The smile that crosses her face barely reaches her eyes, but before I can understand it, she’s all the way to the dorm door, about to walk in.

  “Have a good night, Carson.” She gives me a small wave and is gone.

  Hands behind my head, I sigh and turn back to my car. I don’t know what I was expecting to happen when I came to her dorm, but her leaving with a lackluster smile and a parting wave wasn’t it. But why did I expect more? It’s possible that she might not be interested in me . . . fuck. I hadn’t even considered that. This is going to be harder than I expected.

  * * *

  “You’re acting weird.” Jason flops on the couch next to me in the loft. He has a ball in his hand and starts tossing it in the air in front of him.

  It’s Thursday night, we’ve finished practice, showered, ate, and now the guys are either studying in their rooms, hanging with their girls, or sleeping. It’s been a long season so far.

  Me, I chose to wallow in the common area while watching mindless reruns of Friends on TV. I will say this to the very end—Phoebe will always be my girl. I’ve always loved the eccentric, the different. Yeah, Rachel is the obvious choice for favorite girl with Monica as a close second despite her OCD tendencies, leaving Phoebe pulling up the caboose. But that’s not how I see it. Phoebe is the one everyone should want to be with. She’s wild in bed, carefree, has some awesome fucking stories, and will probably cut someone if I asked her to. She’s different, and I like different.

  Just like Milly. She’s different. Really fucking different than any other girl I’ve met, and I’m wishing right now I was in the cages with her, hitting balls, even though my muscles are screaming and begging for a break. I considered texting her, asking her if she wanted to meet in the dugout at field six.

  “Just tired,” I answer Jason just as Chandler says something funny, making the live studio audience laugh.

  “I’ve seen you tired.” He picks up Romeo’s bat off the coffee table and pokes me with it. “This isn’t tired.”

  “I am tired,” I say, not even convincing myself.

  “Yeah, okay. Does this happen to be about a girl maybe?”

  “No . . .” I drag out, as a neon pink sign pops over my head flashing the word “liar.”

  “It’s pathetic how bad you are at lying. Who’s the girl?” A smile crosses his face. “Is it that Milly chick you’ve been hanging out with a lot lately?”

  “We haven’t been hanging out, we’ve been practicing.”

  “But you want to hang out with her.” He wiggles his eyebrows and pokes me with the bat again, this time, really starting to annoy me. “Don’t you?”

  “Maybe.” Ross barges into Monica and Rachel’s apartment, wearing nothing but a pair of paste pants, a button-up shirt, and holding a wadded-up bundle of leather pants. Poor, poor Ross. At least I’m not at his level . . . at least not yet.

  “So, what’s holding you up, just ask her out.”

  “It’s not that easy.” I sigh and turn to face him. We’re both shirtless, in mesh shorts, and hair a damn mess from showers and not doing anything to it afterward. “I’m not sure she even sees me being in her life in that way.”

  “Please,” Jason scoffs. “Not to sound conceited, but I’m pretty sure any girl would want to go out with us.”

  “That is conceited. And even if any girl wants to go out with us, I don’t want that kind of attention because they’d be in it for the wrong reasons.”

  “Yeah, you’re damn right about that. Hopkins got that girl pregnant his junior year and is now paying child support with his big-league money. To a girl he doesn’t even know.”

  “Yeah, dumb move.” I pick up a ball and start tossing it in the air.

  “Milly isn’t that kind of girl.”

  “Doesn’t seem like it. She seems laid-back. Cool. No drama.”

  He couldn’t be more right. The most I’ve ever seen her become slightly emotional was when she was delivering my glove and even at that, she was just genuinely upset. I still can’t get the image of her tears filling her pretty eyes out of my head. Haunts me. I hated seeing her that upset.

  “Nah, she’s cool. I honestly can’t think of one thing I don’t like about her. She’s different from any girl I’ve met. She’s not into the girly crap and doesn’t care what her hair looks like on any given day. She’s real, she’s smart as fuck, and she’s funny.”

  “Okay . . . so why is it so difficult to ask her out again?”

  “Because.” I lean back on the couch, stare at the ceiling and toss the baseball above me. “She acts like a friend, one of the guys, rather than someone who’d be interested in dating me.”

  “Yeah, well, you never know until you try.”

  “And what if she says no? That won’t be awkward while she’s watching me swing a damn bat.”

  “Then I guess you have a decision to make. What’s more important? Her knowledge or her soul?”

  “Her soul?” I lift a brow and glance at Jason. “That’s deep.”

  He taps his temple and says, “Not just a pretty face. I have some depth to me.”

  Later that night, when I’m lying in bed, trying to figure out what I want to do, I pick up my phone and consider sending her a text.

  Ten o’clock. She’s still got to be up, as we’re young and in college. I bite my bottom lip, contemplating my options.

  I want to talk to her. I’d prefer to hear her voice, maybe even FaceTime, but I know we’re not at that level, at least she’s not. I’m rearing and ready to go, to put this relationship into a full-on sprint. I want to get to know her more. I want to get to know the girl beyond baseball. I want to know her favorite movies, what makes her cry, what makes her laugh. I want to know about her dating life, her first kiss. Is she still a virgin?

  Before I can stop myself, my fingers start typing a text to her and I hold my breath, hoping she’s awake.

  Chapter Thirteen

  MILLY

  “That was so embarrassing,” I say, laughing into the phone just as a beep sounds off, indicating a text message.

  “Okay, I get it, I’m a dumbass,” Cory says, groaning over my persistent teasing. “I’ve been getting shit from the guys all night, and I don’t need it from my sister as well.”

  I laugh into the phone and rest my head against my pillow, sinking under my covers. “I’m sorry, but you shamed the family. You let a bunt go between your legs. A bunt, Cory.”

  “Yeah, I’m aware. I’ve seen the replay at least ten times by now.”

  “What were you thinking?”

  “I have no idea. I honestly can’t remember anything about the play. Thankfully it didn’t cost us a run.”

  “Just your pride. You’re going to be on the Top Ten Worst Plays on ESPN, and I bet you stay there for a while, just like the time Mark Sanchez had a butt fumble when playing for the Jets. They had to retire that worst play because it was number one for so long.”

  “This won’t go that long. Maybe a few weeks, but it’s not butt-fumble material.”

  I twirl a piece of hair around my finger. “You better hope so.”

  “Okay, enough about me. What about you? Did you get my package?”

  “Yes, and I’m pretty sure you gave me enough caramel M&M’s for my entire floor.”

  He chuckles. “That was the point. Tell the students to leave you alone and just chuck a package at them. What about the leggings, did you try them? Cheryl said they’re the best out there.”

  “Not yet. I’m not a legging kind of girl.”

  “Have you even tried them?”

  “No,” I drag out.

  “Then you can’t say you don’t like them. Just do me a favor and try them on at some point, okay?”

  Sighing, I say, “Fine, but you don’t have to turn me into a fashionista, you know.”

  He barks out a laugh. “Mills, a pair of leggings is not even cracking the mold of fashionista. I’m just trying to get you to wear something a little more modern. You have great legs, show them off.”

  “That’s a really weird compliment coming from my brother.”

  There’s a thump against my wall and then some laughing. I’m almost positive the girls next door are drunk and have been drinking in their dorm since seven, but I don’t have it in me to go bust them. I’m far too comfortable in my bed.

  “Someone has to hand you a compliment, which reminds me . . . how are things with Stone?”

  My body heats up from the mere mention of Carson’s last name, or even the thought of him. When he text me the other night, after his road trip, I seriously thought something was wrong, but when he handed me a package of M&M’s, I don’t think I’ve been more confused in my life. That was until he wanted to sit down and talk.

  It was new, different, and made me feel . . . weird.

  I know, not the best reaction, but it’s truly how I felt. I didn’t know what to do with my limbs, how to act, how to answer questions. A wave of heat erupted over my skin and with every move I made, I felt self-conscious. I was awkward and I know I was short with my answers, but honestly, I had no idea what he was doing at my dorm at night.

  There was a brief moment where I thought, maybe, just maybe, he was feeling something for me other than our friendship, but that was completely squashed when he gave me a playful shove and called me Coach. Honestly, who am I kidding? There is no way in hell Carson Stone will ever have romantic feelings for me.

  Ever.

  “He’s doing awesome. Had a great weekend out on the field. We have a session tomorrow and I plan on working—”

  “I’m not talking about his hitting. I’m talking about things between you two. Has he made a move?”

  A loud and very wet snort shoots right out of me. I wipe at my nose, thankful I’m alone. “Oh my God, no. What is wrong with you?”

  “What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with him? You’re telling me he hasn’t made a move on my beautiful sister yet?”

  “Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m telling you. You’ve lost your damn mind. By no means am I anywhere near Carson’s type.”

  “Did he tell you that?”

  “Uh, no? When would that even come up?” In a nervous voice, I say, “Oh hey, Carson, I was wondering, am I your type?” I laugh. “Yeah, I would never ask that, not that I’m interested in him.”

  “Please. You light up whenever you talk about him.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut, hating that my brother knows me so well, but I try to skirt around the truth anyway, the truth I’m not quite willing to admit just yet. “That’s because I feel like I’ve made a true difference in his swing. I’m proud of myself.”

  “You should be proud of yourself. His stats are climbing and there’s buzz floating around about him, but that doesn’t mean you don’t have feelings for him. Come on, confess to your big brother. You want him.”

  “We are so not having this conversation.” Wickedly, I say, “Remember the time you let a bunt roll between your legs on national television? Now that’s something to talk about.”

  He groans loudly and a smile pulls at my lips. There’s nothing better than teasing my brothers . . . well, maybe Carson’s eyes, but that’s not something I want to admit out loud. “Okay, I get it, you’re going to keep changing the subject on me. That’s fine.” He yawns, the hour ahead of me probably whipping his butt. “I’m going to hit the hay. You be good and stay out of trouble. You hear me?”

  “I always do. Love you.”

  “Love you, Mills.”

  I’ve always loved that Cory still makes time for me even though his schedule with the Storm is so crazy. Rian, Sean, and I tend to meet for dinner rather than talk on the phone. And when Mom calls, we always talk about different things like school and what’s happening in her world. I never feel alone. I know I’m lucky. Very lucky.

  We both hang up and my phone blacks out, but then reminds me of my text message. Carson’s name pops up on the screen and my heart flips. Quickly, I open the message and read it.

  Carson: You still up?

  I can’t help it, my smile widens. Whenever I see his name, it happens, this sense of joy hitting my veins, and I’m immediately in a good mood.

  Milly: Sorry, was on the phone with my brother. I’m clearly still up.

  The little dots that tell me he’s texting back appear and I sink lower into my covers, letting the screen of my phone be the only light in my room.

  Carson: Damn, I thought you were asleep and I woke you up. Glad I didn’t.

  Milly: Nope. Just getting some little sister teasing in before bed. What’s up?

  The dots appear again, then go away and then reappear. Is he trying to figure out what to say? Finally, my phone sounds off with his text.

  Carson: I have a serious question for you…

  A serious question? My skin tingles and my stomach bottoms out, mixed with excitement and fear. What could he possibly ask me that’s serious? Other than . . .

  Milly: What’s up?

  When he’s typing, I try to calm my racing heart, the excitement of what he might say consuming me. How could a guy possibly affect me this much? How could he turn my beating pulse into a rapid jackhammer with just one single question?

  Carson: Favorite baseball movie, go!

  Oh.

  My excitement falls like a brick to the ground, shattering into a bunch of pieces. And this is exactly why I should stop watching those Hallmark movies, because they fill my head with false hopes. Here I am, lying in my bed, thinking that the guy of all guys would actually ask me out. Cory was so wrong.

  “What’s wrong with him? You’re telling me he hasn’t made a move on my beautiful sister yet?”

  “No, Cory. I’m his coach. A friend,” I mutter. I roll my eyes. I know Cory loves me, but he’s being ridiculous. I know. I might love baseball and pal around with the men, but I’m a romantic at heart and I want to know what it’s like to be asked out on a date, to be complimented, to be cherished. But I’m awkward and a lot of the time, guys can’t look past the girl who’s listing off stats to see the girl who loves love, the one who secretly played with Barbies while her brothers were gone and pretended Barbie and Ken found their happily ever after.

  Sighing and succumbing to my endless rotten luck of forever friendship, I type back.

  Milly: Is that even a fair question? If I had to go with JUST ONE, I guess I would choose Angels in the Outfield.

  I smile to myself as I send the text. No self-respecting baseball aficionado would ever choose Angels in the Outfield as their favorite baseball movie, but I’m dying to see Carson’s reaction.

  Carson: Uh . . . really?

  I laugh out loud and type him back.

  Milly: Yes! Every time they start flapping their arms, God, I get teary eyed.

  Carson: . . .

  Carson: I mean . . .

  Carson: Teary eyed?

  Another bout of laughter hits me as my smile stretches across my face.

  Milly: I used to pretend I was an angel and would fly around the outfield with wings strapped to my back, while my dad was hitting balls to my brothers. I’d pull on their shirts, pretending to help them.

  The dots appear and then they go away. They appear again, and then silence. I’m laughing so much that I almost don’t hear my phone ringing. One glance at the screen tells me it’s Carson.

  I try to hold back my laugh as I answer, but it’s impossible.

  “Hello?”

  “Please tell me you’re kidding. Right, this is a joke? I mean, I respect movie choices, to each their own, but come on, Mills, you can’t possibly think that’s the best baseball movie.” His use of my nickname sobers me slightly, loving how it rolls off his tongue with such ease.

  “It’s just so good.”

  “Stop it,” he says curtly, causing me to bust up. “Stop it right now. I can’t have my coach making such blasphemous statements like that.”

  “Am I losing all credibility?”

  “Yes. Please tell me you’re joking.”

  “I’m joking.”

  He exhales and I can envision him relaxing his shoulders, his fear subsiding. “Thank fuck. We were going to have to really consider our working relationship.”

  Working relationship. I try not to let the words bite, but they do anyway.

  “So be honest, what’s your favorite?”

  Shaking off the feelings of disappointment, I say, “Well, it comes down to this, a childhood memory that I’ll never forget.”

  “Yeah? Lay it on me.”

  “It was after playing ball with my brothers once. They were whipping the ball around and it was a little fast for me. I ended up catching the ball wrong, it bounced off my glove and hit me in the mouth, giving me a fat lip. I cried and ran into the house. They kept playing, which reinforced that I couldn’t quite keep up. I was really upset and my mom scooped me up and took me into my parents’ room where she gave me an ice pack and sat me on the bed. She turned on the TV, popped a movie in, and sat next to me, her arm around my shoulder. The movie was Field of Dreams.”

  “Ah, such a good movie.”

  “It is, but it’s what my mom told me while we were watching that gave me that first bout of hope I needed. Mind you, my mom was never super thrilled with my love for baseball. She wanted a little pal of her own, someone to have tea parties with and play dress up, but unfortunately for her, I was never that girl. I hung around the ballpark with holes in my jeans and a backward hat on my head, long braids cascading down my back. But that day, when she took me under her arm, she told me how brave I was, how smart I was, and that if I build my own field of dreams, the people will come. I will never forget those words and that moment, ever.”

  “Wow.” Carson is silent for a second. “That’s one of the best stories I’ve ever heard. Damn, Milly, you’re pulling at my heartstrings.”

  “You have those?” I joke.

  “Oh, I have a lot. Sometimes, late at night, I clutch my teddy bear and just cry for the hell of it. A good cry can be cathartic.”

  “How come I don’t believe a word of that?”