“What’s wrong?” I ask, stepping closer to her, a towel still tied around my waist.
“Have you seen this?” She holds up her phone to show me one of those online gossip sites with the headline, “Taylor rumors of a trade.”
“Babe, you can’t read that shit. They print whatever they have to in order to get sales and traffic to their sites.” I don’t tell her that I have indeed seen it. The vultures in the media went from showing clips of our kiss and the progression of our relationship to tearing it apart. Fuckers.
She tosses her phone on the nightstand. “So you haven’t heard anything about being traded?”
“No. I just signed a new four-year contract. I doubt they’re looking to trade me. Besides, I think out of respect for you, Drew would tell us as soon as something like that was on the table.” At least, I hope he would. My agent too. I texted him earlier, and he told me not to believe everything I read. I’m hoping that means this is false.
“You’re probably right.”
“Hey.” Placing my index finger under her chin, I lift her eyes to mine. “It’s just a gossip rag. Nothing to be worried about.”
“It could happen, though. It’s always a possibility.” There’s a storm in her eyes, and I know what she’s thinking. The same thing I did when I read that article. If I get traded, I’ll never see her.
I crouch down in front of her, where she still sits on the side of the bed. “It’s a possibility, but if that happens, we’ll figure it out.”
“How? I work here for the Blaze, and if you get traded…” Her voice trails off.
“If that ever happens, I’m still going to be madly in love with you. You’re still going to be the love of my life, and it’s going to suck, but we’ll make it work. I promise you that. There is no other option. We’re spoiled right now,” I continue. “The guys on the team, most of the time their wives and kids can’t travel with them. I get you every day, no matter if I’m on the road or not.”
“And what happens when we have kids?” Her eyes grow wide. “I didn’t think about that when I picked this career. How are we both going to travel all the time and have kids?”
“Hey.” I settle on my knees and move between her legs, wrapping my arms around her waist. “We will figure it out. We’re not there yet. When we get there, it will be a choice we make together.”
“Gah!” She closes her eyes. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m letting this get to me. I grew up with this. I know how it works.”
“We talked it out. It’s all good,” I reassure her. “You hungry?”
“Starving.”
“You want to go downstairs to the restaurant or order room service?”
“Room service. I’m not really in the mood to deal with all the fans tonight.”
Reaching into the nightstand, I grab the menu and hand it to her. “I’m going to go change, and then I’ll order us something.”
I stand and make it maybe three steps before she calls, “Cameron.” I turn to look at her. “Thank you.”
“For what?” I tilt my head to the side.
“Calming me down, being patient with me. Loving me. I could go on and on.”
“We’re a team, Paisley. You and me. I’ve got you.”
She nods and goes back to looking over the menu.
“I bet the kitchen thinks we’re having a party with all of this food,” Paisley says, wiping her mouth and tossing her napkin on the table.
“It is a lot of food for two people, but I burn a lot of calories,” I remind her.
“Yeah, well, I don’t. My ass is going to start expanding if I keep eating like this.”
“I like your ass.”
“Yeah, I do too, at the size it is, but if I keep this up, I’m not so sure.”
“I don’t care how big or small your ass gets, or you are. What matters to me is what’s in here.” I tap my hand over my chest. “What matters to me is that you know without a shadow of a doubt that I love you. That I will always love you.”
I watch her as she stands from the table and moves to the bed. She checks her phone that’s plugged in on the nightstand and climbs under the covers. “Cam?”
“Yeah?” I ask, standing from the small table and making my way toward her.
“Are we allowed to talk about it?”
“Talk about what?” I ask, my feet carrying me to the bed. To her.
“The World Series,” she whispers, like it’s some super dark secret.
“Yes.” I chuckle. “We can talk about it.” I make my way to the bed and jump, falling next to her, making her laugh.
She turns in bed with a big smile on her face. “Two for two!” she says excitedly. “You think we can go for a—” She starts, and I clamp my hand over her mouth.
“We can’t talk about that.”
She licks my palm, causing me to pull my hand from her mouth and drop it to her cheek. “Ew!”
She screeches as I start to tickle her. She squirms all over the bed, arms and legs flailing around. “Uncle!” she yells, and I stop my assault. Her breathing is labored, and her smile lights up her face. “Note to self: no talking about—”
I cut her off. “Paisley.” It’s a warning that makes her crack up laughing.
My voice may sound stern, but she and I both know when it comes to her, I’m all bark and no bite, well, unless I’m making love to her. She rolls over, resting her head on my chest, and I run my fingers through her hair. The silky strands are so damn soft. It’s hard for me to keep my hands out of it.
Her breathing evens out, and I know she’s fallen asleep. The lights are still on in our room, but I don’t dare move for fear of waking her. Instead, I snuggle her closer, closing my eyes and letting sleep claim me too.
We’re in the bottom of the ninth with two outs, and the score is tied. Marty Harris, one of our power hitters, is up to bat. The bases are loaded. Everyone in the dugout is on their feet. And the crowd, they’re on their feet as well. This is game four of the World Series, and if we win today, we win it all.
My heart pounds in my chest, my hands are sweating, and my knees hold a slight tremble as my eyes are glued on Harris. I can’t imagine how Marty is feeling right now. This is his jam, and the bat is hot, but I imagine the nerves and the adrenaline are pounding in tandem through his veins.
“Bring it home.” I send the words up to the universe and hopefully to Marty as he gets in position. The pitch is thrown, and my eyes follow every move as Marty swings. The crack of the bat echoes throughout the stadium, and the sound alone tells me all that I need to know. The ball is gone as it soars overhead and over the center field wall.
Grand. Fucking. Slam.
Harris takes his time jogging the bases, following our three other teammates. As they step across home plate, we’re there to greet them. We’re already jumping up and down and slapping one another on the back, celebrating the high that comes with this monumental occasion.
We won the World fucking Series!
Clean sweep!