“Nah, I don’t need you cheating. I prefer to position you myself, thank you very much.”
Rolling my eyes, I say, “Is this where you want me?”
“Uh, hold on”—he shifts me maybe half an inch to the side—“there, that should—”
Before he can finish, I shoot the ball straight into the bucket, pick up my next ball, and move to the back of the cages. Just you wait, Stone. I’m getting serious.
“What the hell, you just made it no—”
I shoot again, scoring, but this time from ten feet away. I motion with my fingers to come to where I’m standing. “Hustle up, Stone, I don’t have all day.”
“Holy shit.” He chuckles. “What did I get myself into?”
“You have no idea.”
“So, that was humiliating,” Carson says with a teasing grin as he leans against the hood of my car and glances at me. “Can we not mention that to anyone?”
“How I completely annihilated you back there in the cages?”
“Yeah, that. Let’s just keep that as a little secret between you and me.”
“Player-coach confidentiality?”
He snaps his fingers at me and points. “Exactly.” Shaking his head, he says, “I still can’t believe you shot a ball in the bucket from between your legs backward. What the hell was that?”
“Told you it wasn’t my first time.” I clutch my new shirt to my chest, excited to try it on.
Eying the shirt, he says, “You’re coming to the game today, right?”
“Never miss a home game.”
His smile grows. “And you’re going to wear your new shirt and hat?”
“I don’t think I have an option not to.”
“Damn right.” He lets out a long breath and looks out into the empty parking lot. “God, I could really use a fucking hit today. Or at least a solid hit off the wood, the kind you can feel down to your bones when it pings off the bat.”
“You will. Just think about driving your hands forward, not down.”
“Yeah, okay.” He lifts off my car. “After the game, meet me in the dugout, field six?”
“What? You want to practice some more?”
“We need to review my at bats, Coach.” He winks and pats me on the shoulder.
Gee, thanks.
“I’ll bring some food for us. You like Mexican, yeah?”
“Yeah,” I answer, my mind immediately going toward an evening full of belching and good old-fashioned shoulder pats.
“Perfect. See you then, Coach.” He holds up his hand for a high five and I reluctantly hit it, putting myself directly in the friend zone.
Plunk.
He takes off and instead of watching him trot away to his car, I get in mine and let out a long exhale as I bring my hands to the steering wheel and push the start ignition button.
Okay, so I find Carson attractive. Maybe I stared at him a little too long this morning, watching his machine of a body hit ball after ball. Maybe I appreciated his forearms for far too many minutes, and it’s muddled my head. And quite possibly, I might have confused myself when he gave me the shirt and hat, thinking it was more than just a kind gesture to a “friend” that’s helping him out.
I understand there might be some slight fantasizing on my end, but I dare any girl on this campus to not at least swoon within a five-foot radius of him. He isn’t just handsome and intense, but fun—oh God, look at me. He’s down to earth and kind and thoughtful.
And yes, all because of a hat, shirt, and donut. Well, that’s not true. The multiple apologies he flung my way were unexpected. I hadn’t thought Carson would even look my way after our panini run-in. His egotistical behavior was expected, not surprising. Carson doesn’t fit in the narcissistic, talented sportsman box. He cares about people and to me, that’s something genuine to swoon over.
So yes, I might be crushing, but I think we all know it’s temporary, because after we get his swing back together, he’ll be on his way. At least when he’s playing in the big leagues one day, I can say I gave that guy a high five . . .
How lucky am I?
Did you hear the sarcasm?
Chapter Forty-Six
CARSON
“What did you think, Coach?” I ask, stepping into the little league dugout, batting bag in one hand, food in the other.
Milly’s head whips around to me and her face lights up as she claps her hands together. Fuck, I like how excited she is, how invested she is. It’s like having my own personal cheerleader, something I’ve been missing for a very long time.
My mom passed away from breast cancer when I was young, leaving me with just my dad, who worked his tail off night and day to send me to private lessons. That meant he wasn’t around very often for games. I was the kid who had no one in the stands cheering them on, just the parents of other kids who knew my situation. Knowing Milly was watching me, cheering for me, it mattered. It mattered a whole lot.
“You got a hit.” She claps some more.
Like a dork, I take a bow and then set my stuff down so I can sit next to her on the bench, but I straddle it instead, facing her head-on.
“Fuck, it felt good. It felt so fucking good being out there again, feeling the dirt under my cleats, tossing the ball around with my boys, feeling the pure crack of the ball off the bat. It might have been a single down the line, but it was a start.”
“It was a great start.” She smiles brightly, and I can’t help noticing the way her lips perfectly curve up, giving her a flawless set of dimples under her glasses. She’s wearing the shirt I got her, which molds to her every curve, and she paired it with a pair of denim shorts that aren’t slutty short, but they aren’t long either. The perfect Milly length, is what I’m saying in my head. To top it off, she’s wearing the hat I got her, but her hair is bundled up in a messy bun out the back hole, giving her this sexy, messy vibe. I wonder if she knows how good she looks right now.
“Why are you staring at me?” she asks, shaking me from my thoughts.
Shit.
“Uh . . . did I tell you how nice that hat looks on you?”
“Yeah, a few times.” She blushes. “But thanks, and the shirt is wonderful too. Jerry and Shane were jealous.”
“Well, if they were as smart as you, they might have gotten one too, but only the best for my coach.” I reach for the food and bring it up between us. “Straddle the bench so you can use it as a table.”
Clearing her throat, she says, “I’m guessing this isn’t your first rodeo eating in a dugout.”
“Sometimes I think I’ve eaten more meals like this than at an actual dinner table.” I open a boxful of tacos, set the chips and guac between us, and then hand her a water from the bag as well. “Is this okay?”
“This is great. You really didn’t have to bring dinner.”
“Are you kidding?” I pick up a softshell taco and take a huge bite of it. “It’s the least I could do. You don’t have to be spending your extra time helping me out.”
“It’s what I love.” She shrugs and picks up a taco as well as a chip. Gingerly she dips it, barely gathering any guacamole, and then puts the whole thing in her mouth.