Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 97875 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97875 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
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.