Page 96 of Off Limits: The Firsts

“Glad to know that your precious fucking contract is your number one concern right now. Doesn’t anything else matter?”

“Yes. Of course other things matter.”

“Betcha can’t name one.” He stares at me, eyes searching and a muscle pulsing in his jaw. For the life of me, put on the spot like this and with his anger misplaced on me, I can’t think of one when I know there are tons.

“Are you kidding me?” I screech, hating that I can’t answer him, and lashing out in return. “You’re going to turn this on me? Was it that hard to keep your testosterone in check? To walk the fuck away from him? Did you even think once that maybe when they reinstated you, it would cement his fate? You’d step back into your position, they’d see you side by side and know your talent blows his out of the damn water, and—”

“And you’d be awarded the contract.” His voice is quiet and even now, and I hate the tinge to its edges—disappointment, sadness, hurt . . . I’m not sure what, but it digs deep down in me and makes my stomach churn.

“It’s not about the goddamn contract! Don’t you get it?” I walk from one side of the room to the other. I’m so angry, so confused, I can’t seem to say the words I need to get out. It’s like I have so many I’m suffocating on them, and yet at the same time, I don’t have any. “It’s about the time you put in. It’s about getting you back on the damn field. Back to the game you love.” My voice hitches. The tears well. “What’s more important to you than that?”

He glares at me, the tendons in his neck taut, his mouth pulled tight, his body like a rubber band about to snap. “You just don’t get it, do you?” He shakes his head, his voice vibrating with resigned frustration.

“Get what? That you couldn’t control your temper. That you just risked everything we’ve worked for?”

“There you go again.” He blows out a sigh.

“Whatever, Easton.” I’m done. He wants to act like the asshole, then I don’t want any part of it. I turn my back to try and hide the hurt, the confusion, the unsettled feeling that things just changed majorly between us, even though it had nothing to do with us.

“Whatever?” he shouts, grabbing my arm and spins me around so we’re face to face, body to body, temper against temper. “Whatever? There are more important things than getting the goddamn contract,” he growls, his finger poking against my chest.

“Like what?” I challenge.

“Like doing what’s right.”

“What’s right is keeping your nose clean and getting reinstated. There’s nothing more important than that right now.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, you’re frustrating.” He steps back from me, shoves a hand through his hair, blows out an audible breath, and then steps back up to me. “What’s right, Scout, is defending what you care about.”

“And what’s that?” Our eyes are locked, tempers bouncing off each other’s in the space between us.

“Not what, but who.” He pauses, squeezes his eyes shut for a beat, and when he opens them back up, the anger is still there, but there’s something else, too.

“Who? What in the fuck are you talking about?” Did something happen with one of the guys? With his dad? What?

“You. I care about you. And I’d fucking punch him and fuck up my shoulder a thousand times over than ever let him talk shit about you again. You got it?”

“Oh.” I stand there, stunned. Never in a million years did I think that Easton and Santiago would get in a brawl, on the field, with the fans there to watch batting practice, over me.

How could I have been so stupid when he was saying it all along?

We stand a foot apart, and all I want to do is put my hands on his cheeks and kiss him senseless. Reassure him. Reassure me. Anything to make a connection with him and thank him and tell him in the only way I know how that I care.

But I can’t. There’s a room full of teammates at our backs, who I’m sure were watching our fight unfold from the room’s window. I’m certain assumptions have been made over why we’re fighting. I know Easton’s had his hands on me one too many times to come off like trainer and player.

And, right now, I don’t really care, because he’s upset and I want to soothe him. I can’t touch and I can’t kiss. I can’t wrap my arms around him or press my lips to his hurt cheek—the punch he took for me—and kiss it better.

I step forward out of instinct, and he steps back.

“No, Scout.” There is so much emotion in my name, I know he’s feeling the same way I do, but the look in his eyes tells me his control has been snapped once, and it’s best not to test it again.

He’s so amped up on adrenaline and need that one touch and he won’t be able to stop.

So, I use the only thing I can to reach him: my words.

“There will always be men talking shit about me, Easton. It’s part of my job. I know it comes along with the career I chose. There will always be a guy who thinks I’m a Kitty or a Trixie.” He sighs, and my heart does, too, right along with him. “Thank you for standing up for me, but you can’t slay every dragon I face. It’s a full-time job these days, but I’m strong and can handle it.”

He cracks a smile. One full of regret, apology, but more than anything, filled with love. It’s the first time I recognize it, and I stand there, so overwhelmed with emotions, I don’t know what to do about it.