Page 57 of Off Limits: The Firsts

“Perfect.”

“Can you grab that?” Easton calls from his bedroom when the buzzer on the elevator rings.

“Sure.” My stomach rumbles at the thought of food being on the other side of the sliding doors.

I hit the button to open the elevator and am startled when I’m met with the hazel eyes and curious expression of Cal Wylder.

“Ms. Dalton?” He says, as calm as can be, all the while subtly looking me over—for what, I don’t know. Probably wondering why Easton’s trainer is making house calls.

“You’re not sushi.” The words fall from my mouth as the panic I had averted earlier comes full circle and slams back into me. And then I realize what I just said to him. To Easton’s dad. To the club’s liaison. The man who now is probably putting two and two together when he can’t. That I’m here. Off the clock. What if he tells Cory? Fuck. “I mean food. You’re not food. Chinese food. I mean Japanese food. You were . . . it was supposed to be delivery.”

Someone please kill me now before I make an even bigger ass of myself.

“Dad?” Easton walks out to the foyer, and the sound of his voice helps to calm my rioting nerves. But when I turn to look his way, I want to die. He’s wet from a shower I didn’t even know he was taking, wearing gym pants slung low on his hips, and he’s running a towel through his dripping hair.

“Well, now that I know your shoulder’s feeling good and iced, I should get going,” I say and scurry from the room like the petrified mouse I am.

“Scout,” Easton calls after me, resignation and agitation mixed in his voice.

“Typical, Easton.” Cal’s voice, followed by a heavy sigh, stops me dead in my tracks just as I step into the kitchen area and out of their line of sight. “I should’ve known.”

“Should have known what, Dad?”

“Always playing the women, getting distracted by a piece of ass, instead of playing the field like you should be.”

I straighten my spine where I stand, needing to leave but knowing damn well that would mean having to walk right past them. Every part of me bucks the idea of giving Cal Wylder the satisfaction of my running away, tail tucked between my legs.

“A piece of ass? Really, Dad? What I do off the field is none of your business or the club’s. Not if I have a friend over for some dinner and a movie. Not if I have a woman over and she’s more than a friend. Not if my fucking trainer stops by to check my shoulder and make sure I’ve iced it, since I was throwing down to bases today for the first time since my surgery and she was concerned about how it was doing. So, don’t you fucking dare walk into my house and judge a situation when you have no clue which of the three it is.”

There’s a tense silence I can feel all the way in the kitchen, and I realize I’m holding my breath.

“You have a habit of getting distracted.”

“Distracted? Really? I put in six hours today between the gym, conditioning, and rehab. And I put another two in first thing this morning at Children’s Hospital visiting sick kids . . . so please, tell me what else I was supposed to be doing when I’m on the damn DL?”

“Easton.” There’s a pause, and my mind runs through the image of them standing face to face, mirror images separated by twenty-five years. There’s a sigh, and I can imagine Cal looking just like Easton does when he runs a hand through his hair and tries to figure out what he’s going to say next. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I just want the best for you, son. I want you back on the field showing everyone you’re good as new and one hundred percent.”

“Fucking Santiago,” Easton mutters with vitriol.

“There’s always going to be a Santiago in your career, son. Always.” There’s a sadness to his voice that pulls on me and makes me wish I could see his expression. “Another player who’s jealous of your success or pissed at a pitch you called against him and is going to try to bring you down.”

I wish I could hear Easton’s response, but he speaks it quietly.

“So you threw today? How’d it feel? What did Scout say about it?”

“It felt so damn good to be back in my gear.” I can hear the smile in his voice, and, silly or not, I love knowing that I helped to put it there. “And it feels good. A little stiff, and I’m sure it will be sore tomorrow, but right now, I can’t complain.”

“And Scout?”

Even though there has been a mood shift in the conversation, I sense a hesitation in Easton to respond. I can’t deny that I breathe a little easier knowing he’s just as cautious about others knowing I’m here—that there is, in fact, something going on between us—as I am.

And it takes this moment to hit me square in the solar plexus and knock the wind out of me. I want to stay in town. I want to get to know Easton better. I want to know what it feels like to wake up next to someone in the morning without freaking out that I’m too close, too attached, and I need to create some space to protect myself for when he leaves.

I reach for the glass of wine I left on the counter and finish it off, stunned by the realization but liking the good kind of flutter it puts in my belly. The same kind of flutter I get when Easton cocks his head and stares at me with that knowing smile on his lips.

And now cue the fear. The worry that we both work in a volatile business where there are no guarantees where you’ll be from one year to the next, and that means he could still leave me. He could still move on.

I could still be left behind.