Chapter 4
A HEADY ANTICIPATION
For the next week, I was haunted by what I’d seen in that locker room.
To their credit, they didn’t behave as if anything was different between the three of us — though I was fundamentally altered. When Cash handed me my missing recorder the next day, nothing about his tone or body language indicated they were aware I’d seen them.
But I had. At least once an hour, I’d hear Cash’s voice whispering don’t you look pretty on your knees for me in my head, and my insides would turn molten.
In the meantime, another handful of games flew by. Mostly wins, with a few heartbreaking losses. I continued my interviews with Cash and Sawyer whenever they had a spare few minutes.
We steered clear of their families and focused more on their time in the minors: the late nights and long bus rides, all that frantic hope buzzing beneath their skin.
My second article came out to even greater success. Fans flocked to their games in droves. Readers sent in emails, posted online, continued to propose in the stands via posterboard.
And I was just as swept up in the frenzy. Hunched over my laptop, in motel after motel, my fingers flew across the keyboard like the starlings that darted beneath the stadium lights.
Whatever had made them nervous at first about this level of exposure appeared to have retreated — at least for now.
My curiosity lingered though, wanting to uncover all the little mysteries of their personal lives.
But after what I’d seen between them in that locker room, I had a working theory now.
About the community of Hart’s Island and why the two of them had left.
About why Cash was estranged from his family, even after they’d welcomed Sawyer into their home.
And it had everything to do with the sight of Cash’s fingers splayed across Sawyer’s stomach, his movements as familiar as they were reverential.
Whatever the parameters of their friendship technically were, Cash Barlow and Sawyer Knight— America’s most beloved baseball players at the moment — were sexually and romantically involved with one another.
It was a secret I’d take to the grave. Easily. That wasn’t the complicating factor for me at all. That wasn’t what haunted my nights and daydreams, wasn’t what had me dazed.
Every time Sawyer made me laugh, or Cash flashed his shy smile my way, my body lit up in a way it never had before. Not for any other crush or romantic partner, and certainly not in recent memory.
I’d been a locked door before and now these baseball players held the key.
Except fantasizing about the players I was tasked to report on was wrong and forbidden and very unprofessional. So instead, whenever I felt the urge to wonder what it would feel like to be on my knees, staring up into Cash’s handsome face, I’d scribble down a question to ask them.
Or if I thought about Sawyer’s strong hands tangling in my long hair, dragging my mouth to his —
Actually, it didn’t fucking matter. Cash and Sawyer were obviously in love — with each other. Even contemplating it was a fruitless endeavor.
Especially when I’d just been handed the career opportunity of a lifetime.
At the start of my third week, I followed the team to Atlanta, where it was so hot they were experiencing rolling blackouts. In the dugout, where I was watching batting practice, it boiled like an oven. Strands of my hair stuck to the nape of my neck and beads of sweat rolled down my spine.
I rubbed at my eyes, feeling grimy and wrung-out. Even as following this team had me inspired and elated, the days on the road were starting to add up now. The endless fast food, the lumpy motel beds, the unyielding heat — all of it was taking its toll.
And that wasn’t counting the sheer mental exhaustion required to resist my obvious attraction to both my interview subjects.
In front of me, Sawyer sighed and reclined in a chair.
It was just the two of us down here, the rest of the team seeking the rare breeze out on the field.
He wore nothing but a tee-shirt that clung to his sweaty chest and gym shorts that revealed so much of his thick, tattooed thighs I was getting light-headed.
“This schedule’s rough, ace,” Sawyer said, with real concern in his eyes. “Are you hanging in there?”
I gave a tight smile. “Is it obvious it’s my first time?”
He shrugged a shoulder. “It’s still hard for me and Cash, and we’ve done it more than most. It’s fucking brutal.” He twisted at the waist and fished his hand into an open cooler, bringing up a few dripping ice cubes. Reaching out, he said, “May I?”
Mouth dry, I nodded, the heat so oppressive I couldn’t even pretend I wanted to say no. He indicated that I should bow my head, so I did.
A moment later, the sweetest, smoothest ice cube graced the nape of my neck.
I shivered immediately.
“Too much?” he asked.
“Not at all,” I promised. “It’s just right.”
Slowly, he slid the cube up and down the back of my neck. An almost ecstatic relief washed over me. The very edges of his calloused fingers dragged alongside, caressing my skin. Droplets slipped to the front of my throat, dripped between my breasts.
A forbidden image rose in my mind: Sawyer’s tongue, following the trail of every drop.
“This is how me and Cash cool each other off on days like this,” he said. “It’s easy to overheat out here, and we can’t have our star reporter heading to the hospital, now can we?”
I snorted. “Star might be overdoing it a bit.”
He must have bent his head closer to my face, because when he next spoke his voice lingered near my ear. “Now you’re just being humble, Darcy. And you know we won’t stand for that. If we say you’re a star, you’re a goddamn star.”
Sawyer’s fingers squeezed firmly, and his thumb gave a lazy caress along my throat. The strength in his hand was as commanding as it was tender. Protective.
Then his fingers slipped away. Raising my face, then my eyes, I could only hope my expression didn’t betray the effect those words — and his touch — had had on my body.
“Thanks,” I managed to croak out, trying for a smile. “I’ll remember to be less humble about my talents in the future. Brag a little more, just like you.”
He cracked a lop-sided grin. “Now that’s more like it.”
I was too tempted to flirt back, or beg for him to put his hand on my neck again. So instead I sent my gaze out to the action on the field, listening to the endless, metallic crack of ball against bat. The constant din of players talking and laughing, the soft thump of the pitching machine.
Cash came up from behind me, fresh from an appointment with the team’s physical therapist. He was shirtless, in loose shorts, and multiple giant ice packs were taped to his shoulder.
When he sank down next to Sawyer, he slapped him in the chest with a copy of The Sentinel.
“Remember our plan? We were gonna embarrass Miss Darcy before she interviewed us.”
Sawyer snapped his fingers. “Oh yeah, that’s right.”
I narrowed my eyes. “I don’t like this plan.”
“Respectfully, ma’am? You don’t have a choice,” Cash said with a playful smile. “You can’t write what you did this week and not have us shout your name from the rooftops.”
I tried to fight the smile that threatened to split my face in two. With obvious glee, Sawyer thumbed through the paper until he found the sports section. “Ah-ha! Here we go.”
Then he passed it back to Cash, who cleared his throat before reading an article I’d written in a kind of passion-filled fugue state. As secretly delighted as I was, I could only hope my obsession wasn’t blatantly obvious in the curve and heft of my sentences.
“‘For the country’s baseball fans,’” he read, “‘Cash and Sawyer represent more than just two players with an unbelievable amount of talent and skill. Because they have that, and it’s obvious already that these two rookies are on their way to a brilliant career. But it’s their strong friendship, their leadership, the way they dominate that field – you can’t help but be happily swept along in their passion for this game. ’”
Sawyer dropped his chin on Cash’s shoulder and continued where he’d left off.
“‘Cash and Sawyer represent baseball as it was originally envisioned: a game of life and vibrancy. Of hard work and sheer joy. The scent of dirt on your hands on a hot day, the new tendrils of a wildflower, that first burst of sun on your skin at the beginning of summer. That is the feeling that these two evoke in all of us. A heady anticipation.’”
There came another sharp crack, followed by a good-natured yell, cleats on grass. And I had two sets of eyes on me, gazing at me with a kind of wonder, sending my heart into overdrive.
“‘A heady anticipation,’” Sawyer repeated. “It’s gorgeous, Darcy. The whole article is. You captured so much of why Cash and I love being out there, day after day.”
“Baseball can be a kind of poetry,” Cash added. “I felt it from the first time I picked up a glove. From my first time on the pitcher’s mound. From the very moment I laid eyes on Sawyer.”
I noted the way they were sitting side by side — knees touching, shoulders touching. Noted, yet again, how sweet and romantic they sounded when describing the early days of their friendship.
“And this,” Cash held up my article, “is poetry.”
I pushed back against the urge I’d usually have, courtesy of my ex, to assume they were lying. That this was some attempt to manipulate me. Instead, I allowed pure delight to show on my face and watched them brighten in response.
“That might be the best compliment I’ve ever received,” I said.
“You know how I feel about being here, telling your story. It’s an honor.
And you…inspire me. It feels a bit like a feedback loop, if I’m being honest. That passion you have feeds mine and then I sit down to write and just…
” I held out my hands, palms up. “It’s like a faucet I can’t shut off. ”
“Do you wanna shut it off?” Sawyer asked.
I shook my head, aware of the intensity in his gaze. “No. Never.”