“Hey.” He grabs me by the shoulder. “No hug goodbye?” Before I can answer, he pulls me into his chest and my arms instinctively wrap around him. “That’s better,” he says, snuggling in closer.
Well, this is new.
Overwhelmed with his fresh soap smell surrounding me and his warmth, I lose track of how long we hold each other until he finally steps away and stuffs his hands in his pockets, a bright smile tipping up the corners of his mouth.
“Do you always hug your coaches goodbye?” I ask, trying to rein back my combusting emotions.
Stepping forward, he tips my chin up and says, “Only the pretty ones. I’ll catch you later, Mills.” With a wink, he takes off toward his teammates, who he high-fives in greeting, leaving me absolutely and totally stunned.
Pretty?
Did he just call me pretty?
He did. He called me pretty.
I don’t . . . I can’t . . . Oh God, I’m so screwed.
Chapter Fifty-Two
CARSON
Milly: I know you’re getting ready for the game, but I just have to tell you the kids are so excited about today. Dennis especially.
I’m sitting in front of my locker, going through my pre-game ritual when I see her text.
Today is the fucking day, the day I finally make a move on Milly. I’ve been priming her, prepping her for an incoming bomb of “Hey, I like you a lot, will you go out with me?” The texts, the hugs, the surprises here and there. I hope she sees what I’m doing so when I approach her at the party tonight, she has no reason to say no. At least I hope so. I think I’m reading her right, and I’m almost positive she feels similarly.
I guess we’ll see tonight.
Carson: I can’t wait to hear them cheer in the stands.
I reach for my cleats as she texts back. Seeing those three little dots does something to me. I’ve never felt like this—so enamored with another human—but Milly is so much more than just my coach and friend. She’s consumed my mind in so many ways—her kindness, her talent, her sweet yet wicked sense of humor—and . . . my heart as well. I had no clue what this felt like.
Milly: They keep asking if you’re going to hit another home run like the two you hit yesterday.
Carson: Tell them I’m just hoping for some solid contact.
Milly: The perfect answer from a smart hitter.
Carson: I had one hell of a coach helping me with that frame of mind.
Milly: You had that frame of mind, you just needed to be reminded of it.
Carson: Meet me after the game? Coach said the kids could run the bases when all is cleared out.
Milly: Seriously? They’re going to be thrilled. You’re amazing. Thank you.
I smile to myself and set my phone down, confident with my chances tonight. When I first met Milly, I thought she was quirky, pretty, but I never thought I’d crave her and harbor such heavy feelings toward her. She’s the whole package—intelligent, supportive, loves baseball, gorgeous—and has the perfect smile. After tonight, I know I’m going to call her mine.
“You’re so cool,” Dennis says, eyes wide, staring up at me. “Thank you so much.” The runt of the team sweeps his arms around my leg and gives me one more hug before he parts with a wave, his mom holding his hand, dragging him to the parking lot.
Milly was right. He’s adorable, loves the game, but man, is he clumsy. Wearing the baggiest baseball pants cinched tightly around his waist, he stumbled up to the mound to throw the first pitch. Hat a little too big, shirt shelves past his elbows, he was drowning in gear, but the smile on his face told everyone in the stadium that throwing out the first pitch was the best moment in his life. His mom, Denise—yes, Dennis and Denise—thanked me profusely after the game while the kids were running bases. All the parents did and wished me luck with the upcoming draft and college world series. One dad asked if I was hoping to be picked up by the Bobcats. I told him I couldn’t think of a better way to start a new chapter in my baseball career.
“Thank you,” Dennis shouts again, his hand waving dramatically in the air.
I chuckle and turn to Milly, who has the most endearing expression on her face. And I take that opportunity to study her. In a pair of denim shorts, a Brentwood baseball tank top, and the hat I gave her, it’s simple but beyond tempting. It’s taking everything inside me to not press my hand to the small of her back, then reach down and link my fingers with hers.
She looks toward me and catches me staring, but I don’t care at this point. It’s only a matter of hours until I ask her out. She removes her sunglasses, and that’s when I catch her unguarded eyes.
Blue, with full lashes that curl up . . . I’ve never noticed how vibrant they are.
“You’re not wearing your glasses,” I say, almost mesmerized.
“I knew it was going to be a sunny day so I put my contacts in. Took me about five tries since I haven’t worn them in a while, but Cory got me these new sunglasses, and I figured I should wear them at some point.”
I want to tell her, her eyes are stunning, that I want to spend the rest of the night staring into them, that I want to scoop her up and carry her to my car where we can drive somewhere and not be bothered by a single soul.
But that time is coming and standing on the baseball field with the grounds crew still milling around and Jerry and Shane waiting for her in the stands is not the perfect time.
I reach up to my hat and spin it around on my head, pulling nervously on the brim, to keep my hands as far away from her as possible.
“Good game, huh?”
“Fishing for compliments, Stone?”
“If you’re handing them out, Potter, I am.”
“You know how I feel about the game.”
“Yeah, but if you could wax poetic phrases about my studdliness and skill, that would be greatly appreciated.”
“Disik do that for you?”
“Every Monday morning,” I retort with a smile.
She pats my shoulder and says, “Then I’ll let him handle that for you tomorrow morning.” Damn. “Thanks again, for everything. It meant a lot to the kids and to me.”
“Of course.”
She gives me one more pat and starts to walk away. “Hey, the party is tonight.”
With one more flash of those dimples, she heads up the stairs where Shane wraps his arm around her shoulders and Jerry pulls up the rear. After tonight, it’s going to be my arm around her shoulders.
Okay, it’s time to get ready.
Crash.
I slam my door and pace the length of my room.
She’s not fucking here.
It’s been two hours and she’s not here. And if I know Milly like I think I do, she’s probably curled up into a ball on her bed, watching . . . hell, she better not be watching Angels in the Outfield.
There’s a knock on my door and Jason peeks his head inside.
“So, I’ve been voted as the teammate who gets to make sure you’re not going to blow your fist through the wall and break every knuckle right before post-season.”
“Why the fuck is she not here?” I ask, pulling on the short strands of my hair.
When I got back to the loft, I took a shower rather than just rinsing off in the locker room. I cleaned the hell out of my room, made sure I put on new sheets—high hopes here—went to the store for some snacks in case Milly wanted to hang in my room, put some of my special beer in the fridge for me and her, and did my hair.