He doesn’t answer right away as he continues to gaze at me. I can see his mind working, his brain attempting to figure out how to respond in the right way and not in a reactionary way.
After a few moments of silence, he leans forward on his thighs, and when he speaks, it’s quiet. “I’m not sure I’m the guy you think I am.” He clasps his hands in front of him. “I’m awkward, I’m unsure of myself on a daily basis. Hell, I went out with a girl once, and after that, sent her flowers once a day for a week. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing when it comes to this shit. All I know is that I like you, that I’ll be honest with you, and when or if you ever decide to let me into your world, I won’t hurt you. I’ll only protect you. I will always listen to you, acknowledge you, and hopefully, make you feel as special as I know you are.”
After a large sigh, he stands from the couch just as there is a knock on the door.
Great, the food is here.
Without saying a word, he grabs the food for us and then sets it on the kitchen counter. He doesn’t take a seat, and he doesn’t start dishing it out. He just leaves it on the counter and then faces me.
Hands stuffed in his pockets, he looks up at me, those devastatingly handsome eyes penetrating my very soul. “I don’t want to pressure you, Myla, so I’m going to give you your space as you asked. I want you to know, though, that I’m not mad at you. I’m not distancing from you. I’m just respecting you. And for the record, just in case I didn’t make it clear enough, I like you too, Myla. A lot. You make me smile, you make me happy, you make me think, and you make me feel alive. If you’re ever wondering what you bring to the table, it’s all those things. In the world of baseball, we don’t get much time to breathe, but you, you’re my breath of fresh air.” With a sad smile, he takes off toward the door and exits the apartment, leaving me in a puddle of emotions. And words. Lots of incredibly kind and thoughtful words. Words I never thought I’d hear directed at me.
I like you too, Myla. A lot. You make me smile, you make me happy, you make me think, and you make me feel alive. If you’re ever wondering what you bring to the table, it’s all those things . . . you’re my breath of fresh air.
What the hell do I do with that? Why the hell am I so messed up?
**RYOT**
“She message?” Penn asks as he sits next to me in the locker room.
I shake my head and set my phone down. “No.” Leaning back in my plush chair just in front of my locker, I say, “It’s been three fucking weeks. I know I told her I’d give her space, but fuck, I thought that maybe she’d contact me by now.”
“Dude, have you thought that maybe she’s not the right person for you?” Penn asks as Walker approaches and sits on the other side of me.
A year ago, Walker and Penn never would have been seen within five feet of each other. A longtime rivalry between the two made locker room chats increasingly uncomfortable. But after a rough year, a lot of honesty, and Penn admitting he had a drinking problem and going to rehab, we’re now able to sit peacefully in the locker room without them staring each other down. It was so weird. They were unstoppable on the diamond together. Penn as pitcher, Walker as catcher. Pure magic. Even though off the field was such a different story. Now, thank fuck, they’re almost friends. And still unstoppable.
“Are you talking about Myla?” Walker asks as he picks up one of his cleats and adjusts the shoelaces.
“Yeah,” I answer. “It’s been three weeks. I just figured by this point, she would have contacted me. I even . . .” I rub my palm into my eye. “Hell, I even posted a video of me in the batting cages on Instagram, knowing she hates those videos, and it’s been radio silence.”
“I’m thinking she’s not the right girl for him,” Penn says. “I know she interests you, and you like her, but dude, you can’t chase someone who doesn’t want to be chased.”
“I realize that, but I know she likes me. She told me she did, but she’s just not letting herself like me. There’s a difference, you know? With the time I’ve spent with her and the messages we’ve shared, I know there’s something special between us, and I would hate to just give up on that.”
“You might have to,” Walker says. “It took me a long fucking time to get together with Kate, and as you know, I had to let her go at one point. If it’s meant to be, then it will happen. But if you push it, you might push her away.”
“I understand that, but my fear is that she’s not going to ever come to me, that she’s so in her head about not deserving a chance, that she’ll just walk away.”
Penn places his hand on my shoulder. “Then she walks away, man.”
I let out a heavy sigh and kick my feet up on my locker.
But I don’t want her to fucking walk away.
Hell, I thought I was so close when I went to her place. We talked for two weeks straight and joked around. I looked forward to her messages after my away games, and when I returned to Chicago, she was the first person I wanted to see. I took a chance and went to her place. And that chance was paying off, until . . . until she retreated, talking herself out of taking a chance on me.
“From his silence, I’m going to guess he’s not good with that,” Walker says.
“Yeah, I don’t think he is,” Penn agrees. “So best we prepare ourselves for what’s to come.”
“I’ll be fine,” I say as I stand from my chair. “I’m going to take a walk. I’ll be back before we report to the field.”
“Are we ready, boys?” Knox Gentry, our captain and shortstop, calls out as he warms up his arm with Carson Stone, our second baseman.
“Ready as we’ll ever be,” Dempsey says from where he’s stretching on the ground.
“Head on right?” Knox asks me as I finish up my calisthenics. My arm is already warm, it’s my legs and torso that are feeling a bit stiff, and I know why. Yesterday, I took my frustrations out in the weight room, and I’m paying for it now.
“Yeah, head’s on right,” I say as I line up near the foul line in the outfield and bend over to do some more stretching of my hamstrings, knowing damn well that someone in the stands is taking a picture of my ass this very moment.
“You sure? Because you don’t seem like your normal self. It’s crunch time, man.”
“I know,” I say while blowing out a heavy breath and stretching even further.
“Okay, if you need to talk, you know I’m here. I’ve been through my fair share of woman problems.”
Yeah, you could say that. Knox is married to Emory, whom he met back in college, but their relationship was one hell of a roller coaster.
“Thanks. I’m just trying to focus on the game and then figure things out off the field.”
Knox catches the long toss from Carson, who is now jogging in from all the way out in the center field. “Good. On the field, get the job done. Off the field, you let me know if you need to talk.”
I give him a fist bump, grab my glove from the turf, and head to the stands where people are lined up, waiting for any interaction with the players. I make sure to interact with the fans because they spend enough money to come see us. It’s the least that I can do. Recently, they’ve put up protective netting from foul pole to foul pole all along the backstop. It has limited our ability to sign things for the fans, but it was put up to protect them from foul balls. Oddly enough, the Bobbies staff gave us some training on how to sign balls through the small holes, so I quickly sign a few as well as take a few selfies, despite the netting, and then head toward the dugout.