He chuckles. “Probably because I’m a manly man. Testosterone oozes from me.”

  “Yeah, I don’t believe that either. I’ve seen you whimper when I accidentally peg you.”

  “Accidentally?” He balks. “Puh-lease, you hit me on purpose when I’m not doing what you want.”

  It’s true.

  “Well, it teaches you to pay attention, doesn’t it?”

  “My thigh is black and blue because of you.”

  “Okay, that’s being a little dramatic, but also, not my fault that you don’t want to listen to me. Do as I say and you won’t get hurt.”

  “You’re cold, Mills.”

  I chuckle, not feeling the slightest remorse about my teaching techniques. And for the record, I don’t use the same style when teaching my eight-year-olds, apparently only my brothers and Carson. They’re old enough to realize when they’re being idiots, so a little knock to the thigh isn’t going to hurt them, just remind them to pay attention.

  “You talk a lot about your brothers playing baseball; did any of them make it to the big leagues?”

  I’ve been waiting for him to ask me that question and for some weird reason, I really don’t want to tell him. Whenever people find out that my brother is Cory Potter, they get weird and dreamy-eyed. Not that Carson would have hearts in his eyes at the mention of my brother’s name, I just . . . I don’t know, I like not being associated with his fame. I like people knowing me for me, and not as the Storm’s famous first baseman’s sister.

  But I also can’t lie, so I decide to tell him a partial truth. “Yeah, but I don’t like to talk about it much.”

  “Oh . . . sure. I can understand that. You probably get asked a million questions about him.”

  “Something like that,” I say, sounding completely elusive.

  “Well, what do you want to talk about then?”

  Confused, I say, “What do you mean? You’re the one who called me.”

  “Because I needed to make sure you were sane. I was really concerned that I was saddling myself to a crazy person.”

  “You still might be, you don’t know too much about me.”

  “You don’t think so?” he asks, a hint of challenge in his voice.

  Curious, I say, “No, you don’t.”

  “Okay, fine.” I can hear him crack his knuckles—gross—and then he says, “I know that you like M&M’s but only the caramel ones. You don’t think they’re comparable to Rolos, because of the hard shell, but you do think Rolos are better in ice cream. I know that when you pitch and your arm starts to tire, the ball drifts to the left because you’re overshooting.”

  “Hey, that’s not—”

  “I know you’re really brave and confident in your knowledge, but when voicing it to someone new, you cower, but you have no problem sassing your brothers. I know when you’re nervous, you have a tick—”

  “What? No, I don’t.”

  “Yes, you do,” he continues. “You push your glasses up on your nose. It’s like a safety blanket, an invisibility cloak you rely on.”

  Maybe that’s a little true. But with every little revelation, my heart grows, knowing how much Carson actually understands me. And honestly? I’m shocked. I’m so used to being the observer in nearly all relationships I’m a part of, that this is kind of strange.

  “I know you would never leave practice without wrapping a ball in your glove to maintain the pocket, and I know that even though it’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen, you still enjoy wearing that stupid fisherman’s hat whenever you get a chance.”

  Shyly, I say, “I like my ears being covered.”

  “And I bet you ten bucks that if I could actually see you, your cheeks would be red.”

  I press my hand against my flaming cheeks that seem to be turning hotter by the second.

  “I’m right, aren’t I?”

  “I can neither confirm nor deny.”

  He lets out a long laugh, the sound filtering through my ears and straight into my veins. I love that sound, hearty and real. He never holds back his joy.

  “Okay, smart-ass.” Oddly we both yawn, causing us to laugh. “I think we’re tired.”

  “Yeah, long nights and early mornings are catching up to me.”

  He’s quiet for a second and then asks, “Am I running you ragged?”

  “No, not at all.”

  He continues, as if he didn’t hear me. “Because if you want to slow down on our sessions, we can.”

  “Oh . . .” I pause, biting my bottom lip. “Well, if you want to cut out some sessions, that’s up to you. But I . . . I don’t mind.”

  “You don’t mind spending time with me?”

  I smile in the dark. If only he knew. “No. You smell nice, you’re a good listener—for the most part—and you show great potential.”

  Chuckling, he says, “You think I smell nice, huh?”

  “Decent. It’s not BO.”

  “So you’re saying I’m a step up from body odor?”

  “A small one,” I tease.

  “Uh-huh. You know there’s only so much busting of my balls I can take.” From the playful lilt to his voice, I know he’s not serious.

  “Poor baby, do you need me to coddle them?”

  Silence.

  Wait . . . what did I say?

  Did I offer to coddle his testicles?

  I think back to what I said and yup, would you look at that, I offered to nuzzle his junk.

  Oh, sweet Jesus.

  “I mean, not your balls. Not balls, coin sack. Ugh, no. Gross. No one says that. Your uh, your man dangles.”

  “Man dangles?” he asks.

  Oh.

  My.

  God.

  Humiliation washes over me.

  “Oh God, did I say that? My brother Rian calls them his dangles, but I don’t want to call them that. I don’t want to call them anything really, but now that I think about it, Sean calls them dangles, Rian calls them his weighted penis curtains. Oh . . . I think I just threw up in my mouth. Both of those terms are gross. So, let’s go with testicles. Testies. I don’t want to motorboat your testies.”

  More silence.

  “Man testies,” I mutter, slapping my hand to my head.

  Holy hell, what is wrong with me?

  When he doesn’t say anything, I start to sweat. My back, my armpits, my legs, my upper lip, they all break out in a sweat, and I start wondering why my dorm mattress hasn’t swallowed me whole yet.

  Finally, he says, “Man testies, huh?”

  “I . . . I think I’m dead.”

  “If you were dead, you wouldn’t be able to talk to me.”

  “Then this is a bad dream.”

  “I’m afraid it’s not. This is very much real life and yes, in fact, you did offer to coddle my balls.”

  I swallow hard. “I was afraid of that. I didn’t mean to say to, uh, utter such . . . promises.”

  “I gathered that from your recovery, or lack thereof.” He chuckles. “And here I was worried that you weren’t awkward enough; you just proved me wrong.”

  “Why would you worry about me not being awkward enough?” I ask, kicking off my covers from my totally sweaty body.

  “Because, Milly, I told you I liked different, didn’t I?”

  Far too many times.

  * * *

  “Are you headed back to your dorm?”

  I toss the last ball in the bucket and look up at Carson, who has his hat on backward and the hem of his shirt dabbing at his brow, revealing his stacked and corded abs.

  Good Lord. I would wreck the shocks in my car if I drove over those things.

  Not to mention the V of his waist that dips below his black athletic shorts. There’s no questioning my attraction to him, it’s there in spades and it’s frustrating, because in moments like these, where he’s just acting normal, himself, I get hot and bothered from a little thing like lifting his shirt up. It’s embarrassing, especially when I know my face turns bright red.

  Averting my eyes, I make my way to my backpack, trying to cool myself off so he doesn’t notice.

  “Uh, I was going to grab something from Lakeview first.”

  “Dinner?” He comes up behind me and lifts the netting of the cages, his masculine deodorant surrounding me.

  He smells so nice, like a yummy man. Not the best description, but I can’t think of any other way to describe it. I could bury my nose in his armpit and be happy about it—odd as that sounds.

  “Yeah, dinner and then some studying.”

  “Do you have a lot to read tonight?”

  I grab my backpack and sling it over my shoulders, feeling a little cooler as I take a quick drink from my water bottle. “Just my usual stuff. I like to keep up as much as possible. With finals looming, I want to make sure I’m as prepared as possible.”

  “Makes sense.” He slings his backpack over his shoulders as well, and we both head out of the cages and down the open hallway toward the exit. “Think you have some time to share a bite with me? I’m starving, and I was going to head up to Lakeview as well.”

  Dinner with Carson?

  Uhh . . .

  I mean, yeah, I want to spend more time with him, but now that my nerves are shot whenever I’m around him, I have a feeling I’ll turn into a fumbling idiot if I don’t have a bucket of balls in front of me to keep me distracted.

  But it’s not like I can say no, as we’re both going to the same place.

  So I awkwardly say, “Uh, yeah, sure, of course, that would be delightful.”

  Delightful?

  He chuckles and wraps his arm around my shoulders, pulling me in close and then runs his hand over the top of my head, jiggling my hat until he releases me and continues to walk to the exit.

  Did he just . . . give me an open-palm noogie?

  Just punch me in the boob right now and end my misery.

  I don’t know what’s worse, saying “that would be delightful” or having Carson treat me like his little brother.

  Actually, I do know what’s worse, the latter. Easily.

  A noogie.

  Ughhhh. I cannot even recall how many noogies my brothers have given me over the years. Me, their little sister.

  “Did you walk?” he asks, walking backward to look at me.

  “Yeah,” I answer, my composure slipping, and because he’s one of the most observant people I know, he notices.

  “You okay?”

  No, you just rubbed my head like I’m your favorite dog.

  “Yeah.” I tack on a smile. “Just hungry. My blood sugar is probably getting low.”

  “Then get your ass in gear, Mills.” He smiles at me and takes off down the hall.

  It’s safe to say that I need to shake these feelings blooming inside me and distract myself with something else. Maybe I’ll pick up a paint-by-number at the craft store. That should do it, really keep me occupied . . .

  At least, that’s my pathetic attempt to keep myself busy.

  * * *

  “This is Milly.”

  Jason Orson and Brock “Romeo” Romero both give me a curt wave before they take a seat at our table in the dining hall.

  “So you’re the miracle worker,” Jason says, taking a napkin from the center of the table and folding it across his lap. I hold back the snicker that threatens to fall past my lips. It’s a paper napkin that he folded across his lap; impeccable manners, but super ridiculous.

  “I wouldn’t say miracle worker,” I answer, feeling shy sitting with these three large men, who seem to consume the entire space of the four-person table. This shouldn’t feel any different to being crowded around the table with my brothers. You can do this, Potter. You can do this.

  Once we sat at the table, Carson asked me if it was okay if Romeo and Jason joined us. They were just leaving study hall and looking to get some food. Clearly, I didn’t object, but a little piece of me—and I mean small—thought it would have been nice if it was just Carson and me. Then again, this is probably for the best given my current predicament when it comes to Carson Stone.

  You know, the whole I think you’re really dreamy and I can’t stop thinking about you predicament.

  “The man is swinging the bat better than last year; you’ve done something,” Romeo says right before shoving a forkful of spaghetti into his mouth.

  “It’s like you spread his ass cheeks with both hands and blew talent right up his ass,” Jason says, as if that wasn’t the most appalling visual ever.

  “She definitely didn’t spread my ass cheeks. What the fuck is wrong with you?” Carson asks, voicing probably everyone’s thoughts at the table besides Jason’s.

  “What?” he asks, ham sandwich halfway to his mouth. “That’s not accurate?”

  I shake my head, mortified as Carson steps in. “No, jackass. And if anyone needs something blown up their ass, it’s you. It takes you about twenty seconds to get down to first.”

  “Bullshit,” Jason shouts, as Romeo and I both laugh.

  It’s not a secret that Jason Orson, Brentwood’s number-one catcher, is the slowest guy on the team. With his meaty thighs and bubble butt, he’s not the quickest when sprinting to first, but he sure does have some of the best reflexes I’ve ever seen, and his throw down to second is absolutely breathtaking.

  Talking with his mouth full, Romeo says, “Our freshman year, Jason cost us extra sprints because he couldn’t get his fat ass in shape for timed suicides.”

  “Listen.” Jason grows serious, dabbing at his mouth with the napkin that once was on his lap. “You don’t have to sprint in goddamn catcher’s gear, okay? It’s fucking clunky as shit.”

  “He makes you sprint in your gear?”

  “Yup,” Carson cuts in. “Whatever you use on the field, you’re sprinting in.”

  “Yeah, so while these pansies are prancing around with just their gloves in their hands”—Jason motions to Carson and Romeo, making me giggle—“I’m over here, practically running through mud with fifty pounds of gear strapped to me.”

  “Jesus,” Carson mutters. “Exaggerate much?”

  “Just making a point.”

  “No need.” Carson leans back and drapes his arm over the back of my chair casually. Both Romeo and Jason’s eyes narrow in on the move as the hairs on the back of my neck stand tall. It’s a small gesture, maybe he’s stretching, but it still drives my mind mad with wonder and sends my breath into erratic spurts as I try not to move an inch.

  I don’t want to bump into his hand, assuming the worst, nor do I want the two pair of watchful eyes observing my reaction to Carson’s closeness. One look at my face and I know they’d be able to read me . . . easily.

  And just like that, I feel so uncomfortable that my body heats up and I have an itch to squirm away. I wish I could be confident and collected when it comes to a crush—yes, a crush—but I have very limited romantic experience. Yeah, I’ve had a few one-night stands, but nothing that’s ever formed into a relationship, or anything even close to being touchy-feely, hand-holding, arm-draping, cute-kissing-against-the-wall behavior.

  From behind, Carson reaches up and tugs on one of my braids. “What are you studying tonight?”

  The tug on my hair, the position of his arm, the smell of his deodorant, him? It’s everything I’ve always wanted, everything I’ve searched for in a relationship, but I know he’s being kind, that his actions aren’t romantic, but instead fall in the friend zone. My face flushes as my body starts screaming at me to abort, abort.

  And I listen.

  Not answering his question, I abruptly stand, nearly knocking my chair out from under me. Like a robot, I scan the table and then the floor where I hitch my backpack over my shoulder and stiffly move away from the table.

  “I need to go. Right now. I need to go right now. Okay, so, I’m leaving. Yup.” Because I am a masochist, just like the first time, I give them all a salute and then take off without looking back. Tears start to flood to my eyes as embarrassment consumes me.

  Why do I have to be so awkward?

  Why do I have to be this awkward . . . especially around Carson Stone?

  Chapter Fourteen

  CARSON

  “At least she didn’t shove a cookie in your mouth this time,” Jason says casually while biting into his sandwich.

  “I kind of wish she did,” Romeo adds. “I had my phone ready the minute she tensed when he put his arm on her chair.”

  I press my hand against my brow and sigh.

  Jesus Christ.

  She fled, muttering something about having to leave. Was it really my arm that scared her away? I’ve hugged her before, so an arm on the back of her chair really shouldn’t be an issue.

  But Romeo is right, her entire demeanor changed the moment my arm landed on the back of her chair. She tensed, her body language reading get the hell away from me, and her eyes got very shifty, like she was looking for an escape route.

  Am I really that repulsive?

  “Aw, look at our boy, he looks sad,” Romeo says, pointing at me with his fork.

  “It’s because he’s crushing on Milly big time and has no idea how to handle her.”

  It’s true. I am completely clueless when it comes to Milly. My little gestures, my texts, the small, and I mean small, attempts to get closer to her when we’re together. I’m walking on thin ice whenever I’m around her, not wanting to push her too hard and not wanting to scare her away.

  “She’s confusing.” I lean back in my chair and stare at the dining hall ceiling. “She’s seriously unlike any girl I’ve ever met and for the life of me, I can’t read her. It’s like she has a mask on at all times.”

  “I hate to admit this, but I’m actually getting a little joy out of your discomfort,” Jason says with a smile.

  “Thanks, you’re a true friend,” I reply sarcastically and stare at the lawn that leads to the dorms. I spot her walking slowly up the hill and before I can stop myself, I grab my bag and jog after her, Jason and Romeo both laughing as I take off.

  I’ll hear about it at the loft later, how I’m a besotted jackoff who can’t seem to convince a girl to stay through half a meal with him. But the way my teammates see me is the last thing on my mind. I just need to get to Milly.