I’m sure you’d prefer to talk baseball or stats or something scintillating like that.”

“Scintillating?” He laughs.

“It’s a good word.”

“It is,” he says with a nod, “but I don’t talk stats.”

What? “I thought all players liked to talk about the game.”

“I’m not all players, though.”

“So it seems.”