Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 85838 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85838 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
As my teammates and I ride the subway to the Bronx early that afternoon—our choice, we do it to get in a New York state of mind—I do my best to publicly shoot the breeze with the guys while I privately try to plan a dinner strategy.
Declan’s leading a rousing debate on the best action movies of the last few years. “Grant and I have been catching up and making a list,” he says.
“Aww, you marrieds are so cute,” Gunnar teases him.
Declan rolls his eyes. “Yes, Grant and I are fucking adorable. Now, back to the debate.”
Gunnar gives his pick. I weigh in with Sebastian Lowe’s most recent flick, all while I ruminate on how far apart I should sit from Maddox at dinner. Next to him? A chair away?
As the guys debate the Oscar winner’s death-defying stunts, I tap my foot on the subway floor, knee springing up and down. Across the table—that’s the answer.
Declan’s gaze strays to my foot, my knee, then my eyes. “You good, man?” he asks quietly. Declan’s a good guy. He looks out for everyone, but if he noticed I’m off, that’s an issue that I’m getting too obvious.
I need to put on my baseball blinders. “Yeah, I’m great,” I say, shove aside my man plans, then dive back into the debate. “The jump from the side of the skyscraper was baller,” I say to the group.
I focus on the arguments for the rest of the underground ride.
But when we reach the ballpark, my mind is straddling two worlds. I need to sort out my head before we play, so I hang back outside the players’ entrance, waggling my phone at Gunnar and Declan. “Gotta call my brother. I’ll meet you in the clubhouse in a few.”
“See you there,” Gunnar says, turning toward the door.
“I need need to give Grant a quick call too. But I’ll do it inside,” Declan adds, then heads into the ballpark. Briefly, I feel a pang of jealousy for Declan and what he has with his guy, but then I shove it aside.
Walking away from the doors, I take a deep breath and call Gage. Talking to him usually resets me.
Gage answers right away. “Hey! Aren’t you playing the Comets in three hours? Eliza and I are planning on making homemade pizzas and watching you.”
That makes me unreasonably happy. “You mean critiquing my performance on the field?”
“And at the plate.”
“That kid, she has major league scout written all over her,” I tease, walking past the ticket counters at the ballpark. They’re quiet now, but soon crowds will queue up and scalpers will try to fleece fans. “And what will she have on her pizza?”
“She asked for Twizzlers and gummy bears. We split the difference and settled on olives.”
I laugh, warmth spreading through my chest, and I don’t think it’s from the sun. “I didn’t know she liked olives. But she has good taste. Olives are my fave,” I say.
“I know, you knucklehead. I know,” he says, laughing too. “I grew up with you and your olive-obsessed self. Anyway, it’s a new thing for Eliza.”
“I can’t wait to take her out for pizza with olives next week.” I can picture the meal perfectly. “Anyway, got any pre-game hitting tips for me?”
“Ah, the real reason for this call. You want to tap into your secret weapon of a brother.”
“Always,” I say. He shares some of his thoughts on the Comets pitching staff, and his analysis truly is secret-weapon worthy.
“And when it comes to Cohen,” he wraps up, “keep an eye on his slider. Those fuckers are hard to hit, but when he leaves one hanging, man, you can whack that over the fence, and he’ll be hating life.”
“That’s what I want. Pitchers to hate life,” I say, then sigh deeply, feeling a little better already.
“But you didn’t really call for pitching tips,” Gage says, slipping into wise older brother mode.
Whoa. Am I that transparent? “Why do you say that?”
He laughs softly. “You don’t usually call from the ballpark at all. Unless something’s on your mind. Last time I got a pre-game call was maybe a year ago when you were trying to decide if you wanted a third date with some dude you thought was only into you for the number on your back.”
I growl. “I remember that guy. Good thing I didn’t give him the time of day for number three.”
“You’ve always been smart when it comes to balancing work and romance,” he says.
I wince. He’s so wrong. I’m not in the least bit smart now. “Not sure if that’s true,” I say, tiptoeing near the vicinity of honesty.
“Well, you haven’t gotten serious with anyone. And you haven’t gotten distracted. You’ve given baseball your all.”
“Baseball deserves it. The game could be here today and gone tomorrow. You know that better than anyone,” I say, emotions stirring inside me, rising like a fast-moving storm.