Page 50 of Off Limits: The Firsts

“You’re throwing down.”

“What did you just say?” I can hear the hope in his voice as he jogs up beside me, and it tugs on every heartstring that he hasn’t already tugged on.

“You heard me.”

“I know you didn’t just say that to distract me from the conversation and not plan on following through.”

“I wouldn’t do that. Not when it comes to your arm. This is contract, remember?”

“Then say it again.” His grin is contagious, and I smile at his reaction, my bipolar emotions on overdrive.

“Please don’t tell me you forgot what throwing down is.” I toy with him, speaking to him like a teacher does to a child, fingers pointing to each location as I explain. “I know it’s been a few months, so I’ll explain. Throwing down is when the catcher, that’s you, sits behind home plate—that’s the white thing over there behind the batter’s box. And when the pitcher—that’s the person on the mound—throws the ball to you, you throw the ball down to second base—that white square way out there—to try and get the runner out who’s trying to steal.”

“Thanks,” he says drolly as he gestures to the glove in my hand and then stops when he notices his gear already laid out in the dugout. Thankfully Manny was around and helped me get that part done. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“As a heart attack.”

The look on his face will forever be etched in my mind as one of those times my job is incredible. Reverence. Awe. Gratitude. Relief. All of them are reflected as he slides on his armor. The barely visible inscription Thou shall not steal written in black sharpie around the edge of his chest protector makes me smile.

I’m reminded of the times I’ve watched a game on TV, stared at his inscription, and wondered what kind of cocky asshole would taunt a runner by wearing that. But then within a few pitches he’d pick the runner off the base with such ease, I’d know that if anyone could pull off wearing that chest protector, Easton Wylder could.

Waiting for him at home plate, I give him a moment to enjoy feeling semi-normal again, putting his gear back on for the first time in months. It’s a milestone—physically and mentally. And I love that when he walks out of the dugout, he’s greeted by hoots and hollers from his teammates still in left field.

“’Bout fucking time, Wylder!” one of them yells, which earns him a middle finger from Easton, but his huge grin doesn’t lie about how this makes him feel.

“So, here’s the deal . . . we’ll start off slow. We’ll warm up tossing the ball, and then once you’re warm enough, I’ll take a few steps back—we’ll throw some at that distance—and then I’ll step back farther, keep going until you feel any pain or discomfort.”

“Sounds good, but why the gear?”

“Because you throw different with your gear on. You might not think so, but you do. Slow and steady wins the race here, Easton. There’s no prize for coming out hard.”

“Fitting.” His laughter is loud and rich and hits me about the same time I realize the innuendo in my words. All I can do is shake my head and step down the first base line. “I know all about slow and steady, Kitty. Don’t you worry there.”

I turn to glare a warning at him. “This is contract, Hot Shot,” I say knowing damn well he’s enjoying this. “We’ll start working our way to first base, and then, depending on how you’re feeling, we can move on to second.”

Thankfully, he lets that innuendo slide with only a snicker as I lift my glove and motion for him to throw the ball.

“How is it feeling?” It’s been about thirty minutes since we started, but the grin on his face tells me all I need to know.

I think.

“Good. Better with each throw.”

“That’s good.” My hands go automatically to his shoulder, pressing, kneading, feeling. “Was there any tightness or pinching or—”

“A little tightness, but this is the most I’ve done in months, so it feels good.”

“Mm.” I stare at him, wishing he’d take off his sunglasses so I could see his eyes and know if he’s being truthful or not. But this is where I have to trust him. He knows his body best, after all.

“So, do I get to play with second base?” he asks, hopeful that I’m going to let him throw the full distance.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” I laugh because all of this—his lack of pain, how good his arm looks and feels, our flirty banter—has put me in a good mood. Add to that working with Easton out in the sunshine and making progress has given me time to think.

“You’re looking good,” Drew Minski says as he jogs over on his way to the dugout from the outfield.

“Feels fucking great to have leather and laces in my hands again,” Easton says.

“Hi, Drew.” I greet him when he nods my way. “Great at-bat last night.”