I so want a guy to want to hold my hand . . .

  Honestly, I wish a guy would look at me the way my dad looks at my mom, like she’s the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.

  I’m still waiting for that guy to come around.

  Not that I’m looking for that connection from the man standing in front of me, because if there’s one thing I’m certain of, Carson Stone will never look at me like that.

  Chapter Eight

  CARSON

  “Are we good?” Milly asks, snapping me out of my perusal.

  I’m here to help fix my swing and instead of doing that, I’m checking out the fullness in Milly’s lips and the freckles that dot her face, wondering if any guy has ever traced them before.

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  I need to snap the fuck out of it.

  Yeah, okay, so Milly is pretty . . . unique actually . . . the kind of beauty you don’t see very often. Naturally beautiful with a smile that captures my attention whenever it appears, but she is also naturally awkward. I like awkward at times. I can get along with awkward. That doesn’t bother me. What bothers me is her godforsaken fisherman’s hat. That thing needs to go, because it’s a fucking detriment to her and to society.

  What’s also a detriment? I don’t think she realizes how pretty she is. She obscures it, wearing bulky clothing that hides the curvy frame of her body that I catch glimpses of anytime the wind picks up. And she hides beneath the floppiness of a hat. I don’t mind a casual look on a girl, I appreciate it actually, makes them more cuddleable, but Milly is drowning in her clothes. She keeps mentioning her brothers, and I’m pretty sure she took their hand-me-downs.

  But what does it matter? I’m not here to get romantically involved with Milly, even though, hell, hearing her talk about baseball with such in-depth knowledge is a huge turn-on, but that doesn’t mean I’m about to make a move on her. Knowing her, she’d shove a cinnamon bun in my face the minute I start to tell her she’s pretty.

  I’m here to fix my swing, that’s it.

  No perusing.

  No move making.

  Hands to myself at all times.

  “Yeah, we’re good as long as you accept my apologies, because there were multiple in there.”

  Getting a wicked gleam in her eyes, she says, “Did you actually apologize?”

  “Jesus.” I drag my hand over my face. “Not this again.”

  “Well . . .” She crosses her arms over her chest.

  Studying her I say, “I have a feeling you had your brothers wrapped around your pinky.”

  “Pretty much.”

  Chuckling, I pick up my bat and rest it on my shoulder, gripping the end of it tightly. “Milly, I’m sorry for being a dick to you multiple times. In the dining hall, the weight room, and on the field. I should have never questioned your talents. Now please, will you help me?”

  “Wow, that was better than I expected. And you’re forgiven.” She walks off toward the dugout.

  “Where are you going? Is our session already done? Eyesight and that’s it?” I call out. “I can’t take these sessions in small doses. I need the whole download, Milly. I don’t have much time.”

  “Cool your jets,” she calls out, her back toward me. She snags her phone from her backpack and comes back to where I’m standing. Phone close to her chest, she says, “Okay, so I’m about to show you something, but you can’t judge me or get freaked out.”

  “What a way to start a sentence. I’m not scared at all,” I say sarcastically.

  “I’m serious. This is really creepy, and I apologize in advance, but it’s the only way I know how to show you your challenge.”

  “Uh . . . okay. Do you have videos of me or something on your phone?” I laugh, but when she bites her bottom lip . . . “Wait, do you?”

  “Listen, before you think I’m a psycho, I have videos of all the guys. I analyze them, slow them down, so I can concentrate on what makes a swing great. And I might use some of the videos to show my eight-year-olds what they should and shouldn’t be doing.”

  “Eight-year-olds?”

  “I coach a little league team with my two best friends, Jerry and Shane.”

  I work my jaw to the side. “Is Shane the guy who was sitting next to you at the dining hall?”

  “Yeah.”

  Interesting, okay, so he’s just a friend. Not that I care, but just a nice side note, something to file away as good information to have.

  “That’s cool.” I nod at her phone. “Let me see the videos.”

  “You don’t think I’m weird?” She cringes.

  “I never said that.” Her face falls. I lean forward and whisper, “But I like weird. Now show me what the hell I’m doing wrong.”

  The smile that pulls at the ends of her lips does something funny to my stomach, like a lot of butterflies were set off inside.

  Fucking weird shit.

  Surprising shit.

  Saddling up next to me, she goes to her videos, and then to a file where there are tons of videos of Brentwood baseball players.

  Wanting to see the screen better, I close the space between us so my chest is touching her back and I’m leaning over her for a better view. She sucks in a quick breath and then looks up at me.

  “Don’t worry, I’m just trying to get a better view.”

  “Oh yeah, of course,” she says, her voice flat. “Uh, I know . . . just the video.” She clicks on one and clears her throat, her voice slightly shaking. “This was from last year, before your injury. It was a home run against Springfield.” She pulls up a video and presses play. A decent image comes up on the screen and I watch as she slows down the video by using the scroll option with her finger.

  The shot is head-on, so you can see my hands and how they drive through the strike zone.

  “This pitcher had no idea you could attack a high fastball like that,” she says, her voice neutralizing again. “Let’s start at the beginning. See where your hands are positioned? Your right thumb is almost even with your right ear and your swing drives straight through the strike zone when you spot the ball. It’s a beautifully smooth swing with nothing fancy about it, pure power behind your hips, and solid contact with your hands not peeling away until they’re fully pushed through the strike zone. Stunning.”

  “I’ve never heard anyone talk about a swing like that, let alone mine. I like it.”

  She smiles up at me quickly before turning back to her phone and scrolling through the videos until she reaches the bottom where there are two videos from what look like this year. The only reason I can tell is because of our new jerseys; they’re changed every year.

  “This video was from the game you had three strike outs in.”

  “Fantastic. Can’t relive that enough.”

  She presses play but pauses it with her finger and slows it down. “I love comparing these two videos because they’re both high fastballs. I’m going to let you see if you can identify the difference.”

  This wouldn’t be the first time I’ve reviewed videos of my swing. I feel like it’s all I ever do, review videos. I’m so sick of seeing myself swing a damn bat, and that might be one of the reasons why I’m irritated most days. I never see the issue, but I’ll give this one a go.

  I lean in even closer and catch a brief waft of her perfume, a smell I wasn’t quite expecting. It’s flowery and quite feminine, smells amazing, almost too amazing that I’m distracted.

  Chastising myself, I focus and watch the video, seeing the same position of my hands, the same swing, but this time, I miss the ball by a few inches.

  “Did you see it?” she asks, excited.

  “Uh . . . did something change?”

  “Gah, okay, hold on.” She plays around on her phone pulling up a different app and then opens a file. In no time, both videos are stacked on top of each other and playing at the same time. Okay, this girl is legit, and I really fucking like it. “Watch carefully. Your eyes are trained on the pitcher, your hands are both in the same exact position and then . . . bam, right there, did you see it?”

  I blink a few times and then rub my eyes. Did I see it?

  See what?

  “You’re going to have to spell it out for me, Milly.”

  Chuckling, she says, “Okay. Watch your hands when you pick up your foot.” She slows down the videos again. “In the home run picture, your hands are solid as stone, stuck in place until they’re unleashed. Now watch in the strike-out picture. Right about . . . now, see how they drop down to your shoulder and then back up right before you power through the strike zone?”

  I step in closer, bringing the phone closer to my face. “Wait, show me again.”

  She plays it over a few more times, and she’s right. Plain as day. My hands are dipping down and then up right before I swing.

  “Shit, and you think that’s it?”

  “I know that’s it. Remember what I said. You have four hundred milliseconds from when the pitch is released to when your brain recognizes the pitch and signals your hands to swing. You don’t have much time to waste. You’re wasting time with a hitch in your swing, making you late on almost every pitch, or you’re jamming yourself, not letting your hands fully extend through the strike zone, which leads to grounders to the pitcher.”

  Holy.

  Shit.

  I step back and wrap my bat behind my neck where I hold on to it with both hands. She could not be more right. It’s so obvious now. The hitch in my swing is causing me to get behind on every single pitch and no one has pointed it out. How the fuck did this girl see that?

  “Are you okay?” she asks, startled. “You look like you’re about to beat the crap out of someone with that bat.”

  My grip grows tighter as I look up at the sky. “Just irritated.” I blow out a frustrated breath. “That’s something the coaching staff should have picked up on. Hell, it’s something I should have picked up on.”

  “It’s a small movement, and it took slowing it down and pointing it out for you to actually see it. And honestly, I studied these two videos side by side for a while.” Her cheeks redden. “I hate admitting that, but it’s the truth.”

  “I guess that makes me feel a little better.” Lowering my bat, I hand it to her. It’s huge in her grip and almost comical, but instead of letting it fall to the ground, she holds it up and gets into position, showing me her batting stance. And fuck if it’s not one of the hottest things I’ve seen . . . minus the stupid hat.

  “Ready to learn?” She wiggles her eyebrows.

  Hell yeah, I am.

  * * *

  “Hello?”

  I flop on my bed naked and happily stare at the ceiling. “Dude, I don’t think I’ve been this happy in a really long time.”

  “It disturbs me knowing that it’s your bedtime, you’re most likely naked, and you’re talking to me, telling me how happy you are. Just be honest, are you stroking yourself?”

  “You fucking wish.”

  Knox answers very dryly. “I really don’t.”

  After spending another fifteen minutes with Milly on the field before it got too dark, I thanked her, snagged her phone number, and made plans to meet up tomorrow morning . . . early.

  We didn’t do much when it came to actually hitting a ball, but we did talk. We talked about my injury, the recovery process, how I jumped back into practicing once I got the go-ahead. I didn’t focus on mechanics as much, reminding my muscle memory how to work, but instead drilled myself to death, which led to me tiring out and making mistakes in my mechanics. Mistakes I’ve repeated that have cost me.

  “I think I met my fairy godmother,” I say dreamily into the phone.

  “Like a bippity-boppity-boo kind of lady?”

  “Even better. She wears a fisherman’s hat.”

  Silence.

  “Can you back up for a second? What the hell are you talking about?”

  Twisting my short strands of hair with my free hand, I say, “I first ran into her in the panini line—”

  “Fuck, I miss Lakeview’s paninis. I would give up my pinky toes for one right about now.”

  “It’s the one positive I can think of from not being drafted. One more year of paninis. But we’re getting off track. I met her in the panini line, then the weight room, then—”

  “Wait, is this a girl you’re interested in? Like locker room material?”

  Ah, the locker room. Have you heard about the legend? Rumor on campus is, if a baseball player takes you to the locker room to do the dirty, you’ll be married within five years. Crazy, I know, but it’s true. It’s so true that only baseball players who are serious about their girl can take them to the sacred space.

  I believe . . . Knox doesn’t, at least he likes to pretend he doesn’t.

  “No, I mean, she’s pretty and all and has the sexiest lips I’ve ever seen, and man, her freckles are pretty cool, but no, she’s my fairy godmother.”

  More silence.

  “I think it might be too late for this conversation. Break it down really simple for me.”

  “She knows how to fix my swing,” I blurt. “We started working on it tonight, and we have an early morning session tomorrow before the game to work on it.”

  “A random girl you met just happened to know how to fix your swing? Carson, did she drug you? Are you seriously losing your mind? Do I need to be concerned? I knew leaving you on your own to fend for yourself wasn’t a good idea. I should have enlisted Jason to look out for you better.”

  “I’m not high,” I counter. “I’ve never felt so clear in my life. Listen, she’s a baseball specialist. She knows so much shit, it’s incredible. When I was in the weight room, her friend suggested I give her a try, but being the curmudgeon I am, I brushed it off. It wasn’t until I saw her after the game today that I finally gave in, and I’m so fucking glad I did.”

  “Because she figured it out?”

  “Yeah, she had videos on her phone of me batting and slowed it down for me.”

  “She had videos of you?” Knox lets out a long whistle. “Dude, she might be a stalker.”

  “She’s not, and even if she was, who the fuck cares? For the first time since my injury, I finally feel a ray of hope.”

  “She’s that good?”

  I smile to myself. “Yes, she’s that good.”

  Chapter Nine

  MILLY

  “Sorry,” I say, running up to Carson, who’s waiting at the side door that leads into the baseball stadium. “I had to borrow toothpaste from another student and getting one of them to wake up at this hour is next to impossible.”

  “Toothpaste?” he asks, lifting off the wall. He holds out a to-go cup and says, “Hot chocolate, wasn’t sure if you liked coffee.”

  “Thank you,” I say, trying to hold back the cheesy grin itching to appear. “And yes, toothpaste. I didn’t want to meet up with you smelling like a gargoyle.”

  He snorts mid sip of his drink. “Thank fuck for that.” With his other hand, he holds up a small bag with the blue label everyone on campus is familiar with: Frankie’s Donuts. “Brought us a little morning nibble. Figured we could eat really quick and then get to work.”

  Try not to drool. It’s not very often I get to have Frankie’s Donuts and when I do, I go on a crazy binge. Jerry and Shane have seen far too many donuts taken down in the time they’ve known me and after every binge, I always wind up in a crazy sugar coma with a sick belly that lasts me the rest of the day.

  But it’s worth it every time.

  “Frankie’s Donuts are my favorite.”

  “Yeah?” He holds a key card up to the door to unlock it. A beeping sound fills the brisk morning air and the door pops open. Carson holds it open for me and I quickly walk inside, him closely behind me. “What’s your favorite?”

  “Blueberry streusel, of course.”

  “Ha, that’s my friend Knox’s favorite too. And you’re in luck. I got one, hoping you’d eat it so I could have the lemon curd.”

  “Lemon curd, really? I never would have pegged you as a lemon kind of guy?” We walk down a barely lit hallway, make a right, and then he throws open a door to a large roomful of batting cages. Good God, this is my mecca.

  “Why, do I not look dainty enough to appreciate a fine pastry filled with lemon?”

  Too caught up in the batting cages, I give him a non-committal sound and walk farther into the space, taking in the deep cages, nets, and buckets of balls in each, the artificial turf, baseball tees—so many tees. It’s pristine, beautiful, and I wish this was a place I worked in every single day.

  “Uh, did you hear my joke?” Carson asks, stepping up next to me. “Or are you too caught up in having an eye-gasm over the batting cages.”

  Once again, my cheeks flame. “Sorry,” I mutter, glancing at my cup of hot chocolate. “It’s just a really nice facility.”

  He laughs and nudges my shoulder toward the cushioned benches along the wall. “Let’s eat and then get to work.”

  We both take a seat, and he hands me my donut. I act like a lady and resist shoving the entire thing in my mouth at once, but instead take reasonable bites, despite it being incredibly difficult.

  I’m mid bite when I catch him staring at me, not just staring, but really studying. I check out my donut to make sure I haven’t gone hog wild on it—nope, still plenty left. Oh God, is there something on my face? In my teeth? Is there toothpaste bordering my lips? I’m tempted to take a napkin and wipe down my entire head, but instead, I shyly ask, “Is there something on my face?”

  He doesn’t answer right away, instead, he lifts his hand and flicks the brim of my fisherman’s hat that I tossed on this morning without even thinking about it.

  “What’s with this thing? You look like a fifty-year-old alumni wearing it. You’re just missing the matching polo.”

  I tug on the side. “You don’t like it?”

  “I mean . . . it’s . . . hell, it’s kind of awful.”

  “Oh.” When Shane and Jerry tell me they hate the hat, I just wash off the insult and keep moving along, but now that Carson is saying it, I feel embarrassed.