Chapter 13
Hunter
I think Renleigh might be a zombie.
That’s the only explanation for what’s about to happen.
Or not happen. Shit, at this point I have whiplash from trying to figure this girl out.
All I know is she texted me a few minutes after nine, saying she was already in a rideshare on her way here.
I’ve been hovering just inside my hotel doorway ever since.
I’m sure the guys who have seen me think I’m waiting for a hooker.
The elevator dings down the hallway, and my pulse kicks up again, the same way it has the last four times someone got off on our floor.
I bite my bottom lip in anticipation, hoping it’s not another dude rounding the corner.
The first sign of her is her sneakers and black leggings, then my eyes trail up to her pink sweatshirt, and my dick swells.
It’s been trained to behave a certain way when she wears that thing.
But then I get a glimpse of her expression as she barrels toward me, and all my anticipation-fueled adrenaline boils into instant, crushing concern.
She’s . . . crying.
“Hey . . . hey, it’s okay,” I say, holding one arm out as I keep my door open with the other. Renleigh folds into me, and I sweep her inside and let her collapse against my chest in a messy, tear-soaked ball of emotion.
“What’s wrong? Are you hurt? Did someone hurt you?
” The hairs on the back of my neck spike while I stroke her back as she rests her face against my chest. I inspect her clothing, at least what I can see, and am tender with my touch just in case.
If someone hurt her on her way here . . .
if she had an issue with the rideshare driver . . . anyone. . . I swear.
“I’m not hurt. I’m . . . I’m fine,” she says, sniffling as she pulls away a bit and runs her long sleeve across her nose and eyes.
“Yeah, you seem fine.” My sarcastic tone seems to amuse her, and she shakes with a single laugh before another sob takes over.
“Why don’t we sit down. Come on. Let me . . . let me take this.”
I pull the duffel bag straps from her shoulder and toss her light bag into a leather chair in the corner of my room, then guide her to the foot of the bed.
She sits next to me, then quickly folds herself into a ball on the mattress, laying her head in my lap while she soaks my sweatpants-covered thigh with tears.
“You wanna talk about it?” I sweep her hair away from her face, combing through the wild knots with my fingers, and tucking the strands behind her ear.
She shrugs.
“I don’t know what to say. It’s kind of a long story.” Her gaze flits to mine, her eyes red and glassy, and it breaks me to see her like this.
“Well,” I say, pausing while I run my thumb along her red puffy cheek. “I’m not throwing tomorrow, so if I’m tired as hell, nobody will give a shit. Why don’t you tell me about it? The whole thing?”
She stares into my eyes for a few quiet seconds without blinking, and I’m careful not to make a single sound that may cause her to hesitate about opening up. She seems fragile. Scared, perhaps. Definitely hurt. Not physically, but her heart is in pain. I can tell.
I used to find my mom like this sometimes, curled exactly this way at the foot of my parents’ bed. She always told me she just got sad when my dad was out of town. She missed him. And I counted down for the day he came back home and made her seem whole again.
“My parents’ relationship is just kind of . . . fucked up.” She quivers with a faint laugh and bites her lip, almost as if she’s embarrassed.
“I think all relationships are a little fucked up. What kind of fucked up is theirs?” I’m being sincere, and I think she can see that in my eyes as she relaxes and shifts to sit up next to me.
“I’m not even sure I understand it. They aren’t married, but sometimes, when they’re together, they act . . . married. And it’s like my mom has this permission slip to come and go as she pleases.”
She flits her hand in the air, mimicking fireworks, and I can tell her emotions are morphing from hurt to something closer to anger. I nod to encourage her to keep going, to keep sharing.
“I don’t know why it makes me so mad. I’m an adult. It shouldn’t, except I probably harbor a ton of resentment for all the shit she pulled during my formative years. And she did sort of fuck me over on the cusp to adulthood.”
My brow furrows. “How so?”
I have pieced together some things on my own, like the fact Renleigh is living with her dad, and he’s recovering from what I think was probably a stroke, or he’s dealing with something neurological.
But if there’s one thing I learned from any argument I’ve ever watched my dad try to survive with my mom, it’s the rule of making assumptions, and I’m not about to make an ass out of her or me.
“You know I’m twelve credit hours away from a bachelor’s in psychology?
From UT. A place I loved living, by the way.
” She blows up at the stray hairs that found their way to her forehead.
I reach forward and sweep them back in place, tucked behind her ear, and the way she doesn’t flinch at all feels nice.
She’s comfortable with me, enough so that she’s sucking in a deep breath and revving up for more.
“My dad had a pretty bad stroke a couple of years ago, and I dropped out—twelve hours shy of my degree—to take care of him. And you know why?”
I shake my head and listen.
“Because my mother had an opportunity in Houston to work for some fancy oil company, lobbying for rich people and hobnobbing with billionaires. Meanwhile, my dad lives on the pathetic disability funds of a public-school teacher, and that’s after months of battling way too many government officials just to get it. ”
I grimace.
“Okay, that’s pretty shitty.” I don’t want to disparage her mom because that’s her right, not mine. I know that people can love others and hate them a little, too.
“Right?”
Renleigh stands and pushes her hair back, tying it in a literal knot at the base of her neck while she paces. She’s fully crossed over into pissed-off territory. I don’t know whether that’s healthy or not, but it hurts less to see her like this, so I go with it.
“That’s what she does. What she’s always done. When my mom wants to be a coach’s wife, that’s what she is, and when she wants to be a jet-setting, campaign-running, boardroom queen, she puts on the uniform and off she goes.
“It’s exhausting, and honestly? I came to terms with how crappy it was to grow up with her a while ago.
I’m just mad that she’s still doing it, and that it still affects my life.
Because guess what? She’s back! Coach’s wife again, probably because it’s convenient.
Or maybe guilt finally caught up to her.
Or . . . I don’t know. I don’t even care about the reason anymore. I’m just . . . tired.”
She flops down in the leather chair, leaning against her bag as her legs jut out and her hands fall on either side of the armrests. She looks spent, like a boxer after a solid round.
“I hear you. I hear all of it, and Renleigh . . . hell, I’m sorry. That’s a lot to carry.” I chew at the inside of my mouth, eating the rest of my words despite the growing burn in my belly. My conscience is urging me to speak some hard truth.
“What is it?” Renleigh barks.
Welp. I must have a bad poker face.
I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees while I rub my palms together, and steady my gaze on the gray carpet floor between us. My gaze lifts to meet her heavy stare, and I swallow.
“Did your dad ask you to do that?” My leg muscles flex on instinct, like the rest of my body heard my words and took notice of incoming missiles of attack.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
She doesn’t sit up, but her head shifts forward a touch. If she is a zombie, this is the point where she will try to eat me. I should let her.
“Oh, fuck, I shouldn’t interfere. It’s just . . .”
I run my palm over my face. I have two decent skill sets—one is throwing a baseball hard.
The other? Conflict management. I’ve always been the peacekeeper.
My sisters and I fought like hell over everything.
Same with the guys I grew up with, my teammates.
Even now, I’m constantly looking to keep everyone happy.
Sure, it’s selfish to an extent. I want Roddy to like me.
I want Brooks to like me. And Adler. And fuck, all of Texas, when I get there.
It’s a complex deep and wide, and I’m aware of it.
And maybe one day if Renleigh finishes her degree and goes into the clinical shit, she can help me dissect it.
But for right now, the need for conflict resolution is my superpower.
And like it or not, I’m compelled to use it.
“You’re so upset, and your emotions are valid. They are. Trust me. But is there a chance that maybe . . . I don’t know.” Suck it up, Hunter. Spill it. “That you brought some of this on yourself?”
She blinks once, then doesn’t move for a solid five seconds. My insides begin to shrivel. We’re not fucking tonight. Hell, I may never be seen alive again.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”
“You’re right, you shouldn’t. This was a dumb idea.” In a single heartbeat, Renleigh is on her feet with her bag slung over her shoulder and on her way to the exit.
I fucked this up.
“Renleigh, wait—” I rush in front of her and rest my back on the door.
If she asks me to move out of her way, I will.
But I have to at least make her ask. I have to fight for her a little bit.
I like this girl. Shit, I like her a lot.
Even the ragey side. It’s real. Renleigh might be the realest person I’ve ever met.
She doesn’t push. She also doesn’t speak. And those small signs encourage me. I tilt my head to one side and utter, “I’m sorry.”
Her eyes fill with tears and she shakes her head, dropping her bag to the floor.
“You’re right,” she says.
I swallow hard, glad her eyes are on me so she can see the shock on my face. I know I’m right, but I expected her to fly all the way back to Oklahoma before admitting that.
Her shoulders lift with a deep inhale, and she lifts her gaze to me as she breathes out.
“Fuck, you’re actually right. I mean . . . I know all of that. But also, what else am I going to do, you know? He’s my dad. I love my dad. I chose him, but also . . . I chose.”
I nod, slowly stepping away from the door.
My hands wrap around her wrists, and I bring them up over my shoulders so I can hold her against me again.
She’s not crying like she was before, but she seems just as spent and exhausted.
A few hundred miles on a plane and a familial crisis can do that to a person.
“Who’s on the mound tomorrow?” she asks as she grabs hold of my T-shirt and we begin to sway.
“Thompson. It’s a rehab assignment, before he goes back to Texas. So, he’ll go the full game. Why?”
Her fingertips walk up higher, tapping against my chest as her head shifts and her gaze hits mine.
“Full game, huh? So, there’s no way you’ll have to go in?” Her voice is quieter than before. A whole lot quieter. And maybe . . . suggestive.
I shake my head slowly.
“Nope. My bullpen was two days ago. They wouldn’t let me throw if I gave them half my signing bonus,” I joke.
She chuckles, her hands now at the collar of my shirt and working their way to the back of my neck. Our mouths are inches apart, and our eyes are locked.
We are definitely fucking.
“No curfew for you, then. Like, you can be up late.” She tips her chin up, and her breath tickles against my lips. My tongue peeks out to taste it.
“As late as required.”
Her eyes flutter shut, and her hands sink into my hair as I close the space between us and cover her mouth with mine. I know what this is—it’s avoidance. She’s using me. She wants to feel good, even if it doesn’t last.
I can do that for her.