When we pull up to a parking spot along the boardwalk, I have an idea why he’s brought me here, and I couldn’t be happier.

  It’s a beautiful day out. Seventy-five, sunny, with just enough breeze off Lake Michigan that it’s not too cold and not too hot. Sublime.

  When he shuts off the engine, he turns toward me. “Want to go for a walk?”

  “Sounds like a great idea.”

  “Perfect.” He unbuckles himself and instead of opening his door, he pulls himself up by the crossbar and goes through the window, then comes to my side and opens my door. When I give him a questioning look, he shrugs. “Was raised by two moms. It’s habit.” And I don’t mind that at all. Chivalry is not dead.

  We both have a water bottle in hand as we join the boardwalk trail that runs along the lake. For a Sunday, the trail isn’t busy at all. A few bikers, some jogging moms with their strollers, but other than that, it’s pretty clear, providing some privacy.

  I notice that Lincoln isn’t wearing a single piece of Brentwood baseball clothing, but has on all black with a plain black hat, backwards, and black Ray-Bans covering his eyes. Makes me wonder, does he get recognized often?

  If you’re in a three-mile radius of Brentwood, you’ll see his face on a banner somewhere. What would it be like to have to deal with that, especially since it’s just college? It’s one thing when you’re a pro—comes with the territory—but college? Some of these kids are still trying to figure out their skin-care routine, let alone learning how to talk to the press and diehard fans. He’s fairly level-headed. Is that innate or trained?

  “Are you incognito?”

  “Is it obvious?” he asks with a smile.

  “I think to someone else, no, you’re just a regular guy on a walk, but to me, it looks like you’re trying to hide.”

  “Just didn’t want to run into anyone today. I honestly don’t mind talking to patrons and fans outside of campus, but today I just wanted some time alone . . . with you.”

  I hide the smile itching to cross my face. Not. Easy.

  “Did you have to go through media training?”

  “Oh yeah.” He chuckles. “It’s one of the first things you do as a freshman. Disik doesn’t fuck around. He doesn’t want anyone embarrassing him or the program. And the training is intensive. More than what every other sport has to go through.”

  “We didn’t get any training.” I push my sunglasses up on my nose. “In case you didn’t realize, we don’t get much press or fans in the stands, for that matter. The only reason most of us are on full-ride scholarships is because of Title Nine.”

  “Come on, you have people watch your games.”

  “We have our families, but the student body couldn’t care less, despite how great we are.” He doesn’t say anything, and I ask, “Have you ever been to a game?”

  When I look in his direction and he winces, I know the answer. “I want to say we have a busy schedule, but that would be an excuse. Hell, I don’t even know when you play.”

  “We have our first game in two weeks.”

  “Shit, that soon? Right after you had your test?”

  I nod. “Yeah, we’re still conditioning, but now we’re focused on working together as a team, reading each other. But the buildup before that is important. We train through the summer, come to school early, as you know, train, and then we have our test. Coach knows who’s serious and who’s going to warm the bench. And starting tomorrow, we dig into the details of the game. The fun stuff.”

  “Damn, I had no clue.” He scratches the back of his neck. “I think I need to pay more attention.”

  “Why? I mean, I have no idea what you guys do over at your mega stadium.”

  He chuckles. “It’s a little obnoxious, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe a little.” I smile. “But you guys earned it too. The program has produced some of the best players in baseball.”

  “Are you a baseball fan?”

  “I’m a fan of sports in general. I could probably sit and watch any athletic competition just because I know what it takes to play at a high level. But if I had to pick a favorite baseball team, uhh . . . probably the Bobbies, but only because they drafted Knox Gentry, and when I was wishing to be recruited by Brentwood, he was all the rage.”

  “The dude has major skills. He was just called up to the majors.”

  “Really? See, that’s what I’m talking about. Player after player makes it to the majors.” I grow silent for a second and say, “I’m assuming that’s your future too.”

  “If all goes right,” he answers, looking out toward the water.

  “Aren’t you eligible for the draft this year?”

  “In the spring, yeah.”

  “And if you’re drafted, will you sign?”

  “Depends. If it’s a late-round, there’d be no point. I’d rather stay at Brentwood, finish my major, and build up my strength and spin one more year with Coach Disik.”

  “That makes sense. Is that why you chose to go to college instead of being drafted straight from high school?”

  “I was debating between the two, but when I came on my recruiting trip to Brentwood, Coach Disik pulled me into his office—which was intimidating as fuck—and he basically told me I had the potential to be great, but only under his wing. He said he had no doubt I’d be drafted out of high school, but it would be a long, rigorous road for me, and depending on who drafted me, he could see me having a long career in the majors, or no career at all.” Lincoln smiles. “Then he took out this folder and laid it in front of me. It was a timeline of my three years at Brentwood. It pointed out my flaws and weak points and how over the course of three years, he’d break me of my bad habits and get me ready to take on the big leagues.”

  “Are you freaking serious?”

  Lincoln nods. “It was insulting and amazing. I told my moms about the entire conversation and as I was telling them, it felt like a no-brainer. A free education while being trained to be one of the best pitchers in the country? I would have been stupid to say no. Plus, I meshed well with the guys and the facilities are sick.”

  “That they are.” I take a sip of my drink and close the bottle. “What I wouldn’t give for a file like that. Coach Wilson is amazing and runs us into the ground, but she doesn’t spend much time with me. I only have one more year after this and if I want to go pro, I’d really like to know what I need to work on.”

  “Maybe you don’t have to work on anything.”

  “You and I both know that’s never the case. There’s always something to work on.”

  “True.” His shoulder brushes against mine and a tingling warmth spreads down my arm to my fingertips. I want him to do that again. “So, you want to go pro?”

  “Yeah. I know women soccer players get paid absolute crap, but”—I play with the bottle in my hands—“I’m just not ready to give up the thrill of the game. Yet.”

  “I understand that. I honestly think about how some college athletes have their last game ever and that’s it. They never play competitively again. The thought of dropping it all makes me feel sick. Not having one more chance to step out on the field, feel the dirt under my cleats, hear the roar of the crowd, the umpire staring me down, waiting for me to throw my next pitch. It would be really fucking difficult.”

  “I think the only people who understand are the ones in our position. My dad has made comments here and there about me getting a real job when I graduate. Working hard on my teaching degree and finding something stable. He’s never been a huge fan of sports, nor has my mom for that matter, so it kills me inside every time he makes a comment like that. He clearly doesn’t understand what it takes to play at the elite level and to just drop it all.” I shake my head. “I can’t think about it.”

  “Not to insult your dad, but it seems like he doesn’t get you at all. Just from our non-date at the arcade, I knew you were on a whole other level. Competitive, but the type of competitive that knows what it takes to give up everything in your life to make a dream come true.”

  “And man, did I give up everything.”

  “Same.” He stops and nods toward a stone wall that overlooks the lake. “Want to take a seat for a second? Maybe stretch?”

  “Good idea.” We walk over and both take a seat on the wide, flat wall. I bring my legs into a butterfly position and groan. “Oh Jesus, please help me through this time of need.”

  Lincoln laughs next to me. “You know it’s bad when you’re calling out to Jesus for help.”

  “Or is it good?” I ask, wiggling my eyebrows.

  I see him gulp hard and then look away. “Depends on whether or not you’re faking it.”

  “Oh, good point.”

  “Have you?” Lincoln asks, keeping his eyes trained on the water. “Have you ever faked it?”

  “Uh, yeah. And before you think you’re God’s gift to sex, I bet you anything there’s at least one girl who’s faked it with you.”

  “Never claimed to be God’s gift to sex, but I will tell you this, I do eat a lot of pineapple. It’s the polite thing to do.”

  “Ah, look at you. That is very polite.” He flashes me one of his sexy grins. “I hate to be admitting this, but I’ve heard rumors about you around campus.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you have.” Lincoln sighs, staring down at his clasped hands. “You’re either practically celibate like Hartley and Asher, or you deal with the talk.” He tilts his head to the side as the sun starts to set behind him. I feel my breath catch as I stare at this man who I can only describe as a real-life Ken doll. “What have you heard?”

  I switch to stretching my glutes and try to erase the butterfly feeling in my chest from that one look from him. “Uh, you know, the typical stuff. Amazing body . . . big dick.”

  He smirks and looks away. “Can’t argue with that.”

  “You’re also terrible at calling people back when you say you will.”

  Lifting up his hat, he pushes his hand through his hair. “I never make promises to girls. I always leave it with maybe I’ll call you sometime. Easier that way. Trust me, I’m nowhere near man-whore status. I don’t have the time and energy to go looking for women.”

  “I don’t think you’d need to look hard. Pretty sure if you said you were looking to bone, half the school would line up.”

  He presses his hand to his chest and says sarcastically, “Thank you for the compliment.” When I roll my eyes at him, he says, “What about you? Thinking about having sex with Deacon?”

  “So, we’re crossing that line, huh?”

  “I mean, we are friends after all.”

  I switch legs and groan some more, using my hands to get my leg into position. “Deacon is sweet, he’s hot, and jumping into bed would most likely be awesome.” Lincoln tenses next to me and it makes me chuckle. He asked. “Just not sure I’m ready for any of that. Especially with the season starting soon.” I shrug. “I don’t know. I’ll probably go out to dinner and see where it goes.”

  “Cool,” Lincoln answers tersely.

  I release my stretch and poke him in the arm. “Don’t be weird.”

  “Please just don’t have sex in our house. I don’t want to hear you praying to Jesus.”

  “Are you assuming I’m loud when having sex?”

  Loosening up a little, he makes a show of sizing me up, looking at my face and trying to peer around both my ears. He’s being ridiculous, and I push his face away only for him to laugh that addictive laugh of his. “Yeah, you’re a screamer all right, but not just for anyone. A guy has to earn a scream from you.”

  “That’s disturbingly accurate.” Very disturbing. I get chills from thinking about screaming during sex with . . .

  “I bet you also make a gargle sound when you orgasm.” Out of nowhere, he throws his head back, rolls his eyes and convulses, arms stretched out like Frankenstein as he makes creepy gargling noises.

  I push him to the side but barely put a dent in his position. “That is not me.”

  “How do you know? Have you ever recorded yourself?”

  “Yes, and that’s not how I look.”

  He tilts his sunglasses down. His jaw falls slightly open. “Uh, I’m going to need to review the footage myself.”

  “Get out of here.” I push him again and hop off the wall. “Come on, Castle, I’m buying us dinner.”

  Chapter Eight

  LINCOLN

  “This makes me appreciate you so much more,” I say, sitting on the bench across from Indie.

  She reaches to the tray of fries we decided to share and pops one in her mouth. “The fact that I treated you to Chicago-style hot dogs, or because I got two?”

  “Both.” I laugh. “I never would have picked you as a hot dog-eating girl.”

  “I don’t live my life for hot dogs, but ever since moving to Chicago, I stop by Dreaming of Wieners when I’m in this part of town.”

  “Was it the name that pulled you in?”

  “At first, no.” She chuckles. “I spent the summer before college training and reading. I came across this book called The Mother Road. It was in my mom’s stack of romance novels. The watercolor skyline of Chicago on the back caught my eye, and I thought I’d give it a try. The book was hilarious. About a family’s road trip across Route 66 to eat a Chicago dog in Chicago. There was more substance to it, but that’s what made me think of wanting to try a Chicago dog. So, when I moved here, I had to find out what the big deal was. If an author could write so passionately about a damn hot dog, that had to be something worth trying, right? I went on Yelp, found Dreaming of Wieners—they won me over with the name—and I had my first Chicago dog right at this bench. It’s when my life changed forever.” She smiles. Leaning forward, she whispers, “I think it’s the celery salt that makes them so damn good.”

  She’s cute, really fucking cute.

  “I’m sorry, I’m still caught up on the fact that you read a romance novel.” She chucks a fry at me, and I catch it and pop it in my mouth with a grin. “Was there sex in it?”

  “Of course there was sex,” she scoffs. “Dirty sex. Brother’s-best-friend sex. Oral-on-an-RV-kitchen-counter sex.”

  “Oh damn.” I chuckle. “Vivid stuff, huh?”

  “Yup.”

  My lips curve up. “Learn any pointers?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  I would.

  I really would.

  When I invited Indie out for a walk, I didn’t think it would end up with us sharing a tray of fries and hot dogs, but I’m glad it has, because I really enjoy her company. I feel like she gets me on a whole other level. She knows what I’m going through, and I understand what she’s going through. She’s unpredictable, makes me laugh, and I love being around her.

  I considered texting her earlier in the day to see how she was, but it felt desperate, especially after Deacon came home boasting about how amazing Indie is. Trust me, buddy, I know. And I can’t even be mad about it because I have no claim over her. Hell, I was the asshole who didn’t know who she was when I first met her. And I kick myself in the ass every day for that.

  But as time ticked away, I decided I’d text her around four to see if she wanted to go for a walk. Knowing her intense workout from yesterday, she’d be sore, so getting out would be helpful.

  And here we are now, eating dinner together. It’s been a good fucking day.

  “Do you have the book still? Maybe you want to lend it to a good friend.”

  “It’s my mom’s, sorry. Check the library.”

  “Maybe I will.” I lift my hot dog, so does Indie, and we both take a bite. “It’s the fucking celery salt,” I say through a mouthful.

  “Right?” Indie replies, mustard hanging off her lip.

  On instinct, I reach out and wipe the mustard away and then lick it off my finger.

  Her eyes widen, shock and amusement written over her face. “Did you just wipe mustard off my lip and eat it?”

  “Yup,” I answer with no shame. “Got a problem with that?”

  “No, just surprised is all.”

  “Why? You have a disease I should be worried about?”

  “No,” she shoots back.

  “Then we’re good.”

  “But how do I know when you last washed your thumb? You could have just wiped germs all over my lip.”

  “You know,” I say, pretending to give my answer great thought, “I was dipping my thumb into random people’s pants before I came here. Maybe you should be worried.”

  “Why are you like this?” She smiles.

  “Why am I like this? Why are you like this?” I counter lamely.

  “You can do better than that, Castle.”

  “I’m distracted by the celery salt,” I say, and take another bite of my hot dog just as I hear someone call out Indie’s name from a distance. We both look to the right to see Deacon—of all people—jogging toward us.

  Just fucking great.

  When he spots me, he does a double take and then laughs, as if to say, “What are the chances?”

  High, the chances are apparently very high.

  “Oh shit, I had no idea that was you, Linc.” We do a quick bro shake and then he sits down next to Indie. “What are you guys up to?”

  Now if this was any other guy, I’d be fucking pissed, especially if Indie was my girl—which she isn’t—but if she was, Deacon would be perceived as a total cock block.

  A giant, two-hundred-pound chastity belt.

  Sir Cockus-the-Blockus of Clueless-ville.

  A certified jimmy jacker. You get the point.

  It’s obvious that Indie and I are enjoying a meal together—hello, we’re sharing goddamn fries—and he came and welcomed himself to our table.

  But that’s not how Deacon is. He’s genuinely a happy, outgoing guy who likes to hang out with people. He isn’t malicious, nor does he plan things to grate on people’s nerves.