“Nichole, look around. Ryot is beloved by this city. Do you know how many Bisley shirts I saw as we walked in? He’s way out of my league, way too nice, and I’m only going to bring him down. I can feel it. I will hurt him because I’m not mentally fit for a relationship.” She made sure of that many years ago.
“And how long have you said that?” Nichole asks. Probably forever. A montage of the Bobbies starts playing on the jumbotron. The fans around us erupt in cheers.
You can tell I’ve never been to a baseball game because I have no idea what’s happening. “I think you’ve said that ever since I’ve known you. Don’t be that person, Myla.”
“What person?” I ask as I clap reflexively because everyone else is.
“The person who never shows any growth in their life, but rather stays in their past, reliving the horrid lessons learned from their childhood. You are so much better than that, and it’s about time you start showing it. You are so much better than what your mother made you feel about yourself. And it’s about time you believe that. You have so much potential to be anyone you want, anything you want, Myla, but you’re not allowing that. Well, I’m sick of it.”
Her voice is angry and irritated. Unlike anything I’ve heard from her. It’s startling.
“It’s not that easy,” I say as the Bobbies run out onto the field to their spots. My eyes immediately fixate on Ryot, who jogs out to third base. I notice his number, twenty-two, and I wonder about the story behind it. Did he pick it out? Does it have sentimental value to him?
“It’s not easy because you’re scared,” Nichole says. “Are you really going to let fear dictate your future? Or are you going to face that fear head-on and see that there is another side to life, Myla? A side where fear doesn’t control your heart, but rather opens it to new things?”
“I . . . don’t know,” I say.
“Excuse me? Miss?” I turn to my right, where a stadium worker wearing a blue Bobbies polo and baseball cap stands.
“Yes?”
“Are you Myla Moore?”
“Uh, yeah, that would be me.”
He nods. “This is for you.”
He holds out an envelope, and I very shakily take it. “What is this?”
“Not sure. I was just told to hand it to you. Enjoy the game.”
When he leaves, I turn to Nichole who has a huge smile on her face. “Did you do this?”
“Nope, I have no idea what it is, but based on the fact that your boy saw you in the stands, I’m sure he acted quickly to make something happen.”
Confused, I peel open the envelope and find a Bobbies-themed blue and red lanyard attached to a VIP pass as well as a note. I crack open the card and read it out loud. “Miss Moore, please accept this VIP pass to locker room level after the game. Mr. Bisley will be waiting for you. Have any stadium worker direct you. Enjoy the game.”
“Oooo, I knew he was good. But this is really freaking good.” Nichole wraps her arm around my shoulder and squeezes me tight.
“Miss Moore?” the man says again. “I forgot to hand this to you as well.” He holds out a Bobbies jersey, which Nichole takes for me and thanks him.
When she holds the jersey up, I immediately see Bisley across the back with the number twenty-two under it.
“Well, slap my ass. I think I went for the wrong brother.” She takes the envelope from me and then hands over the jersey. “Put it on.”
“What? Seriously?”
“Yes. Why wouldn’t you?”
“I don’t know, this all seems so—”
“Scary?” she asks.
“Yes, scary.”
“Well, then, time to act like an adult and get over those fears.” She helps me put on the jersey and then fluffs my hair over my shoulders right as the crowd stands and erupts in cheers.
Not knowing what the hell is going on, Nichole and I do the same. And then the Bobbies jog off the field.
“Wait, what’s going on?” I ask.
“I think they got three outs,” Nichole says.
I continue to clap as Ryot jogs toward the dugout, and when he reaches the top of the steps, he’s only a few feet away from me. Under the brim of his hat, I catch those laser-sharp eyes as he says, “Looking fine, babe.” And then he ducks into the dugout, disappearing out of sight.
“Oh fuck, someone needs to hose me down,” Nichole says, waving her hand in front of her face.
Yeah . . . I think I need someone to hose me down as well.
Myla: I’m freaking out. Players are starting to leave the hole thing.
Nichole: It’s called a locker room, and be cool, okay?
Myla: I don’t know what to say to him.
Nichole: We went over this. Just don’t say anything at all. Enjoy the moment, and when he asks you on a date, SAY YES!
Myla: Are you sure this is the right move? Am I really ready for this?
Nichole: If his ass in those baseball pants didn’t convince you, then I’m at a loss.
Myla: I stared at it anytime I had a chance.
Nichole: Shamelessly, I did too.
“Hey.” I hear his deep, sexy voice. When I look up from my phone, there he is, fresh from a shower, wearing a pair of dark jeans and a tight-fitted navy-blue T-shirt.
I brush my hair behind my ear, stick my phone in my purse, and on a deep breath, say, “Hey.”
He holds his hand out to me and asks, “You coming with me?”
I glance at his large hand and then back up at him. This is it. There is no turning back. If I take his hand, that means I’m trying this, and I can’t pull back from him again. If I don’t take it, I’m making a statement that I don’t think after everything I’ve been through with this man that I can make.
On a hope and a prayer that I can be normal for this man, I reach out and take his hand, which of course creates a breathtaking smile on his face.
“How have you been?” he asks as we walk down a long hallway.
“Um, pretty good. You? I mean that game, wow.”
“Do you even know if we won?”
I chuckle, and the tension building in my chest eases. “I gathered that you won at the end from the cheering fans. Up until then it was a real nail-biter.”
“We won ten to one.”
“See, truly won by the skin of your teeth.”
He chuckles. “Wow, I really need to spend some time educating you on my sport.” He lifts our hand connection and then spins me around. “But damn, girl, you sure look good in my jersey.”
Feeling even lighter, I tug on the fabric and say, “Oh, this old thing? I found it in a dumpster outside the stadium. Some girl tossed it, claiming her wild ways weren’t working on Bisley. I thought I’d give it a try. Seems like it works just fine.”
“It wasn’t the jersey; it was the girl.” He smirks and then pushes open the door to a gated-off parking lot. He guides me to a black SUV and unlocks it before pulling the passenger side door open. He helps me in because, if anything, the man is a gentleman. He then braces his hand on the door opening and dips his head so I can see him. “Do you want me to take you home?”
I swallow and realize this is him asking what’s next. We’re here at a crossroads again. Am I going to follow, or am I going to retreat?