I fly down the stairs, past a few guys who call out my name in a hello. I toss them a wave but then jog up the sidewalk path toward Milly. It doesn’t take me very long to close the distance between us and when I reach her, I bump into her shoulder.

  When I smile down at her, I catch the tears in her eyes and immediately pause.

  Oh shit. Why is she crying?

  She turns away, wipes her eyes, and starts walking faster.

  “Milly, wait.” I catch up to her and pull on her shoulder so she has to face me. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, just . . . dusty out here.” She dabs at her eyes again. “I’m fine.” She crosses her arms and stares at the ground. “What’s up?”

  Dusty?

  I glance around at the never-ending expanse of grass that surrounds us, not an ounce of dust in sight. I step forward and tip her chin so I can see past those big glasses of hers.

  “What’s really going on, Milly? Did Jason and Romeo say something? Did I do something?”

  She glances to the side, unable to look me in the eyes. “No, it’s fine. Okay? Just let me go.”

  Her body is pleading to leave, pushing forward, and I know she wants to be left alone, but deep down, I can’t do that. I can’t in good conscience leave her, so I step to the side, letting her walk to her dorm, but follow closely.

  It takes her a few steps to realize I’m right next to her and when she does, she sighs. “Carson, I’m fine.”

  “Okay,” I answer casually and continue walking at her side.

  “I’m serious.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  We fall in step together and when we reach her dorm, she finally faces me and says, “Then why are you following me?”

  “Oh, I’m not following you. I’m actually going to visit someone in the dorms.”

  “Really?” Her brow pinches together. “Oh, okay.” She presses her key card to the scanner and I follow her in. We reach the elevator and when we get in, she presses the button for the fourth floor and then asks which floor I need to go to.

  “Four as well.”

  Her frown deepens. “You’re visiting someone on the fourth floor? That’s a girl floor.”

  “Is that a problem?” I ask, one single brow raised.

  “What?” she asks, stuttering. “No, I mean . . . no.” She shakes her head. “That’s not a problem.” She crosses her arms and stares at the elevator buttons. “Not a problem at all.”

  You would think four floors were one hundred with how excruciatingly long it takes to climb, and the deafening silence from Milly doesn’t help. Wait. Does she think I’m visiting a girl on the fourth floor? As in, not her? She looks pissed off now.

  Milly couldn’t possibly be jealous, could she?

  Her body language speaks of jealousy, but I can’t get too excited about it because I could be wrong, I’ve been wrong about Milly before, and the last thing I want to do is jump to conclusions and scare her away . . . again.

  She’s skittish and unsure and . . . did my arm over her chair really drive her away? I would love to ask her but even if I did, I believe I wouldn’t get the truth. Possibly a scone to the mouth before I could finish my sentence.

  Finally, the elevators pop open and Milly steps out first, I follow closely behind.

  “Well, have a good night,” she says, walking a little faster. I stay in pace.

  “Yeah, you too,” I reply as she stops at a door and holds out a key card.

  Completely oblivious—or possibly ignoring me to the best of her ability—she opens her door and I follow her inside. It isn’t until she tries to shut the door that she realizes I’m right behind her.

  “Oh my God,” she shouts, bringing her hand to her chest. “You scared me. What are you doing?”

  I plaster a smile on my face and say, “Visiting a friend.” I take in her small, one-person dorm.

  The first thing I notice are the baseball-themed decorations on the walls, from posters to framed pictures, to pennants. Legends live on her walls, men I’ve looked up to almost all my life—at least most of it. There are some newer players on her wall like Dustin Garnett and Cory Potter. The two pennants hung above her desk are the Bobcats and the Storm. Interesting choices. Then again, she does have a Cory Potter poster.

  On her shelf, there are a few signed baseballs, but I’m just far enough away where I can’t see who signed them. There’s a picture of her with Cory Potter—I think we have a superfan—and there’s a Bobcat blanket draped over the back of her desk chair.

  But then there are feminine touches like her bed. Pure white and fluffy as fuck, it looks like her own personal oasis. Bottles of lotion and perfume are stacked together on her dresser. Colorful notebooks and binders lay on her desk next to a pink desk lamp and matching stapler. To the left is a small kitchenette with a microwave and a mini fridge with a vase of flowers brightening up the space.

  Her room is an interesting contradiction of her tomboy tendencies and beautiful femininity.

  It’s so Milly.

  I turn to Milly, who’s twisting her shirt in her hands, and avoiding all eye contact. This has to stop. I take charge.

  Setting my backpack down, I walk over to her bed and flop on top of it. Fuck, it’s more comfortable than I imagined and it smells like flowery shit . . . like gardenias or something. If I knew what those smelled like. Peonies maybe? Or roses? Who the fuck knows, who cares? It just smells really fucking good.

  “This is where you live, huh?” I prop my hands behind my head and take in the rest of her room. “No posters above your bed? Nothing to fall asleep to?”

  “What are you doing here?” Milly asks, sounding exhausted.

  “Hanging out with my friend. Come on.” I pat the bed. “Come sit and talk.”

  “I told you I have to study.”

  “Yeah, about that.” I rest up on my elbows. “I think you were lying. And that’s okay, because maybe you had something else you wanted to do but didn’t want to tell me about. Are you binge-watching something embarrassing? Hmm, let me guess.” I tap my chin. “Are you obsessed with baseball documentaries?” I don’t let her answer. “No, that’s not it. Uh-oh, I know. You want to watch Michael Bolton’s Big, Sexy Valentine’s Day Special, right?”

  “What?” She chuckles, and as her shoulders relax, she takes a seat at her desk. It’s not on her bed, but I’ll take it for now. “Is that really a show?”

  I nod. “Romeo was watching it the other day, as he has a love for the soothing voice of the Bolt.”

  “I never would have guessed that from his walk-out song.”

  “You pay attention to those?” She nods as a small smile spreads across her lips. Of course she does. Milly misses nothing. “What’s that smile for?”

  “Just thinking about your walk-out song.”

  I sit up even taller. “What’s wrong with my walk-out song?”

  “Nothing.” She shakes her head. “Just another song I wouldn’t have guessed you’d pick.”

  “Seriously? It’s a classic baseball song.”

  “It’s called “Centerfield,” and you play second.”

  “Ah, but centerfield was my first position until my coach in high school switched me to second. Before every game, I played “Centerfield” by John Fogerty. Really pumped me up.”

  She laughs out loud, the sound filling the small space.

  “Are you hating on my song?” I ask.

  “No, I actually love that song. It’s just funny that you jammed out to it before every game.”

  “Like headbanging kind of jam.” She laughs even louder. “I know, it’s not a headbanging kind of song, but it works for me.”

  “It’s more like a song you perform the twist to with your grandma.”

  “Yeah, a groovy grandma,” I say, adding a little shake to my shoulders.

  “Oh my God, you did not just say groovy.”

  Just to prolong that smile and laugh, I pull my phone from my pocket and open up Spotify to play “Centerfield.” Tuned clapping plays from my phone and then there’s the entrance of a guitar, and that’s when I hop off the bed and start twisting back and forth, arms and legs all moving as I shimmy my butt in her direction.

  Her laugh is contagious as she pushes my side to get out of her face, but I don’t budge. Instead I pull her up by the elbow and make her dance with me.

  She sidesteps but that’s about it. Hmm . . . disappointing.

  “Is that all you’ve got, Milly? Am I going to have to teach you the fine moves of a mom in her forties wearing high-waisted, camel-toe jeans?”

  “Please.” She chuckles. “Please teach me.”

  I motion to my body and say, “Watch and learn, Mills. Before you know it, you’re going to have all the moves.”

  * * *

  Three songs later, and she’s just as terrible as she started. No rhythm in those stiff hips of hers, then again, she would not stop laughing, so it’s possible her concentration wasn’t fully there.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she asks, eyeing me on her bed.

  “Getting comfortable. What does it look like?”

  “It’s eight o’clock,” she says, now changed into a pair of plaid shorts and a Storm tank top. She braided her hair when she was in the bathroom, and I’m assuming she brushed her teeth as well because she’s smelling minty.

  “And your point?”

  Her eyes shift back and forth. “Uh, aren’t you going to go back to your place?”

  “Nah, it’s comfortable here. Thanks for the offer though.” I put my hands behind my head and her eyes narrow.

  “Well, I want to lie on my bed.”

  “What’s stopping you?” I ask nonchalantly.

  “You. You are stopping me.”

  I gesture to the full-size mattress. “There’s plenty of room. Hop up.”

  “Do you really expect me to jump into my bed with you?”

  “What?” I pretend to clutch imaginary pearls. “Heavens to Betsy, no. I’m not a harlot. Wash your mouth. I’m talking above the covers. Nice try though, lady. Nice fucking try.”

  She gives me a dramatic eye-roll but doesn’t budge, causing me to let out a long sigh.

  “Mills, stop being so stubborn and come sit down. I’m not going to bite.”

  She gives me a brief once-over. I see the moment she capitulates, and she finally climbs into bed, leaving at least a foot between us. Wow, I’m not sure she could be more obvious if she was wearing a porcupine-shielded costume with sign saying don’t touch me.

  Noted . . . no touching. I learned that from our experience in the dining hall.

  This girl, seriously, she’s confusing as fuck, because I swear, there are times where I catch her looking at me, when I see interest in her eyes, and then there are days like today where she’s so damn skittish, I can barely get close to her.

  Am I crazy for even attempting to get close to this girl? Maybe. I’m sure there are guys who wouldn’t even give her a second thought at this point, but I’m not one of those guys. Milly’s interesting, different, and possibly dangerous to my heart. I can feel it deep down. She was brought into my life for a reason and not just to help my swing, but something so much more than that. My dad showed me how to respect women. He could have dated when I was growing up, but I knew he still loved Mom so much. He’s a handsome and kind man, so he should have found someone easily, but he held on to my mom for so long. It taught me that when you find something you feel so connected to, you don’t let it go. He taught me perseverance.

  So, here I am, trying to decipher our something else. I need to convince her what our something else is. Hands rested in her lap, her shoulders tense, and her gaze forward, she stares at the little TV in front of us where reruns of Friends play. It’s kismet; we both like Friends.

  Then again, who doesn’t like Friends?

  Wanting her to loosen up, I say, “So, big Cory Potter fan, huh?”

  “Yeah,” she mutters, keeping her eyes fixed on the screen.

  Ohhh-kay.

  Sometimes I can’t get this girl to stop talking, and other times it’s like I need a tire jack to crank her mouth open to force her to speak to me. Huh, that’s not such a bad idea. Now where can I find a tire jack? *Mentally taps chin*

  Maybe I’ll take a different approach, one that I’m sure will strike a chord.

  “Did you catch the Storm game the other night? Potter couldn’t hit a high fastball if it was soft tossed to him.”

  Her head whips to mine as if I insulted her, not Potter. “He was having an off night.” Her defense is kind of comical. Yup, a true superfan. I wonder if she has a crush on him. He is the heartthrob of the Storm . . . so I’ve heard.

  “It’s like every three games he has an off night. He’s good and then he completely bombs. I have no idea how he got such a baller contract when his play isn’t steady. It’s so up and down. Don’t you think?” I ask, laying out the bait.

  I don’t necessarily agree with what I just said, but she turns toward me on the bed, a pinch to her brow and a fearsome fire simmering beneath. Yup, she’s a superfan all right.

  “His play isn’t steady? Are you serious? He’s the second-best first baseman in the American league, only falling short to Trevor Alpine, who is a phenom with a glove in his hand. Cory leads his team in batting average, slugging percentage, RBIs, and he even has a few stolen bases despite his larger stature. He’s been a starter in the All-Star Game for the past three years, and is easily a fan favorite. He has a baller contract because he’s amazing on and off the field.”

  Yup, the fire is raging.

  “Not to mention,” she continues, barely getting a breath in, “he does so much outside of the stadium. He volunteers, helps run clinics for the youth—boys and girls because he’s a huge proponent for equal opportunity—and he constantly donates large sums of his paycheck to those in need. He’s what every baseball player should strive to be.”

  A sly smile falls over my lips. “Looks like someone has a bit of a crush on Cory Potter.”

  A look of disgust immediately crosses her face.

  Did she just sneer and snort at the same time?

  Okay, wasn’t expecting that. I’m secure enough in my manhood to admit when a guy is good-looking, and Cory Potter has an amazing jawline that catches all angles of the camera. I’ve never met a girl to have this look on their face when Potter is mentioned.

  “I think you’re the first person to balk at the idea of crushing on Cory Potter. Is his impeccable jawline and manly muscles not your type?”

  “He’s not my type because he’s my brother.”

  Eh . . . what?

  Did I just hear that right?

  I blink a few times, realizing that my mouth is hanging open.

  “Did you just say Cory Potter is your brother?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Wait . . . are you serious?” Everything she’s told me starts clicking in my head. “So . . . the Potter brothers who run the D1 facility, those are your brothers too?” She nods. “Holy shit,” I breathe out. Milly isn’t just incredibly intelligent when it comes to baseball. She comes from a baseball dynasty. The Potters are well-known in the baseball circuit and Illinois in general. All three brothers excelled at baseball, Rian and Sean opting to open a business when Cory went all the way. And I know why . . . because of the girl sitting next to me.

  “So, before you go trashing Cory, I want you—”

  “Mills, I was only kidding.” I place my hand on her leg and her eyes immediately fall to the connection. “I was trying to get a reaction out of you, loosen you up to talk to me. I saw you had Cory Potter things all over your room so I thought that was an easy target. Honestly, your brother is one of the guys I idolize.” I pause and think about it. “And that’s why you don’t tell people who he is, huh? Because he’s so loved.”

  She picks at a piece of lint on the bed and nods. “Yeah, I don’t want fake people around me, you know? It’s why I never told you my last name, and it’s why I keep people at a distance.”

  “Like me,” I say, taking the moment to grow serious with her. “You keep me at a far distance.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Milly.” I give her a get real look. “It took me a whole lot of convincing you to hop into this bed. And there have been many times where you’ve just taken off without another word. Getting to know you hasn’t been easy.”

  Her head turns to the side as she chews on her bottom lip. Hell, what I wouldn’t give to nibble on that lip, to take off those glasses, unleash her hair, and roll her onto the cushiness of her mattress and play around with her mouth, explore it in every way I’ve thought of since I’ve met her.

  “Milly, look at me.”

  Her beautifully confused eyes meet mine, and I swear my breath escapes me as I take in the vulnerability in her expression. She’s scared and nervous, but there are goose bumps prickling her skin, and in this moment, Friends playing in the background, I have a second of clarity. Of understanding.

  Her talkative moments.

  Her smiles and laughs.

  Her goose bumps when I’m near.

  Her stuttering when she’s nervous.

  Her need to flee when I get too close.

  Her hesitation . . .

  Holy shit.

  She fucking likes me but has no idea what to do with her feelings. She’s not repulsed by me. Honestly, if she was, she wouldn’t be sharing her bed with me right now. She would have asked me to leave an hour ago. But she didn’t. Instead, she kept talking, we kept watching Friends, and now she’s sitting a foot away from me, slowly but surely growing more comfortable with the possibility of opening up the door to her attraction.

  Holy fuck, I think Milly Potter, baseball queen, and sexy-as-shit girl likes me.

  The realization spreads a giant smile across my face that I don’t bother hiding.

  She likes me.

  She really fucking likes me, and now there’s only one thing left to do: make her admit it.

  “It’s hard—”

  “Don’t worry about it, Mills.” I hop off her bed, put my shoes back on, and grab my backpack. I need to make an action plan to win this girl over and make it impossible for her to run away from me again . . . or shove an unexpected cookie in my mouth.