Page 63 of Off Limits: The Firsts

I pull the wrapper off one of the wintergreen Life Savers and look up through the training room window to see Easton standing at his locker, looking my way. Our eyes connect for the briefest of moments so as to not give away what’s happening between us, but it’s long enough for me to slip the candy between my lips and offer a ghost of a smile. His nod is ever so slight before turning to say something to J.P. as if our exchange never occurred.

But it did.

And as I look down to the flower (less one Life Saver) I’m left struggling with how to accept all of the good things happening in my life—the rehabilitation contract, my time spent off the field with Easton, the prospect of a long-term job that will allow me to stay in one place for more than a few months—when I should be thinking about my dad instead.

The guilt eats at me when I know I can’t let it. I just have to take things one day at a time.

Another quick glance Easton’s way drives the point home because while I may not want to admit it to myself, the time I spend with him is the highlight of my day.

“Where’ve you been lately?”

I glance over at Drew and wait for him to say what his eyes are insinuating. “You guys have been on a road trip, so I’ve been here, and you haven’t.” I snap my towel at him to emphasize my point.

“It wouldn’t have anything to do with that hot little trainer you’ve got rubbing you down, now would it?”

“Fuck off, Drew. You’re just jealous I get a female.”

“Damn straight, I’m jealous. Please tell me you’ve tried to round the bases with her, because, dude, I’d be worried if you hadn’t.”

Heads have turned our way, ears listening, the locker room full of players as they come back in from batting practice, the game’s first pitch a little over ninety minutes away.

“Shot down, brother,” I lie, and he bumps my fist and laughs. “She’s all business, all the time. Last week I thought I had a shot when she showed up at my place after I threw hard for the first time . . . but nope. I had my phone off and hadn’t answered her, so she swung by to make sure I’d iced my arm. Not exactly the kind of front-door service I was hoping for.”

“There’s hope for me yet if Wylder still gets shot down.”

“That’s cold, man.”

Comments ring through the room right beside the disbelieving laughter at the fact that I’d been rejected by Scout.

Little do they know the damn woman has owned my thoughts more than I’d fucking like to admit. It could be that I get to see her every damn day of the week. That I’ve badgered her into having a few dinners with me. That getting drunk on her kiss is what I look forward to.

But hell, this “getting to know you” shit has to end soon, because a man only has so much restraint and his balls can only get so blue. Besides, there’s only so much satisfaction in jerking off when the one you’re fantasizing about does something like she did today, showing up in a tank top that makes you want to cave on your promise.

Oh, fuck, how I’d wanted to cave. And not because it was revealing, but rather because every time she rubbed against me during our stretching routine, all I could think about was that I know what her tits look like beneath it. Perky. Pink. Suckable.

The drought definitely needs to end.

And soon.

But isn’t that the damn problem? Just when I thought we’ve gotten to know each other better, that sex is just what the doctor ordered, she showed up today with that fucking spooked look in her eyes. The one that had her so antsy she left right after we cooled down and she was done with me.

I play it off that she’s having a bad day. Maybe her uncle is still sick. Who knows, though, because she won’t say shit to me about him.

Then again, maybe she’s just freaked.

Fucking women.

“Well, one thing for sure,” Stanza says from across the locker room, “Santiago is going to get some chin music tonight.”

I meet his eyes across the distance and just nod—a quiet thank you for letting me know that when he pitches tonight, he’s going to throw a few inside to push Santiago off the plate. A little “fuck you” for hurting me.

Those who say there’s no retaliation in baseball have never played. A pitch aimed a little too close to the head. A tag thrown just a tad too hard. A shoulder lowered or cleats angled up when going in to slide at a base. You fuck with my teammate, we’ll fuck with you back, is the motto for most teams.

Especially mine. Especially for me because the play was dirty.

“Fuck that fucker,” J.P. mutters, getting a rise out of the guys.

“You staying to watch?” Drew bumps my shoulder and asks.