Meetings
Chance
I watched Miss I Have a Boyfriend walk away from me and laughed to myself. She was feisty and had an attitude and an accent that had instantly pulled at something in me.
My family had spent a lot of time in New York when I was growing up, so I’d always had a soft spot for it. The people there were so different from the people here. They were more direct, honest, straightforward, and forthcoming. At least they always seemed to be. LA was filled with fake people trying to use you, and they would do anything to anyone in order to get ahead. New Yorkers might have had that kind of attitude in their blood, too, but I was fairly confident that they’d stab you in the stomach to make sure you saw it coming, as opposed to stabbing you in the back, like they did out here.
The girl never looked at me again as she stormed across the yard, her long, dark hair moving with each step. When she’d first sat down, I could have sworn that she’d seen me here and done it on purpose. Most girls did. But when I said something to her, she practically jumped out of her fucking skin, and I knew I was wrong. I’d actually scared her. And what did I do? I’d acted like a jerk instead of apologizing.
My mom would have kicked my ass if she’d heard me just then. She was always telling me to stop being so closed off and that I needed to learn how to trust girls and let them in. The problem was, she’d also raised me to keep my wits about me, to think with the brain in my head and not to trust too easily, so the lessons were contradictory at best.
Pushing up from the wall, I wondered why I was still hiding in the dark when I could be in my room. Mac had threatened me earlier, but he’d be distracted with girls by now, and he wouldn’t care where I was or what I was doing. I needed to catch up on sleep before school and six a.m. workouts started, so I planned on spending the rest of the party alone, in my room, doing exactly that.
When I stepped inside the crowded party, I found myself searching for the girl from outside. Why do I care where she is?
Before I could question myself any more, I spotted her, talking to a blonde girl attached to Mac’s hip. She scowled, her face animated as she gave Blondie a quick hug before heading out the front door.
She’s really leaving?
I didn’t want to care or be intrigued that she was leaving a baseball party alone, but I felt a little of both.
I unlocked my bedroom door and quickly closed it behind me before checking around to make sure no one had gotten in while I left it empty. Poking my head under my bed, behind my shower curtain, and inside of my closet, I blew out a relieved breath when the coast was clear. It sounded ridiculous, but girls sneaking into my room had happened more than once. Grateful that the lock had done what it was supposed to, I fell back onto my bed. My head hitting the pillows was the last thing I remembered.
I woke up the next morning, once again grateful for the lock on my door and the fact that I’d turned off my phone alarm for practically the first time in my life. My body felt like I’d slept more in one night than I’d slept in months. To be honest, I probably had.
Reaching my arms over my head, I stretched before adjusting my erection and heading into the bathroom for a quick shower. Every guy on the team had a meeting scheduled with Coach Jackson today, and I needed to get ready for mine.
I walked through the locker room and headed toward Coach’s office. He was waiting for me, and the second his eyes met mine, he motioned for me to close the door and sit down. Up until that point, I hadn’t been nervous at all, but looking at the expression on his face now changed all that.
“Coach?” I said with a question in my voice.
He didn’t look happy, and I had no idea what I’d done wrong.
“How was your summer?” he asked even though we both knew that he already had the answer to that question.
There was no way in hell that Coach hadn’t stalked my stats all season long and read the write-ups online. He’d kept in contact with my summer ball coaches every year since I started playing for him.
“Great. I felt really good out there,” I said, feeling a little more confident. If there was one thing I never questioned, it was my ability to play this sport.
“You looked good. So”—his tone changed, and I shifted in my chair, unable to sit still—“math.”
One word, and my stomach twisted. “I know.” I squeezed my eyes shut with a groan, embarrassed that it had come to this.
“Do you? Because if you don’t get a C or higher, you won’t pass the class. And if you don’t pass the class, you won’t have enough qualifying credits to play.”
I swallowed around the lump in my throat. No matter how well I’d played this past summer or how good of a player I was right now, it didn’t mean shit if I couldn’t play this upcoming season.
“I know, Coach. I’ll—” I started to say before he cut me off.
“I’ve arranged for tutoring,” he insisted, almost like he’d planned on me arguing. “I can’t risk you failing. You can’t either.”
“Of course. That’s fine. I’ll do whatever it takes,” I said because I meant it. There was no fucking way I wasn’t going to play in my draft year because I couldn’t pass a stupid math class. I’d do whatever I needed to make sure I passed.
“You start tomorrow,” he said before looking back down at some papers on his desk and shuffling them around.
Being a Division One athlete and passing all of my classes was a juggling act that I sometimes struggled with. Baseball required all of my time and attention. If I wasn’t on the field, working on my throws from home or in the cages, practicing my swing, I was in the gym to make sure my body stayed healthy or in yoga classes to keep my knees strong and limber from the inside out. Baseball was my passion and the only thing I saw in my future. It felt like there was little room for anything else during each day, especially school and all of its separate demands.
The ironic part was that unless I passed all of my classes, I couldn’t even play in the first place. No one cared that Algebra had nothing to do with baseball. All they cared about was that I played for a top-notch university and in a program that required athletes to take and pass classes each semester with a two-point-five grade point average or above. Which was how I’d found myself in my current predicament.
“Can I ask something?” I asked quietly.
Coach didn’t seem to be in a chatty mood.
“What is it?” He looked up at me, the large bags under his eyes telling me that he hadn’t been sleeping much.
He looked stressed, and I knew that my math problem had most likely added to it.
“I need a guy tutor. It can’t be a girl.” I was about to launch into some long-winded explanation about why I couldn’t have a female tutor when Coach simply agreed with me.
“I know that, Carter.”
“Cool. Thanks. Is that all, Coach?” I asked, hesitating to stand until he excused me.
“Yeah. But keep me updated if you aren’t going to pass. Any trouble or if the tutor isn’t working out, I need to know in enough time to turn it around. You hear me?”
“Of course.”
“Get out,” he said, and an uncomfortable laugh escaped me as I exited his office and prayed like hell I’d get a tutor who could actually help me.