“Good baseball players can’t be gamblers? Ever heard of Pete Rose?”

  An appreciative spark lit his moss-green eyes. “Fair point.” He studied her for a beat longer, before shifting to the opposite foot. “If I make it on base, you let me take you out for coffee after the game.”

  Skylar pretended to choke. “After what I heard you say about last night’s date? No way. I’m not interested in being your next one-night stand.” Insecurity got the better of her within a split second. “Not that . . . you’d want that. With me. I wasn’t implying you were interested like that.” He looks so confused. Shut up. “Anyway, I don’t even drink coffee, I drink orange juice.”

  “Okay, Tom Brady,” he said slowly. “I’m sure we can manage to track down some OJ. Are you saying yes to the bet?”

  She was already regretting this. Why not stick to the original plan and wait for that magical future moment when Madden eventually saw what was right in front of him?

  So what if it took another decade?

  A sad trombone slide came from the direction of the parking lot.

  Or possibly her mind.

  Face the facts, Skylar. Her plucky tagalong role wasn’t working.

  And yearning this hard, this long? It hurt.

  Perhaps she could make the bet. But still win and avoid the date.

  That alone could be enough to nudge Madden.

  “Fine.” She coughed into her wrist. “Whatever. You’re on.”

  A few seconds ticked by, his eyebrows steadily drawing together. “Are you only agreeing to this bet because you think I don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of getting on base?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe.”

  With a wink, he walked backward a few steps, before turning and jogging the remaining distance to the batter’s box, picking up the bat again. “Gentlemen, please serve as witnesses,” boomed his obnoxiously deep voice. “If I make it on base, me and the pitcher have a coffee and orange juice date at a TBD location.”

  Madden spat, yanked his face mask back into place, and dropped to his haunches.

  She wasn’t imagining this, right? Mad was jealous over her.

  “I’m not worried,” Elton drawled. “She won’t let you make it on base.”

  No. She wouldn’t. She had far too much pride for that.

  But Redbeard had done her a favor by being so publicly annoying. He’d declared her datable to anyone who would listen—including Madden—and maybe, just maybe, gotten her brother’s best friend to see her in a different light.

  No one expected Robbie to lean into her next fastball.

  Which, she realized afterward, was a huge miscalculation on her part.

  Of course, this hockey bruiser didn’t mind a fastball to the shoulder.

  In fact, he seemed to enjoy having his strength tested.

  “Nope.” Elton threw down his glove and strode toward the batter. “That was fucking cheap. You are not taking out my sister.”

  Robbie ran his tongue along the inside of his bottom lip, smiled. “The terms were clear, man.” His attention ticked to Skylar. “Pulp or no pulp, Rocket?”

  Elton landed the first punch.

  Robbie’s head whipped back, but he stood his ground.

  And socked her brother square in the nose, staggering him back several yards.

  Everyone converged at once, fists flying.

  Including Skylar. No one punched her brother, except for her.

  Before she could enter the ruckus, Robbie ducked his way out of the brawl with a supreme air of nonchalance, as if he hadn’t been the one to instigate it. He bent his knees, tossed her into a fireman’s hold over his shoulder, ignoring the way she pounded on his concrete-reinforced back, trying to free herself so she could get a piece of at least one Bearcat. “Put me down,” she shouted through her teeth.

  “Let me save you,” he called up to her, making an oof sound when she punched him in the butt. “If someone accidentally hit you, this would go from a friendly Saturday morning brawl to an emergency room visit for a lot of baseball players.”

  “You started it!”

  “Your brother threw the first punch.”

  “You deserved it.”

  “Maybe so, Rocket, but let’s focus on what’s important.”

  “Like what?”

  “Look where I’m standing.”

  Skylar twisted around to judge their location.

  His feet were planted firmly on first base.

  He’d won the bet.

  She sagged in defeat.

  Chapter Four

  Robbie turned to Skylar from where he stood at the counter of Café Lil Italy, totally unconcerned about the ugly, blue-black swell forming around his right eye. “You never told me, Rocket. Pulp or no pulp?”

  “No pulp,” Skylar responded, thoroughly dazed.

  “Do you want anything to eat?”

  “No.” She swung her backpack around to the front, fingers poised to unzip the front pocket. “I have money.”

  He ignored that. Obviously. Was probably one of those guys who frequently shrugged and said, What can I say? I’m traditional.

  How. How did she get here?

  “I got it. You want to grab us a table?” With a wry smile playing around his lips, Robbie sent a nod toward the street. “Since we’re on the clock and all.”

  Skylar turned, walked stiffly toward the only open table, which happened to be the farthest one from the front of the shop, taking off her backpack and plopping into the wooden chair. God, she did not have time for this. Now she would never get a head start on packing for Rhode Island or get the cracked screen fixed on her phone. No meal prepping would be done. This guy had her in the weeds.

  Skylar should have continued pitching her game, no detours, no harebrained impulses. She never should have let him approach the mound. Look where that rare impulsivity had gotten her. Drinking orange juice with a chauvinist hockey player while her brother waited outside in the car like some deranged chaperone, icing his own nose and eye bruises, inflicted on him by her date. Just a typical Saturday.

  More interestingly, Madden sat in the passenger seat, and he hadn’t spoken on the short drive to the coffee shop. Not a totally remarkable event, since he was a man of few words, but Skylar couldn’t help but wish she could read his mind.

  How did he feel about her being on this date?

  As someone who’d usually felt like an outsider in her blended family, Skylar had always related to Madden, even considering him a kindred spirit of sorts, since he’d learned how to live in a new place with different traditions—coming from Ireland to Cumberland—just like Skylar had done at age twelve when her mother married Doug. Madden had become even more of an outsider midway through high school when his kidney disease progressed and he’d gone on dialysis, before eventually receiving a kidney from an anonymous donor, something she’d always sensed he had a hard time coming to terms with. Not knowing.

  She wanted so badly to be close enough with Madden to finally ask him about that part of his life, but they’d never made the transition from friends to confidants.

  Today, however, possibilities existed where none had before. The bubble of hope expanded just in time for Robbie to set down a coffee mug of orange juice in front of her and fall into the opposite chair, halfway through unwrapping what looked like a bacon, egg, and cheese on a bagel. And it didn’t go unnoticed by Skylar that he slipped a second one into the pocket of his black Bearcats fleece for later. “Do you mind if I eat?”

  “Be my guest.”

  “Thanks.” A third of the breakfast sandwich was gone in one bite. “So, tell me about yourself.”

  Original. “No thanks.”

  “Besides pitch like a Hall of Famer, what are you into?”

  “Cannibalism.”

  Robbie chuckled into his second robust bite, leaned back into a sprawl, and studied her while he chewed. “Are you mean to everyone or just me?”

  Skylar crossed her arms and propped them on the table. “Are you surprised I’m a little standoffish after you made a joke out of me in front of everyone, then punched my brother in the face?” She exhaled toward the ceiling. “You better hope Elton’s black eye is gone before we visit my parents next week or Mother is going to be pissed. She taught me everything I know about cannibalism. You’re big. You could feed us for a month.”

  “See, now I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.”

  “I’m not,” she deadpanned.

  “I see.” He tossed the remainder of the sandwich into his mouth, chewing briefly and swallowing the bite in an audible gulp. Briefly, very briefly, her attention was drawn to the network of throat muscles that strained inside the raised collar of his fleece. Nice, but she wasn’t interested. “How did I make a joke out of you?”

  Skylar blinked at him. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes.” How galling that he appeared authentically puzzled. “I thought I was doing the opposite.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know. By hyping you up.”

  It took every ounce of her maturity not to mimic that dopey statement in his distinctive baritone. “I don’t need to be hyped up, you presumptuous dickwad. My arm does that for me.” She drummed the fingers of her right hand in the crook of her left elbow. “I was there to pitch. I should have been treated like any other pitcher. Did you stop to think how uncomfortable it would be for a woman to be in the company of two dozen guys while being objectified so openly like that?”

  Was it satisfying to watch her explanation sink in? Yes. It was.

  Unfortunately, the way his skin drained of color, his eyes closing briefly, as if silently berating himself, was annoyingly . . . endearing? Perhaps that wasn’t the right word, but it was becoming steadily obvious that he hadn’t intended to embarrass her. Or make her uncomfortable. Not that he got a free pass. He didn’t. “Wow. I’m sorry.” He balled up the foil in which his sandwich had come wrapped, bouncing it off his own forehead. “I didn’t think of it that way.”

  “Whatever.” She uncrossed her arms, scooped up her mug of orange juice, and took a hearty gulp. “I already hated your guts by that point, anyway.”

  “Because you overheard what I said when you arrived at the field?” He dropped his head back on a groan. “I knew it.”

  “Why else would I have mouthed the words ‘fuck you’ before introductions were made?”

  “I don’t know, I just figured you hate redheads.”

  “I do. But only when they’re named Robbie.”

  “Very specific of you.”

  “It’s who I am.”

  “Tell me more about who you are.” When Skylar only rolled her eyes at him and pretended to stab herself in the neck with an invisible knife, Robbie swiped a hand through his mess of windblown hair, a tattoo peeking out from the sleeve of his fleece, which appeared to be the outline of an island. “All right, I can see I’m starting from a deficit with you. The first period hasn’t even started yet and I’m losing by five.”

  “Eight.”

  “Cool. Cool.” He spread his hands. “I like women. Women like me. Usually. I’m not going to apologize for that, but . . . the shit I was saying when you arrived at the field . . . I guess it sounds a lot worse in hindsight.”

  Skylar was getting tired of scolding him like a cranky school principal. “I’m not here to lecture you about your treatment of women.” She gave him a bright smile. “You’re going to learn your lesson all on your own someday and that’s good enough for me.”

  Robbie shivered. “You’re kind of dark, Rocket, you know that?”

  “Pretty standard for a cannibal.”

  He huffed a laugh, shook his head. “Damn. I would give my left—”

  “Slow down. Think about your words.”

  “Arm. I was going to say arm. I would give it up to rewind this morning and start over.” Gingerly, he touched his damaged eye. “It still would have ended in a brawl, but maybe if I had done things differently, you’d be giving me a legitimate shot right now.”

  “Probably not.”

  “Why?” He seemed genuinely curious. “Just because I punched your brother?”

  An amused sound snuck out against her will. “You know, that usually does put a damper on a courtship, but no.”

  Skylar opened her mouth to continue and somehow, unbelievably, her deepest, longest kept secret almost came flying out. Why? Why to this guy, especially? Maybe because her nonrelationship with Madden had been at the forefront of her mind all morning? Or because this conversation felt weirdly personal and reflective even though she’d only met this man a few hours ago?

  More astute than she’d given him credit for, Robbie leaned in. “What were you going to say?”

  “Literally nothing.”

  “It was something.”

  “I was going to ask you about hockey, so you could start talking about it and I could just zone out.”

  “Oh, come on. Have you ever been to a game?”

  “No,” she said robotically. “Tell me everything. I’m riveted—”

  A chime coming from Skylar’s phone interrupted her.

  She assumed that was her brother checking in, but when she dug her phone out of the front pocket of her backpack, there was a text from Eve, instead.

  Bad news, babe. Two of my bartenders quit to follow their Bitcoin dreams and I’m going to be covering their shifts all next week. Big crowds for spring break. As much as it pains me to break tradition, I don’t think I can be your teammate this year for the Page Stakes. I’m so sorry. I miss you madly. X

  “Crap,” Skylar breathed. Having so many of her plans obliterated in the space of a few hours had rendered her off-balance. Ignoring the observant way Robbie watched her, she drained her orange juice, wishing for once that it contained some tequila.

  “What happened?”

  She plunked down her mug. “How much time is left on this date?”

  “Sixteen minutes.”

  “Oh Jesus. Fine.” She hastily tightened her ponytail. “My mother, Vivica, married Elton’s dad when I was twelve and they met at an elite baseball club tournament, where they were each the loudest parent in the stands—a title that is not easily won. Imagine the two most competitive, high-functioning people you know getting married. That’s them. They had their wedding reception at a rock climbing facility.” She took a bracing breath. “To commemorate the blending of our families, they hold this competition at our home in Rhode Island called the Page Stakes. It’s a series of races—swimming, climbing, and more. The winner takes home a trophy I made in seventh grade out of Popsicle sticks and a Pepsi can. It’s called the Page Cup.” She took a breath, surprised Robbie didn’t appear to be bewildered like most people were when she told them about the psychotic family event. “My parents are one team. I pair up with my best friend, Eve. Elton and Madden round out the teams.”

  “Madden is . . .”

  Her voice softened against her will. “The catcher. From earlier.”

  Robbie’s face didn’t change, but disappointment lowered the wattage of his moss-green eyes. “I thought I noticed a little something there.”

  Skylar’s pulse started to accelerate, just having her secret this close to the surface. “A little something where?”

  “All right. Let’s see.” He scooted his chair closer, as if hunkering down for the nitty-gritty. “He’s not your man or he wouldn’t have let you come on this date, so . . .”

  “‘My man’? Could you, like, try and evolve a little, Redbeard?”

  “Sorry, but if you were my girlfriend, I’d be very not okay with some other guy buying you orange juice. I’d boycott oranges for the rest of my life.”

  “Believe me, this is a problem you’ll never have to worry about.”

  “Yeah, I can see that.” He hung his head for a moment, before meeting her gaze again, a little more of the spark gone. “Are you into him, or what?”

  On reflex, she glanced toward the street where Elton and Madden were idling at the curb with their hazard lights on. Thanks to the afternoon sun, she couldn’t discern their faces through the window, nor did she know if they could see this far into the restaurant, but Skylar couldn’t deny that the possibility of Madden watching her go on a date made her feel . . . visible and coveted. And she didn’t feel like that very often outside of sports.

  Never, actually.

  “You are into him.” Robbie’s throat bobbed, his laugh lacking some of its earlier boom. “But you’re not with him.”

  “Yeah,” she said quietly, before she could stop herself. “Fine. You cracked the case.”

  Chapter Five

  Robbie tried like hell not to show the defeat currently lancing him in the gut.

  She loved this fucking catcher named Madden. He could tell. When she’d said his name earlier, it was the first time her brown eyes lost their spite. Speaking about him now was causing her to shift in her seat, fidget with the mug of orange juice. Robbie was a side character who’d walked into a love story already in progress.

  One girl wasn’t going to work out for him. One. So what?

  So she was gorgeous and funny and athletically talented and took no shit. So she made jokes about cannibalism without blinking and the weight of her had felt really goddamn good thrown over his shoulder. So she was competitive and seemed to value her family, even while poking fun at them.

  So what?

  The bacon, egg, and cheese bagel was now a ten-ton boulder sitting in his stomach.

  He should really get up and make a hasty exit, take the hard lesson she’d given him about his treatment of women and forget this ever happened. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to stand up and leave. Something about never seeing this person again was giving him a very distinct burn behind his Adam’s apple. Had that ever happened before?