I snort. “That’s a no. Clark, I am not your soul mate. Hell, I don’t even believe in soul mates.”
“Don’t believe in soul mates?” Walker cocks his head to the side. “I waited years for a woman I fell in love with. I waited while she was married. I knew she was the one. How do you not think there is a person out there like that for you?”
I like the way that Walker said person instead of man. It’s progressive. Walker Callahan is good people.
“This is very strange weight room talk.” I chuckle, but they’re both looking at me expectantly. “I think that we can fall in love with almost anyone we can convince ourselves to. What makes it long-lasting, or a lifetime relationship, is the dedication to put in the work. You have to want to pick someone, to choose them day in and day out. Love is great, but it fades. You have to like, admire, respect your partner enough for it to stand the test of time. If they don’t pay you back the same kindness, then there is probably someone else who will. It’s why people who get divorced or are widowed find someone to love again. I don’t believe there is one right person out there for me. There could be hundreds. But who is going to be that one person who works on a relationship hard enough that I choose to stay?”
It’s funny that Sinclair’s face pops into my mind at that exact moment. But would he do the hard work for this, for me? We hadn’t dared have that talk yet. It felt too soon, but at the same time, spring training is rapidly coming to a close.
“Damn, that is the most rational shit I’ve ever heard someone say about a relationship in a long time. See, Walk, I told you there was a reason I loved hundreds of women.” Clark wiggles his eyebrows at his friend.
Walker rolls his own eyes. “You’re ridiculous, Clark. And Frankie, well, I won’t call you ridiculous. But I think you’re wrong. There is such a thing as a soul mate for everyone. You just haven’t met yours if you think like that. Or maybe you have, and you’re trying to downplay it. Either way, the reason you want to fight for a person and a relationship is because they mean everything to you. And only they can mean that. You’ll see.”
His response makes my heart bristle, but I can’t say definitively that I don’t believe him.
And that’s what scares me.
12
Sinclair
“I’m so damn excited.”
I rub my hands together, my stomach growling.
Sitting across from me at one of Fort Myers’ most infamous seafood spots is Frankie, looking gorgeous in a matching bright red crop top and skirt. She looks feminine and sexy, and I think once again that this woman is an enigma. At work, she’s always in exercise gear with her hair pulled up, makeup free. At her apartment, we’re usually naked, or we pull on bathing suits and run into the sea.
Then here she is, sitting before me, all done up. She’s beautiful any way you slice it, but she seems so comfortable in each one of those roles. It’s impressive and keeps me on the edge of my seat. I’m not sure a woman has ever done that for me before.
“You just had to get your crab legs.” Those full lips, painted a bright red to match her outfit and hair, tip up in a smirk.
Red, everything about her is red. And she makes me an inferno; when I’m near her, I burn hotter than the sun.
“Hell, I didn’t get them that day on Sanibel. You insisted we go to The Bubble Room, though it was pretty cool.”
I reach across the table and join our hands. Technically, this is our first official date. I picked her up at her place, brought flowers, escorted her around, and closed her car door, and now here we are.
It’s strange, taking a woman on a date. I haven’t done it much before, if ever. I usually met girls at a party; we boozed it up and then went up to whatever spare bedroom was available. Now that I think about it, I don’t think I’ve ever officially had a girlfriend before. That would require romance and staying sober for more than three hours in a day—none of which I did before.
But Frankie makes me want to do that. She makes me want to try harder, be better so that she sees me the way I hope she does.
“And I’ll take you to The Pecking Order when we go this weekend.” She smiles.
This weekend. She’s already presumed I’m spending it with her, which I love. We’re quickly becoming the only people each other see outside the ballpark, and I’m not complaining. The only thing I want to do is spend all my time with her anyway.
“But for now, we’re cracking crabs.” My eyes go wide as the server sets down the baskets we ordered.
They smell like Old Bay and lemon, and the mounds of Alaskan King crab, potatoes, and crawfish has my mouth watering.
“Oh God, I forgot how much I love the food at this place.” Frankie puts her napkin around her neck like a bib.
Christ. This woman is quickly becoming the only thing I see. She isn’t embarrassed to wear her napkin like a bib in front of me. In fact, she doesn’t even think twice. She doesn’t care about eating in front of me. When she snorts or trips or does something that most women wouldn’t want a man to witness, she doesn’t even blink.
Frankie is the most confident woman I’ve ever encountered, and it is such a turn-on.
“Let’s get it cracking,” I joke, but dig in at the same time.
We both pick up our shell crackers and go to work. Frankie is hysterically laughing two minutes in, as crab juice seems to fly everywhere each time either of us gets a good portion of the shells open. Using our hands, we suck out the meat, and it’s salty and delicious and everything I wanted.
“My God, this is good.” She sighs, patting her stomach and assessing her plate.
We’re both only halfway through, but my arms need a rest, and with the richness in the broth, potatoes, and sides of corn on the cob they brought, I need a break.
“How’s work going?” Frankie wipes her mouth with her napkin and blinks expectantly at me.
Nick and the guys have actually let me take on some more responsibility. I got to write the question set for an in-depth interview with our first basemen last week, and then Trevor even let me conduct an interview piece with a few guys on what their favorite toy was growing up. It was just a silly interest piece that will play on the Jumbotron during breaks in play, but it felt good to be the one pitching them the questions and getting some more fun tidbits out of them. Even Nick gave me a pat on the back for some of the great content we got.
Then I had a lesson in Photoshop with Jeffrey and made a kick-ass-looking graphic for new marketing material they’re going to use around the stadium. And through all of that, I didn’t have one dyslexia flare-up. I’ve been quizzing myself in my alone time, working on some materials I found online to help me. It’s not like you have a tutor when you’re eight and dyslexia goes away; it’s a lifelong problem. Like anything, you have to keep your mind sharp and practice. So that’s what I’m trying to do.
We don’t really talk shop, so I’m a bit suspicious of her question. “It’s good. Why?”
Has she heard something?
Her sneaky smile confirms that she has. “I bumped into Trevor. He obviously doesn’t know anything about what we’re doing, but he let slip that the new guy was actually doing a good job. Said you interviewed the hell out of Hobbs, the first basemen. Apparently, he’s notoriously closed-off. And you helped him come out of his shell. I just kept holding in my laugh. You could get a cat to sing about eating the canary, Sinclair.”