“And what reason is that?” she asks, smoothly scooping some guac onto her chip.

  I rub the back of my neck, contemplating how much I should really open up to Milly. In all honesty, I barely know the girl. Hell, I don’t even know her last name, but there’s something about her, maybe her kind eyes, or the way she carries herself, that makes me fully trust her. Like I could tell her anything and she’d never judge me, nor would she ever tell anyone what we talked about.

  It's why I’m exposing some of my deepest thoughts. “After the Achilles rupture, I kind of lost trust in everyone around me besides Knox and Holt, my two best friends. If my own teammate could hurt me so badly, who else was about to turn their back on me? All the scouts considering recruiting me quickly changed their minds. The freshmen who’d admired me, quickly turned into my rivals, all vying for my position. It was like the big guy was taken out, so let’s hang him out to dry. After I went through PT, I had the hardest time finding my groove again, and then it was like everyone was offering their advice, some good, mostly bad. I didn’t know who was truly trying to help and who was trying to smash my career.”

  “I can understand that. You’re at a level where you have to be very careful who you trust.” She pauses and then asks. “So why did you trust me?”

  I should have seen that question coming. “Because I could tell you were someone who wouldn’t screw me over, who actually had good intentions. You have a passion for baseball, not a know-it-all attitude, but a pure passion, and I could jump on board with that. I felt comfortable listening to you because of that passion. Not to mention, you had an entire file on your phone of videos of me.”

  Her mouth drops open. “Hey, not just videos of you, of the whole team. Don’t make me seem like a stalker.”

  “How many times a night do you watch those videos?”

  “Not very often, if you must know, just when I’m trying to study.”

  “Which is . . .”

  She looks to the side and bites the tip of her finger. “Maybe like every other night.”

  My head tilts back as I laugh. “That’s what I thought and that’s why I like you, because you’re honest.”

  “What does anyone have to gain from lying?”

  My brows shoot up. “Are you serious with that question? Everything. People have everything to gain from lying.”

  “But in the long run, doesn’t karma come back to bite you in the ass?”

  “One would only hope.” I take another bite of my taco while she does the same. We chew for a while in silence, enjoying the spring air shifting around us. It’s not too cold, but just brisk enough to warrant a sweatshirt. Too bad neither of us is dressed for the part.

  “Please tell me the Chicago Bobcats are your favorite team.”

  She glances at her food and then back at me. “Hometown girl, I’d be crazy not to like them.”

  “What were the best seats you’ve ever had?”

  She smirks. “Second row behind home plate.”

  I cough up a piece of lettuce. “What? Really?”

  She nods. “Yup. It was the best game of my life.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Twelve. It was Sanderson’s last year at shortstop, and my dad somehow scored tickets from one of his customers. Three seats.”

  “Three seats.” I think about it for a second. “How many brothers do you have?”

  “Three.” She holds up her fingers before taking another bite.

  “Oh damn, let me guess, two of them had to stay home.”

  “No.” She shakes her head. “We were all at the game, just three of us were watching it in luxury.”

  I chuckle, loving how smug she looks. “Okay, so you got one and your dad got one I’m assuming.”

  “Yup, and my brother Cory. Sean and Rian were out.”

  “Okay.” I wipe my mouth with a napkin. “How did you score the good seats?”

  “Bucket ball of course. The top two winners got the tickets. It was a shoo-in for me, and that’s why my dad suggested the game to decide. He knew I’d win. He knew I’d appreciate the seats the most. The third ticket was for whichever one of his bozo sons could beat the other out. I had no doubt it would be Cory, because he always challenged me.”

  “That’s amazing. You’re close with your dad?”

  “Some might say I’m Daddy’s spoiled-rotten little girl, followed closely by my big brother. They always tell me how I have them wrapped around my pinky.” She casually shrugs. “I don’t do anything differently, just talk ball like the rest of them.”

  “Yeah, I can see how they would become attached.” The compliment slips past my lips before I can stop it. Clearing my throat, I gesture to the tacos. “Want another?”

  “Sure, thank you.” With no shame, she picks up another taco and starts taking big bites. A girl who eats without a care in the world. I fucking like that. “It’s cool that you have no qualms about eating food in front of guys.”

  She pauses mid bite and her cheeks flush ever so slightly before she says, “I guess it’s never crossed my mind. I’ve been eating in front of guys my whole life, whether it was my brothers, their friends, or my friends.”

  “Do you have any friends that are girls?”

  “Not really,” she answers, but doesn’t seem to be sad about it. “Girls have never really gotten me. While everyone was getting ready for prom, I was helping my brothers condition their gloves. When they were all working at the mall, getting discounts for all that girly stuff, I was wiping the sweat off my brow as an umpire.”

  “You were an umpire?”

  She quickly holds her hand out to the side and points her finger while sounding out a very loud “Stirrrrrrr-ike!”

  The heavy and boisterous sound causes me to buckle over and laugh. I was so not expecting that from her, but hell, I really liked it.

  She wiggles her eyebrows at me. “You like that? No one messed with me out of sheer fear that I would strike them out and make it loud enough for the entire baseball park to hear.”

  “That’s fucking amazing,” I say, still laughing. “When I was in high school, we had a female umpire who didn’t take shit from anyone. She wore her pants incredibly high.”

  “Past her belly button?”

  “Yeah, almost to her boobs.”

  She nods in understanding. “Yup, the pants they give you aren’t made for women, so you really have no choice but to wear them up around your nipples. Very unpleasant for everyone.”

  “Are you telling me the pants aren’t part of your wardrobe anymore?”

  “Saving them for when I go out on a date.”

  “How often is that?” The personal question strikes me as odd, but then again, I’m curious. Does Milly date? She seems to be so laser focused on her interests, that dating might not be on her list of things to do.

  Shyly, she turns her eyes away and says, “Not as often as you probably do.”

  “I don’t date,” I state. “Don’t have time for it, and I have things I need to focus on, goals I need to accomplish. Dating would get in the way of that.”

  “Makes sense.” She avoids eye contact with me but picks up another chip, this time taking a massive scoop of guac. She stuffs it in her mouth and then glances up, a big smile on her face as she says, “That good?”

  A small spout of guac flies from her mouth and hits me right in the cheek. Her eyes widen and I bust a gut one more time as her face turns beet red. With my index finger, I flick off the guacamole and wipe it on my napkin.

  “That was perfect.”

  Chapter Eleven

  CARSON

  “How much time do we have again?” Milly asks, looking at the clock on her phone after dropping the last ball in the bucket from the hour of tee work we just did.

  “Until three, and then I have to head to the field.” I was able to score some time in the batting cages before practice, which is always a crutch because of the amount of equipment we have here, but I’m not going to lie, going to field six is growing on me. It reminds me of where I came from, and helps the worries drain from my body so I just enjoy the game.

  “It’s two thirty now.” She reaches into her backpack and pulls out a glove. “Let’s do some front toss.”

  “As in . . . you’re going to pitch to me?”

  She cocks a hand on her hip. “Is there a problem with that?”

  “Nope.” I shake my head. I learned very quickly to never question the girl.

  “Good. Now grab your glove, I need you to warm up my arm.”

  “Bossy.” I send her a wink, letting her know I’m only kidding. I lean down to my bag, take out my glove, and then walk over to her, taking hers from her hand to examine it. “Nakona. Great brand.”

  “It’s what my dad lived by. It’s lasted me over ten years, so I’d say it’s good.”

  I rub my hand over the conditioned leather, the perfectly shaped pocket, and the tightened lace that hold the fingers together. “Do you fix gloves?”

  “Yeah, can you tell?”

  I nod. “Yeah, this glove is impeccable.”

  She takes mine and examines it. I watch her face closely as she spreads the fingers—some space shows between them. She rubs her hand over the heel—it’s a little dry—and then she sticks her hand inside where the padding has probably dwindled by now. “This needs help.”

  I chuckle. “He does, but I never learned, given I spent all my time on the field.”

  “He?” She cocks a brow at me.

  “Thor. Don’t you name your glove?”

  “Of course,” she states, as if it would be preposterous to think otherwise. “I’m just surprised you made him a boy. Almost every guy I know refers to their glove as a girl.”

  “He’s manly, he looked like a Thor, so I went with it. What’s your glove’s name?”

  “Simon.”

  “Simon?” I laugh. “Wow, that’s not manly at all. Does Simon play with his calculator a lot and sharpen pencils?”

  Chin held high—I’m sure she thinks she’s taller—she says, “In fact, Simon is the observer, the teacher, the expert. He’s the one who delivers the knowledge so gloves like Thor can earn multi-million-dollar contracts.”

  Tou-fucking-ché.

  I scratch the back of my neck. “Can’t argue with that.”

  “Well, if you want, I can spruce up your glove for you before the weekend.”

  “You’d do that?”

  She glances up at me through her glasses, her beautiful blue eyes teasing. “Not for you, but for the sake of Thor. He deserves a happy life.”

  “For the sake of Thor.” I chuckle. This girl is awesome. “I can give him to you Thursday night after our practice, but could you get him back to me before we leave Friday afternoon?”

  “Yup.” She steps back and grabs a ball. “Now warm up my arm so I can strike you out with my wicked spin.”

  “Oh, okay. We’ll see about that.”

  She doesn’t say anything. Instead, she tosses the ball to me and I toss it back. She has great form, and I wonder why I expected anything less. The girl’s life revolves around mechanics and getting the body moving right. The amount of times we’ve watched the YouTube video on the physics of a swing is borderline obsessive, but it’s also exactly what I’ve needed.

  “Did you pitch to your brothers?”

  “Depends,” she answers, picking up the speed of her throw so there’s a decent pop in my glove. “If it was just me and one of my brothers, I pitched to them, but if my dad was there, my dad pitched so I could watch their swing from the side.”

  “Would they ever pitch to each other?”

  She softly laughs and shakes her head. “No. They were idiots and would try to peg it at each other, so it became counterproductive rather quickly.”

  “And from the practices we’ve had, I’m going to guess you don’t take well to antics.”

  “Nope. If you’re here to practice, then we practice. Don’t waste my time.”

  She throws the ball back and this time, the pop in my glove echoes through the cages. Damn, girl. That’s fucking hot.

  I know, I know, she’s my coach—technically—and I shouldn’t be thinking shit like that given our working relationship, but I can’t deny the tiny bout of excitement that fills my stomach when I watch Milly work her way around the field with such ease. The girls who’ve surrounded me for the last four years have been baseball deficient. They know practically nothing and thinks it’s “cute” to ask me where first base is. Some guys on the team love it, as it gives them a sense of pride being able to tell a girl all about the sport. Not me though. I mean, if you don’t watch baseball, that’s fine, but first base, come on. Everyone played some version of baseball in school at some point.

  But hanging out with Milly has been refreshing. Sometimes she knows more than I do, and I’d like to say I’m being cool about it, that I’m not overtly excited to meet a girl who actually has a love for the game, but hell, I can feel it in my bones—the pure joy—when she corrects my knowledge, or starts spouting off statistics.

  Not to mention, she’s a pint-sized beauty traipsing around the cages like she owns the nets, and I’m just the vagrant putting her out as I lease the nets for practice. She carries herself with an almost careless confidence, which she ought to, but whenever I wink at her or accidentally touch her hand, she shies away. It’s like . . . she doesn’t comprehend the effect she has on men.

  She has no fucking clue. And I’m at a loss to understand why. She’s remarkable, talented, intelligent . . . yet has no inkling of how naturally beautiful she actually is. How the fuck is that even possible?

  “Don’t waste my time. That’s a phrase I’ve heard from every coach I’ve ever had.”

  “Time is the one thing you can never get back, so don’t steal it from me.” She throws the ball and it hits my glove with another resounding pop.

  “You don’t think I’m stealing your time, do you?”

  “What?” A shred of vulnerability peeks past those thick-rimmed glasses. “No, not at all. That’s not what I meant.”

  “I know. I just wanted to make sure. I should be paying you or something.” I throw the ball back to her. She catches it and moves back to the pitching net with the bucket of balls.

  “Grab your helmet and bat.” She situates herself and waits for me. Once in position, she doesn’t throw the ball right away. “You don’t need to pay me, but just remember me when you’re playing for the Bobcats one day and wondering if you should watch the physics of a swing one more time.”

  I laugh out loud and shake my head. “I could recite the entire thing at this point.”

  I get into position, and she cocks her arm back and zings a ball over the strike zone. I’m stunned.

  She tosses a ball in the air and catches it. “Get ready, Stone, I’m not going to go easy on you.”

  * * *

  Fuck.

  We leave in ten minutes.

  I scan the parking lot, biting my bottom lip as Coach sends a warning glare my way. Everyone is on the bus, bags and gear are packed, and we’re about to head to Indiana for the weekend to face Stonehaven.

  “Stone, you have ten minutes,” Coach Disik calls out before he steps onto the bus.

  “Yup, be there in a second.”

  I move to the back of the bus where he can’t see me and take out my phone again, this time giving Milly a call. It rings twice, and then I see her car as she races into the parking lot.

  Thank fuck.

  Her car zooms past the speed bumps and then quickly parks behind the bus. She hops out, engine still running, and holds out my glove to me.

  “I’m so, so sorry,” she says, looking like she’s on the verge of tears. “I overslept. Your text woke me up, and I rushed down here as quickly as possible.” Her lip quivers. “I’m really, really . . . so-sorry.”

  I’ve never seen her like this, so distraught, so close to losing it. Yes, I’ve seen her nervous, I’ve seen her angry, I’ve seen pure joy shine through her addicting smile, but I’ve never seen her so distraught. Nor this disheveled. Her hair is piled messily on top of her head, she has a sleep line cutting across her cheek, and she’s wearing baggy Nike shorts with a tight-fitting tank and black sports bra that’s showing off a decent amount of cleavage. Why the hell does she hide that incredible body? For some reason, the entire outfit is working for me.

  “I stayed up late last night, reworking your lace and I . . . I . . .” She bites her bottom lip. “Anyway. There you go. I’m sorry.” She turns and attempts to rush back to her car, but I grab her arm before she can move.

  “Hey, Milly. It’s okay.”

  And those four little words seem to break her. Tears fall over her cheeks that she quickly wipes away, as if she believes that if she gets rid of them quickly enough, I might not see them.

  But I saw them, and they’re just about breaking me in half.

  “You must have been panicking. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

  “Milly.” Before I can stop myself, I pull her into my chest and wrap my arms around her. “It’s okay. I knew you’d get here.” I don’t mention how I was about to pee my pants from stress, because I was scared shitless I was going to Indiana without my glove. “Everything’s okay.”

  Cautiously, her arms wrap around my waist. “I’m really sorry.”

  I pull away and tip her chin so she’s forced to look at me. Tears pool at the rim of her glasses and her eyes are bloodshot. How late was she up last night? “Please stop apologizing. You did me a huge favor, so how about you give me a chance to say thank you?”

  She tries to force out a smile, but it barely reaches the edges of her lips.

  I bring the glove between us and give it a good once-over. The stitching is pristine, the leather feels smoother than when I first got it, and the pocket almost looks deeper, if that’s possible. I’m fucking impressed.

  “I could have done a better job if I had more time, I would have—”