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 Audrey finishes a minute later, I thank her, then hang up. I trudge into the kitchen to the end of the most unexpected and bittersweet romance in my life.
I shouldn’t be so hung up on him.
We only spent over a week together. But I’ve never felt so understood. So wanted.
Yet, everything is happening too soon. The trade, these feelings, moving. Everything. What if I can’t balance it?
It’s not the first time I’ve tried to do too much. Talia. Derek and I will reach an inevitable end—and then I’ll have to see him every single day at the ballpark.
“Derek,” I say, his name scraping my throat.
The guy I like far too much cranes his neck from the fridge. “She found you a place,” he says evenly.
I blink. How the fuck did he do that? “Did you hear me on the phone?”
Shaking his head, he gives a sad smile. At least, I think it’s sad. Maybe I just hope it is. “I kind of figured it out from the look on your face,” he says, waving at me.
It hurts breaking things off with someone I feel like I’ve known for longer than the time we’ve had together.
“I can move in when I want. It’s two blocks away. And this is wild—it’s basically the same layout. The same place. A sister building,” I say. All the words topple from my mouth at once, and crash land in a mess so I don’t say something I’ll regret. Like I don’t want to leave because I’m falling for you. Or I have to go since I don’t want to get too caught up in you. But you get it, right? Your tattoos say you do. Baseball is your constant. Well, it’s mine too.
Maybe I don’t have to say anything because he closes the distance, cups my chin and says, “We always knew this was temporary. But it was good while it lasted, Chason.”
It was great.
He’d called me Adam last night. I’m back to my last name. To being a teammate, a friend. “Yeah, it was,” I say, trying to play it nonchalant too. “I had fun.”
“Me too,” he says. His tone is light, though that might just be for my benefit. “And now we’ll get back to work.”
He lets go of my face, returns to the fridge and grabs the carton of eggs, then sets to work making his breakfast. Saying nothing.
“Do you want me to get coffee?” I ask awkwardly.
With his back to me, he shakes his head. “I’m all good.”
Maybe he’s good. But I’m not. And that—him saying he’s chill, me being a wreck inside—is why I turn around and pack my bags so damn fast.
13
Derek
A week or so later, I open the door to my condo after a game.
I brace myself.
Every time I’ve walked in here since he left, I’ve been clobbered by a wave of feelings. Missing.
At least it doesn’t smell like a cabin anymore. Maintenance fixed the leak and hauled away the sodden mattress too.
So I’ve got my spare bedroom back, complete with an empty bed frame to match the hollowness in my chest.
Good times.
I shut the door, flop down on my couch, and grab the remote. I’m not in the mood to watch anything, so I pick up my phone and open my e-reader. I click on a thriller I downloaded the other week. Maybe Axel Huxley’s international tales of intrigue will take my mind off this annoying ache in my heart. His latest book does the trick for a few chapters, the story helping me escape these feelings that aren’t going anywhere.
Until the moment’s broken by a loud, presumptive knock at my front door. Travis.
I flash back to the last time he popped by, when Adam was still living—staying—here. Not helpful.
I shove the memory away as I head to the door, answer it and let Travis in, even though I saw him an hour ago. “Aww, you miss me,” I tease, trying desperately to keep my mood light.
Since it’s easier than admitting the truth. I needed company tonight. Badly.
Sure, sometimes it’s annoying how Travis invites himself over and eats his way through my fridge. But he’s a good guy, a solid ballplayer, and I’m grateful that he’s here. I pull out food from the fridge. Rye bread, mustard, pastrami. Adam’s right—the sandwich is better this way.
My heart twinges once more, and again that’s not helpful—all these reminders of him.
I force myself to focus on sports. “That was a helluva game tonight,” I say as I toast the bread.
“Sure was. You’re doing well at second. Man, I can’t imagine having to switch like that.”
“Because you play first,” I say drily.
“I believe my bat reflects that, thank you very much.” He puffs out his chest.
He’s not wrong. He anchors the lineup for a reason. “Yes, it does,” I say, no teasing this time. “And thanks for the compliment.”