“No need to blush or anything.” He sets his donut down and reaches into his backpack. “If you’re going to be my coach, you have to look the part.” He pulls out a T-shirt and a black Brentwood baseball hat. “It’s a female cut so it won’t be huge on your head.” He hands it over and I stare at both items in awe.

  “You got me a hat and a shirt?”

  “Hell yeah.” He smiles. “You need to coach me in style.” Boldly, he takes my hat off and quickly replaces it with my new one, which oddly fits perfectly. No adjustments needed. He pulls on the brim of the hat and says, “There, perfect. Now we’re in business.”

  Feeling shy and grateful, I say, “Thank you so much. This is really awesome.”

  He chuckles, a hearty sound I’m starting to really like. “I think you’re the only girl I know who would get excited over seeing batting cages and receiving a baseball cap.”

  “I told you I was different.”

  “And I told you I like different.” He winks and then shoves the rest of his donut in his mouth as he stands. “I’m going to do a few laps and warm up. You have time to work on your nutritious breakfast.”

  He takes off, jogging to one end of the cages and then to the other, all the while, my heart is racing a mile a minute, my stomach is churning with butterflies, and for the first time since I’ve run into Carson Stone, I’m willing to admit it: I might be crushing on him just a little.

  * * *

  Crack.

  The baseball flies off the tee and straight to the back of the batting cages, a ripped line drive that would take off any pitcher’s head.

  It’s been a while since I’ve worked with Cory. He doesn’t get home much and when he is home, the last thing he wants to do is swing a bat after a long and draining season, so I’m not used to seeing such power hit through the strike zone and zip the ball as hard as Carson does. I love my eight-year-olds, but they have nothing on the pure power coming from Carson’s swing.

  “That was great,” I say while placing another ball on the tee.

  He doesn’t even acknowledge me or my compliment, because he’s laser focused on what he’s doing. Studying the ball, thinking about his hands, counting off the steps he needs to make before his swing. It’s impressive to watch.

  The strength in his thighs, the endurance he has for hitting over one hundred balls in one training session, the fine sinew that flexes in his forearms with every move of the bat, the narrowness of his waist compared to the broadness of his shoulders . . . everything about him screams professional baseball.

  He might have drawn a bad hand when it came to his injury, but with his work ethic and drive, he’ll make it to the big leagues, no doubt in my mind. He only needs to wipe the mental slate clean.

  Concentrating on the ball, he steps his front foot and then blasts his bat through the ball once again, sailing it to the other end.

  With a resounding sigh, he drops his bat and sits on the ground where he twists his hat backward and props himself up with his elbows as he stretches out his long legs. His neoprene shirt stretches across his chest, clinging to every curve and contour of his thick pecs. I blush from the confidence he exudes just lounging there.

  “I think I need to call it. If I keep going, I’m going to wear out my hands before the game tonight.”

  “Yeah, of course. You don’t want to overdo it.” I stand from the bucket I’ve been sitting on and say, “I’ll start collecting the balls.”

  “Nah, I can do that.”

  I glance down at him. “Take a break. I’ve got it.”

  I pick up the bucket and make my way down toward the end of the cage where I set it down and start retrieving balls. Before I can make my first deposit, Carson is right by my side with a handful of balls.

  “Hey, I said I could pick them up.”

  “And there’s no way in hell I’d let you do that alone,” he replies with conviction.

  Seems like when he sets his mind on something, there’s no changing it, so we work together in tandem. The balls bounce in the bucket, the sound echoes in the large space, the thunk, thunk almost relaxing.

  “Do you feel a little better?” I ask, hoping I’ve been a touch helpful.

  “Yeah. I’m glad we know the issue.” He tosses four balls in the bucket. “I would be lying if I said I was completely confident though. Actually, not feeling confident at all.”

  “That’s okay. That’s what happens when you make a change in your swing. The confidence will come with more practice. Be kind to yourself. We only started figuring things out last night.”

  “Could have been sooner if I’d listened to your friend Jerry.”

  “Barely anyone listens to Jerry, so don’t beat yourself up about it.” I pick up a ball and from about six feet away, I shoot it into the bucket.

  “Oh, I see, trying to show off your picking-up-balls ability.”

  Smiling shyly, I say, “It’s a game I used to play with my brothers. A little game of Horse, baseball edition. Made picking up balls a little more fun but instead of spelling horse, we would spell ball.”

  Picking up a ball, he walks over to where I’m standing—right behind me—his chest almost touching my back, his hand grips my shoulder and before I can ask him what he’s doing, he tosses a ball straight into the bucket.

  “Sunk it.”

  Pulse racing, I slink away and try not to smile psychotically—you know, lips flat, eyes wide, like a clown who’s lost his marbles. “Uh, very good. Nice job. Well done.” There you go, keep complimenting, I’m not sure he’s gotten the point yet. “Congrats.” I bite on my bottom lip, cringe, and turn around.

  “Thanks.” He chuckles and when I go to pick up another ball to put it in the bucket, he says, “Wait, hold on, isn’t it my turn to pick a spot to shoot from?”

  “Oh . . . are we, uh . . . playing?”

  “Hell yeah. I need to see what you’re made of. Come on, Coach, show me your best stuff.”

  “Coach?” I question.

  “Yeah, Coach.” He nudges my shoulder playfully, a very guy friend thing to do. For some reason, it creates a pit of disappointment in my stomach. Not that I EVER think Carson will look at me in any other way than as someone helping him out. But as a girl who is crushing—very minimal crushing, more like an ah, he’s nice and cute kind of way—it does sting a bit when once again I’m treated like one of the guys.

  Licking my wounds, I say, “All right, you shoot.”

  “That a girl.” He rubs his hands together and then picks up a ball. “You’re going down.”

  “Okay,” I say sarcastically, knowing full well I have an undefeated record with my brothers. Cory was close to winning one time, but a rim shot killed him.

  He stands to the right, cocks his hand back and shoots, sinking the ball. He gives himself a fist pump and then gestures for me to join him in his spot. He takes me by the shoulders and positions me exactly where he thinks I need to be.

  “You know, I can find the spot by myself.”

  “Nah, I don’t need you cheating. I prefer to position you myself, thank you very much.”

  Rolling my eyes, I say, “Is this where you want me?”

  “Uh, hold on”—he shifts me maybe half an inch to the side—“there, that should—”

  Before he can finish, I shoot the ball straight into the bucket, pick up my next ball, and move to the back of the cages. Just you wait, Stone. I’m getting serious.

  “What the hell, you just made it no—”

  I shoot again, scoring, but this time from ten feet away. I motion with my fingers to come to where I’m standing. “Hustle up, Stone, I don’t have all day.”

  “Holy shit.” He chuckles. “What did I get myself into?”

  “You have no idea.”

  * * *

  “So, that was humiliating,” Carson says with a teasing grin as he leans against the hood of my car and glances at me. “Can we not mention that to anyone?”

  “How I completely annihilated you back there in the cages?”

  “Yeah, that. Let’s just keep that as a little secret between you and me.”

  “Player-coach confidentiality?”

  He snaps his fingers at me and points. “Exactly.” Shaking his head, he says, “I still can’t believe you shot a ball in the bucket from between your legs backward. What the hell was that?”

  “Told you it wasn’t my first time.” I clutch my new shirt to my chest, excited to try it on.

  Eying the shirt, he says, “You’re coming to the game today, right?”

  “Never miss a home game.”

  His smile grows. “And you’re going to wear your new shirt and hat?”

  “I don’t think I have an option not to.”

  “Damn right.” He lets out a long breath and looks out into the empty parking lot. “God, I could really use a fucking hit today. Or at least a solid hit off the wood, the kind you can feel down to your bones when it pings off the bat.”

  “You will. Just think about driving your hands forward, not down.”

  “Yeah, okay.” He lifts off my car. “After the game, meet me in the dugout, field six?”

  “What? You want to practice some more?”

  “We need to review my at bats, Coach.” He winks and pats me on the shoulder.

  Gee, thanks.

  “I’ll bring some food for us. You like Mexican, yeah?”

  “Yeah,” I answer, my mind immediately going toward an evening full of belching and good old-fashioned shoulder pats.

  “Perfect. See you then, Coach.” He holds up his hand for a high five and I reluctantly hit it, putting myself directly in the friend zone.

  Plunk.

  He takes off and instead of watching him trot away to his car, I get in mine and let out a long exhale as I bring my hands to the steering wheel and push the start ignition button.

  Okay, so I find Carson attractive. Maybe I stared at him a little too long this morning, watching his machine of a body hit ball after ball. Maybe I appreciated his forearms for far too many minutes, and it’s muddled my head. And quite possibly, I might have confused myself when he gave me the shirt and hat, thinking it was more than just a kind gesture to a “friend” that’s helping him out.

  I understand there might be some slight fantasizing on my end, but I dare any girl on this campus to not at least swoon within a five-foot radius of him. He isn’t just handsome and intense, but fun—oh God, look at me. He’s down to earth and kind and thoughtful.

  And yes, all because of a hat, shirt, and donut. Well, that’s not true. The multiple apologies he flung my way were unexpected. I hadn’t thought Carson would even look my way after our panini run-in. His egotistical behavior was expected, not surprising. Carson doesn’t fit in the narcissistic, talented sportsman box. He cares about people and to me, that’s something genuine to swoon over.

  So yes, I might be crushing, but I think we all know it’s temporary, because after we get his swing back together, he’ll be on his way. At least when he’s playing in the big leagues one day, I can say I gave that guy a high five . . .

  How lucky am I?

  Did you hear the sarcasm?

  Chapter Ten

  CARSON

  “What did you think, Coach?” I ask, stepping into the little league dugout, batting bag in one hand, food in the other.

  Milly’s head whips around to me and her face lights up as she claps her hands together. Fuck, I like how excited she is, how invested she is. It’s like having my own personal cheerleader, something I’ve been missing for a very long time.

  My mom passed away from breast cancer when I was young, leaving me with just my dad, who worked his tail off night and day to send me to private lessons. That meant he wasn’t around very often for games. I was the kid who had no one in the stands cheering them on, just the parents of other kids who knew my situation. Knowing Milly was watching me, cheering for me, it mattered. It mattered a whole lot.

  “You got a hit.” She claps some more.

  Like a dork, I take a bow and then set my stuff down so I can sit next to her on the bench, but I straddle it instead, facing her head-on.

  “Fuck, it felt good. It felt so fucking good being out there again, feeling the dirt under my cleats, tossing the ball around with my boys, feeling the pure crack of the ball off the bat. It might have been a single down the line, but it was a start.”

  “It was a great start.” She smiles brightly, and I can’t help noticing the way her lips perfectly curve up, giving her a flawless set of dimples under her glasses. She’s wearing the shirt I got her, which molds to her every curve, and she paired it with a pair of denim shorts that aren’t slutty short, but they aren’t long either. The perfect Milly length, is what I’m saying in my head. To top it off, she’s wearing the hat I got her, but her hair is bundled up in a messy bun out the back hole, giving her this sexy, messy vibe. I wonder if she knows how good she looks right now.

  “Why are you staring at me?” she asks, shaking me from my thoughts.

  Shit.

  “Uh . . . did I tell you how nice that hat looks on you?”

  “Yeah, a few times.” She blushes. “But thanks, and the shirt is wonderful too. Jerry and Shane were jealous.”

  “Well, if they were as smart as you, they might have gotten one too, but only the best for my coach.” I reach for the food and bring it up between us. “Straddle the bench so you can use it as a table.”

  Clearing her throat, she says, “I’m guessing this isn’t your first rodeo eating in a dugout.”

  “Sometimes I think I’ve eaten more meals like this than at an actual dinner table.” I open a boxful of tacos, set the chips and guac between us, and then hand her a water from the bag as well. “Is this okay?”

  “This is great. You really didn’t have to bring dinner.”

  “Are you kidding?” I pick up a softshell taco and take a huge bite of it. “It’s the least I could do. You don’t have to be spending your extra time helping me out.”

  “It’s what I love.” She shrugs and picks up a taco as well as a chip. Gingerly she dips it, barely gathering any guacamole, and then puts the whole thing in her mouth.

  “What the hell was that?”

  Eyes wide, she crunches down and then asks, “What was what?”

  “That dip. You barely got anything on your chip.”

  “Oh.” She chuckles. “Yeah, that’s how I dip things. My brothers make fun of me for doing it all the time.”

  “Rightfully so. That’s ridiculous.” I take her taco from her hand, set it in the box, and then hand her a tortilla chip. “You’ve taught me some things, now it’s my turn to exchange the favor.”

  “I know how to eat, Carson.”

  “Clearly not.” Growing serious, I say, “You’re doing that chip a disservice by not giving it a proper dunk. Now, watch me carefully.”

  I start to move toward the guac when I stop myself and playfully smack myself in the head.

  “What the hell was I thinking? We need to warm up first. The key to a good dunk is a proper wrist and finger warmup.” I hold up my hands and start flexing my fingers in and out. “Copy what I’m doing.”

  Her head tilts to the side. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I never joke about stretching. Move it along, Coach, get those digits flexing.”

  Humoring me with a smirk, she lifts her hands and starts moving her fingers up and down.

  “That’s it, just like that. Now rotate your wrists, really move that lactic acid. We don’t want any buildup while eating chips and guac.”

  “Heaven forbid.”

  “Other direction.” We switch out rotation. “Have you ever gotten chip wrist? I did once, couldn’t pick up a tortilla chip for a week.”

  “Are you being serious?”

  “You tell me.”

  Her lips turn up as she pushes her glasses back up her nose. I’m seriously starting to become needy for that smile. “From our brief interactions, I’m going to say you’re very much serious about everything . . . when you’re not joking.”

  “Precisely, and I’m very serious about chips and guac, so pick one up and watch me before you dip.” I grab a chip, dip it, and then angle the point upward. “See this angle, the wrist action, the precise hold my fingers have on the chip so it doesn’t break, this is exactly—”

  Crack. Snap.

  Plop.

  Milly snorts and covers her mouth, a giggle bubbling up inside her as we both stare at my broken chip.

  “Well . . . this is humiliating.”

  “Oh my God.” She busts out in laughter, holding on to her stomach now. “That could not have gone worse. What were you saying about the precise hold again?”

  “Are you busting my balls, Coach?”

  She nods, her eyes welling up.

  “Oh, you think this is funny?”

  “Yup,” she squeaks. “You were just so serious. So knowledgeable.”

  “Still am. I’m calling it a faulty chip.”

  “Wouldn’t a chip and guac connoisseur like yourself know how to handle such a faulty chip and still breed success from their dipping?” she counters, looking smug and beautiful simultaneously.

  “You’re quite mouthy when you break out of your shell, you know that?”

  Her confidence falters briefly. “You noticed?”

  I drop the sarcastic banter. “You seemed terrified to be on the same baseball field as me when we first started . . . yesterday.” Her cheeks redden, and I know she’s embarrassed, something that easily happens where she’s concerned. I don’t want to embarrass her in the slightest, but it would be cool if she opened up a little. She is helping me perfect my swing, after all, and it would be nice to know the girl who I’ll give credit to.

  “I was terrified. Not many men give me a shot. My little league team, now that’s a different story, but when it comes to people our age or older, they want someone else teaching them. Someone with a penis.”

  “I’d like to say that’s bullshit, but even I can’t act cavalier, because I doubted you. Then again, I’ve doubted everyone who’s ever offered a suggestion, but that’s for a different reason.”