Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 30889 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 154(@200wpm)___ 124(@250wpm)___ 103(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 30889 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 154(@200wpm)___ 124(@250wpm)___ 103(@300wpm)
When we wrap up, Adam collects some of the balls littering the infield; I stay, gathering them up too. We’re the only ones in earshot, the rest of the team having gone in to change for batting practice.
“Derek,” he says, after a minute, softly, personally, getting my attention, “I didn’t mean to displace you at short.”
Something he doesn’t have to say, but that deflates what remains of my previous temper. “It wasn’t your decision.”
“That’s gotta be shitty, right? Guy comes in and takes your spot,” Adam says. I can tell he legit feels bad.
“That’s baseball. It’s how it works,” I say, trying to let him off the hook. “You wanna make it up to me?” I don’t mean it sexually, but once the words make landfall, it’s hard to hear them any other way.
Adam turns the same red he did this morning. A color I want to replicate, not on a baseball diamond, even if he’s currently kneeling in the dirt. He looks my way, holding my gaze. His eyes glimmer with heat, the way they did that night. His desire flashes like a scoreboard in them. This is not the time and place. Yet, I can’t resist teasing him. “If you really want to, that is,” I add, and I don’t bother to conceal the innuendo this time.
He breathes out hard. “I guess I owe you one.”
Maybe he also regrets running off that night.
He bites the corner of his lips, and I stifle a groan. That look. That mouth. Everything about the last twenty-four hours makes me want to see if he looks just as good kneeling on my hard condo flooring. To do a lot more than that, none of which I should be thinking about in the middle infield.
“Maybe more than one,” I say.
And I could be imagining his smirk as I jog off the field—but pretty sure I’m not.
8
Adam
Things I should do over the next few days—look for apartments.
Things I don’t do—look for apartments.
In my defense, Derek’s extra bed is really comfortable. I sleep better than I have in ages. Also, the coffee from the place around the corner is excellent.
I bang out a few emails to realtors, so points to me for trying.
Derek and I fall into a routine for the rest of our homestand. I get him coffee, we go to the park, we play ball.
And at night, Travis shows up, parking himself between us on the couch. Maybe his cockblocking ways are for the best. I don’t trust myself to sit too close to Derek. But I truly don’t have time to look for a place, because we take off for our series in Oakland against the Elephants. As I board the team jet, Audrey, one of the realtors I’ve messaged, pings me back. I’d love to help you find a place. Thanks for sending over your must-haves. I’m assembling a list of available properties.
She sends me times for an appointment. The first time that aligns is a day after our away series.
Which gives me a few more nights at Derek’s condo.
Which I am enjoying far too much. Especially the shower. It’s far enough away from him that when I blast some music, and take a long, hot shower, he can’t hear me saying his name as I come.
We finish the series against the Oakland Elephants on Wednesday night, a game chilly enough I spend my time in the dugout warming my hands over a space heater. Alex Angelides, our catcher, is standing at the railing; he gives a slightly derisive snort as I rub my palms.
“How are you not freezing?” I ask.
“It’s in the high fifties. Practically bathing suit weather.” Because he’s from New England—built broad and square, if a head shorter than most other guys in the dugout—he has opinions about the rest of us enduring the cold. Namely, that West Coast weather is warm and we’re all wimps.
Who cares though, because Derek and I turn double plays like we’ve been doing it for years. One off a line drive I field from my knees, into the waiting cup of his glove. Another where he makes a diving grab, then flips it to me in a no-look throw at second before I send it on to first. I offer a hand up, a congratulatory whack of my glove against his ass as we walk off the field.
“Maybe you should be playing at short,” I say then instantly regret it. Derek’s been cool about this whole thing—cooler than I would have been if someone tried to take my spot in St. Louis—but I shouldn’t make light of it either.
“Nah,” he says breezily, “it’s all yours.”
No wonder he’s a clubhouse leader. He called me nice but he’s the one who has such a knack for what others need—a helpful word, a pat on the back, a smile, a joke, a serious piece of advice. I’m not sure who does that for him. Maybe no one. Note to self: Move up that appointment with Audrey or you’ll be sending heart emojis to your roomie. Maybe I already am.