“You fucking wish.”
Knox answers very dryly. “I really don’t.”
After spending another fifteen minutes with Milly on the field before it got too dark, I thanked her, snagged her phone number, and made plans to meet up tomorrow morning . . . early.
We didn’t do much when it came to actually hitting a ball, but we did talk. We talked about my injury, the recovery process, how I jumped back into practicing once I got the go-ahead. I didn’t focus on mechanics as much, reminding my muscle memory how to work, but instead drilled myself to death, which led to me tiring out and making mistakes in my mechanics. Mistakes I’ve repeated that have cost me.
“I think I met my fairy godmother,” I say dreamily into the phone.
“Like a bippity-boppity-boo kind of lady?”
“Even better. She wears a fisherman’s hat.”
Silence.
“Can you back up for a second? What the hell are you talking about?”
Twisting my short strands of hair with my free hand, I say, “I first ran into her in the panini line—”
“Fuck, I miss Lakeview’s paninis. I would give up my pinky toes for one right about now.”
“It’s the one positive I can think of from not being drafted. One more year of paninis. But we’re getting off track. I met her in the panini line, then the weight room, then—”
“Wait, is this a girl you’re interested in? Like locker room material?”
Ah, the locker room. Have you heard about the legend? Rumor on campus is, if a baseball player takes you to the locker room to do the dirty, you’ll be married within five years. Crazy, I know, but it’s true. It’s so true that only baseball players who are serious about their girl can take them to the sacred space.
I believe . . . Knox doesn’t, at least he likes to pretend he doesn’t.
“No, I mean, she’s pretty and all and has the sexiest lips I’ve ever seen, and man, her freckles are pretty cool, but no, she’s my fairy godmother.”
More silence.
“I think it might be too late for this conversation. Break it down really simple for me.”
“She knows how to fix my swing,” I blurt. “We started working on it tonight, and we have an early morning session tomorrow before the game to work on it.”
“A random girl you met just happened to know how to fix your swing? Carson, did she drug you? Are you seriously losing your mind? Do I need to be concerned? I knew leaving you on your own to fend for yourself wasn’t a good idea. I should have enlisted Jason to look out for you better.”
“I’m not high,” I counter. “I’ve never felt so clear in my life. Listen, she’s a baseball specialist. She knows so much shit, it’s incredible. When I was in the weight room, her friend suggested I give her a try, but being the curmudgeon I am, I brushed it off. It wasn’t until I saw her after the game today that I finally gave in, and I’m so fucking glad I did.”
“Because she figured it out?”
“Yeah, she had videos on her phone of me batting and slowed it down for me.”
“She had videos of you?” Knox lets out a long whistle. “Dude, she might be a stalker.”
“She’s not, and even if she was, who the fuck cares? For the first time since my injury, I finally feel a ray of hope.”
“She’s that good?”
I smile to myself. “Yes, she’s that good.”
Chapter Forty-Five
MILLY
“Sorry,” I say, running up to Carson, who’s waiting at the side door that leads into the baseball stadium. “I had to borrow toothpaste from another student and getting one of them to wake up at this hour is next to impossible.”
“Toothpaste?” he asks, lifting off the wall. He holds out a to-go cup and says, “Hot chocolate, wasn’t sure if you liked coffee.”
“Thank you,” I say, trying to hold back the cheesy grin itching to appear. “And yes, toothpaste. I didn’t want to meet up with you smelling like a gargoyle.”
He snorts mid sip of his drink. “Thank fuck for that.” With his other hand, he holds up a small bag with the blue label everyone on campus is familiar with: Frankie’s Donuts. “Brought us a little morning nibble. Figured we could eat really quick and then get to work.”
Try not to drool. It’s not very often I get to have Frankie’s Donuts and when I do, I go on a crazy binge. Jerry and Shane have seen far too many donuts taken down in the time they’ve known me and after every binge, I always wind up in a crazy sugar coma with a sick belly that lasts me the rest of the day.
But it’s worth it every time.
“Frankie’s Donuts are my favorite.”
“Yeah?” He holds a key card up to the door to unlock it. A beeping sound fills the brisk morning air and the door pops open. Carson holds it open for me and I quickly walk inside, him closely behind me. “What’s your favorite?”
“Blueberry streusel, of course.”
“Ha, that’s my friend Knox’s favorite too. And you’re in luck. I got one, hoping you’d eat it so I could have the lemon curd.”
“Lemon curd, really? I never would have pegged you as a lemon kind of guy?” We walk down a barely lit hallway, make a right, and then he throws open a door to a large roomful of batting cages. Good God, this is my mecca.
“Why, do I not look dainty enough to appreciate a fine pastry filled with lemon?”
Too caught up in the batting cages, I give him a non-committal sound and walk farther into the space, taking in the deep cages, nets, and buckets of balls in each, the artificial turf, baseball tees—so many tees. It’s pristine, beautiful, and I wish this was a place I worked in every single day.
“Uh, did you hear my joke?” Carson asks, stepping up next to me. “Or are you too caught up in having an eye-gasm over the batting cages.”
Once again, my cheeks flame. “Sorry,” I mutter, glancing at my cup of hot chocolate. “It’s just a really nice facility.”
He laughs and nudges my shoulder toward the cushioned benches along the wall. “Let’s eat and then get to work.”
We both take a seat, and he hands me my donut. I act like a lady and resist shoving the entire thing in my mouth at once, but instead take reasonable bites, despite it being incredibly difficult.
I’m mid bite when I catch him staring at me, not just staring, but really studying. I check out my donut to make sure I haven’t gone hog wild on it—nope, still plenty left. Oh God, is there something on my face? In my teeth? Is there toothpaste bordering my lips? I’m tempted to take a napkin and wipe down my entire head, but instead, I shyly ask, “Is there something on my face?”
He doesn’t answer right away, instead, he lifts his hand and flicks the brim of my fisherman’s hat that I tossed on this morning without even thinking about it.
“What’s with this thing? You look like a fifty-year-old alumni wearing it. You’re just missing the matching polo.”
I tug on the side. “You don’t like it?”
“I mean . . . it’s . . . hell, it’s kind of awful.”