Chapter 18
Alex
I’m going mad, and Tenny is the one driving the crazy train.
It started with him being a perfect gentleman during our planned movie night with Mags.
He brought popcorn, candy, and an obscenely large—and delicious—fountain Dr. Pepper for me.
He and Mags laughed and swooned over the movie on one queen bed, while I had nobody but Carly to keep me warm on the other.
After the mind-blowing kiss that rearranged my cellular structure, I’d expected Tenny to demand a fake kiss since Mags was there. But all I received was a chaste forehead kiss after a lingering hug. I’m pretty sure that Mags’s goodbye hug was longer than mine.
Not that I’m salty about it or anything.
Then I really thought I was losing my mind because everything went back to the way it was before Mags showed up—almost as if our incredible date had never happened. Tenny would tap my knuckles before games, cheekily wink at me in interviews, and then crush the heck out of each game he played.
For several days, we only interacted professionally.
I thought that was what I wanted. I had set the boundary, after all.
But I found myself feeling hollow without his exuberance brightening my day.
Then the texts started, and my relief was palpable.
It was like taking a deep breath after being submerged too long.
Since this is Tenny we’re talking about, he didn’t send Good morning texts. Instead, I’d get the most random messages at odd hours.
If you were a bell pepper, what color would you be?
The moon looks ridiculously bright tonight.
Chimichurri sauce is amazing. I’ve put it on everything from eggs to pasta, and it’s never steered me wrong.
Who do you think would win in a fight: a gorilla or ten wolves?
I just saw someone confidently push a pull door.
Each of his apropos-of-nothing messages would spur text conversations that would span hours. He’d occasionally delight me by sending sporadic capybara videos from various zoos. After discovering his favorite animal is a red panda, I scoured the internet for the cutest videos to pass along.
After a week, little inconspicuous gifts started showing up.
A Waves blue rope bracelet, just like the ones I used to wear, tucked beneath my windshield wiper.
A brand-new Moleskine notebook when I’d been down to my last page.
Nothing as grand as Carly—who makes the best backrest while organizing notes and recording voice-overs on my bed—or the chairs in the press box.
I attempted, on several occasions, to get him to confess to buying those, but Tenny insists he had nothing to do with the luxurious clouds-on-casters.
I’d nearly cornered him in the stadium to have a mature adult conversation about what the heck we were doing, but then it was a whirlwind of finishing out exhibition games, packing up the temporary home I’d made in my extended-stay hotel, and moving into the apartment I’d rented, sight unseen, before rushing to spring training.
As promised, Tenny escorted Carly across the country, but Friedrich was the one to pick her up and drop her off. It was only then that I realized that we haven’t been alone together since I flattened him to the side of his truck in a darkened parking lot.
Now, I’m sleeping in a cramped apartment filled with unopened boxes that has questionable water pressure and a pervasive oil smell emanating from the kitchen. My trusted zoned-support mattress is on the floor. And I’ve consumed more containers of ramen than I’m comfortable admitting to.
To sum up, my living situation isn’t ideal, my work-life balance is abysmal, and to top it all off, the second I walk into the clubhouse after the third game of the Waves’ opening series, Tenny is shirtless.
Again.
Every time I enter the clubhouse, he’s in some state of undress—like a tempting Adonis.
My feet beeline for him. “Why are you always half-dressed?”
“I just played a whole game fully clothed.”
My pinched glare only makes Tenny’s dimple pop.
“But you were shirtless before the game too,” I hiss, keeping my voice down because Daphne will be here any minute.
“You noticed that, huh?”
The impulse to growl is so strong I wonder if I’ll finally have that mental breakdown—right here, right now.
Tenny drops the macho act, his expression softening. “The little guy nearly broke my heart when he fought back tears.”
Daphne and I had been outside earlier—her filming b-roll, me making notes—when the Waves had a signing event.
Trevor Chapman, Kai Sato, and Tenny were slotted to give fans twenty minutes of their time before they all reported to batting practice.
Liv, the team’s social media manager, was also there.
Liv caught the moment when an excitable nine-year-old couldn’t contain his bouncy energy after receiving a baseball signed by all three players.
His mom listened to his happy chatter while she mixed a bottle of formula for his baby sister over the stroller’s handlebars.
The boy jumped and accidentally bonked his mom’s elbow, upending the bottle all over his baby sister.
Without even hesitating, he picked up his nearly one-year-old sister, apologizing while helping his mom clean up the stroller. When his mom stripped the soaked dress off his sister, the boy took off his Waves jersey and pushed it over her damp curls.
“There you go, sissy,” he said, giving his sister a kiss on the cheek before turning to his mom with watery eyes. “Does this mean we have to go home?”
A soft smile curved her face. “No, bud. But we need to find you a new shirt.”
That’s when Tenny, who’d been keeping one eye on the pair while signing another fan’s hat, fisted the back of his jersey and pulled it off in one smooth motion.
“Why don’t you have mine?”
Liv’s video of Tenny whipping his jersey off went viral before the game even started.
“It was a sweet moment,” I tell Tenny.
“Sweet…or hot?” He tilts his head to the side. “Or both? I’ve been told I contain multitudes.”
I scoff, shaking my head as Daphne arrives at my side.
Tenny tones down his flirty banter while we conduct a short post-game interview before I successfully corner Shane Seaver. Finally. My producer has been breathing down my neck about getting a sound bite.
“You were two for four, with a double before your home run, four RBIs, and that outfield assist at the plate. Heck of a game. Would you say you’re feeling comfortable on Waves turf?”
“It’s a field. Just like any other.” Shane stares off at a spot in the distance, his ever-present scowl on his face.
I force my smile to remain in place. “That throw to the plate in the seventh saved a run. Walk me through that play.”
“Ball came to me. Guy tried for home. I threw it.”
“And that home run in the sixth—did you know it was gone off the bat?”
“Yep.”
Geez Louise. Talking to him is like squeezing blood from a stone.
I try one last time. “Four RBIs tonight. Big contribution for the offense.”
Shane shrugs. “That’s my job.”
“Anything you’d like to say to the Waves fans after a performance like that?” I ask with an unflappably positive expression.
“Night.” With that, he strides away.
I wait five seconds until the tiny red light blinks off then sag with a frustrated exhale. Daphne gives me a commiserating frown from behind her viewfinder.
“Let’s see if we can talk to Colton. He had two outfield assists.”
Daphne wordlessly follows me as we head in his direction.
We finish out our night, not crossing paths with Tenny again.
I’m forced to reckon with the disappointment I feel when I don’t receive a random text message about bridge mechanics or peat moss.
This man is taking up an inconvenient amount of space in my brain while trying to burn out my retinas with his defined pecs every chance he gets.
It’s possible—okay, definitely accurate—that I tend to be overprotective of my body.
I’m realizing that that cautiousness has translated to my heart too.
My dedication to my career has acted as a shield for relationships.
After all, it’s the perfect excuse. Six nights a week, I’m at the ballpark.
I travel with the team. My work hours are bonkers.
Dating someone outside of baseball would be a challenge.
The thing is…Tenny is busy during those exact hours in the same place.
It could work logistically.
The chemistry between us is off the charts, so I just need to decide if I’m brave enough to take a chance.
Once I successfully wrangle open the janky lock to my apartment, all I want is to face plant onto my mattress. How I end up in my kitchen, nursing a glass of water while rewatching Liv’s video, is honestly a mystery.
Fine. It’s no mystery.
I’m undeniably attracted to a certain golden-retriever first baseman.
That and I remember what happened after the video—how Tenny was incredibly sweet with the boy, squatting so they were face to face and chatting with him long after he was supposed to report to batting practice.
A soft grin lifts my lips at the memory of Tenny ruffling the boy’s hair as he stood and how the child surged forward to squeeze the life out of him.
Toggling off the team’s social media page, I aimlessly scroll for a few seconds.
Then, Arizona’s newest video pops in my feed.
Cinematic music plays in the background as she walks into Tenny’s very tidy room and then fully swoons.
The text over the video reads, “When your brother finally meets a girl he’s crazy about and cleans up his act.
” The scene repeats itself as she pretends to faint in his home gym, the laundry room, and the kitchen—all of which are impeccably clean.
I’ll give it to Arizona, she really commits to a bit.
That last fall on the kitchen floor looked like it hurt.
I end up watching the video twice, not only because Arizona’s editing skills are impressive, but I can’t stop smiling at her on-screen text.
Did Tenny really start keeping his house clean because I commented on his messy ways?
And why does that thought make me unreasonably happy?
My cheeks hurt from my stupid, giddy grin.
I watch the video one more time before scrolling to read Arizona’s caption. My stomach lurches as I set the glass down on the counter before I accidentally drop it.
“I’ve never seen the house this clean, and I’ve got Rory to thank! Can’t wait to meet you, girl. In the meantime, thanks for the clean house! Bonus, it no longer smells like feet and bad decisions.”
I blink, rereading the short caption as a sickening sensation tightens my throat.
Betrayal and anger corkscrew down my spine as my brain struggles to keep up.
I’d thought Tenny was being respectful of my desire to focus on my career.
He’d asked to let him know when I was ready for another date, and in the meantime, we’d been publicly bantering while privately getting to know each other via text.
He said he’d wait, didn’t he?
Apparently not.
Apparently, he couldn’t wait to get his lips on this…this Rory.
I can’t believe I fell for his bad-first-dates act. It’s so obvious that he’s as skilled a player off the field as he is on it. If Tenny was able to keep our date out of the limelight, he’s probably been with double—maybe triple—the number of women he’s been photographed with.
My palm hits my forehead. “I’m so stupid.”
Almost instantly, I mentally correct myself.
No. He’s stupid for thinking he could manipulate you.
With a quick swipe of my thumb, I find Tenny’s social media account and block it.
I only hesitate a second before blocking his phone number and deleting our text history.
Thank goodness we have tomorrow off before the away games in Atlanta.
Knowing I might have to interact with him on Monday makes me want to dry heave, but I remind myself that there are other Waves players I can interview.
When my phone rings in my unyielding vise grip, I jump. Seeing it’s my producer and not the man I very much want to strangle, I take a settling breath and answer.
“Hello, Cecil.”
“I’m bored to tears watching your interview with Shane,” he says in his fake English accent.
I’m not supposed to know it’s fake or that his real name is Kirk Kirklack, not Cecil Sinclair, and that he’s from Nowheresville, America instead of Belgravia.
But Amelia is scarily accurate when it comes to digging up dirt in public records.
I probably should have had my sister use her research skills on Tenny.
That might have saved me from feeling like I was about to lose my dinner into the kitchen sink.
“All the two of you talk about is baseball. It’s incredibly droll.”
I bite my tongue to keep from reminding him—yet again—that our job is to report on baseball. Talking about it is pretty essential.
He sighs dramatically. “What I wouldn’t give for a secret baby or a good, old-fashioned menty-b.
No one falls apart like they used to.” He sucks a pensive breath through his teeth.
“Maybe you can push the grump angle with Shane? Antagonize him a bit? Really get in there and dig your nails into him. If we’re lucky, he’ll take a swing at you. ”
My mouth opens, but no sound escapes.
That is wrong on so…many…levels.
“Oh, what’s this?”
In the background, I hear my voice asking about Tenny’s personal roster.
Cecil chuckles. “Alex, love. This is gold. Why didn’t you show me this earlier?”
My brows pinch, trying to figure out how Cecil is watching my first interview with Tenny when Daphne said she deleted it. Then I remember that we recorded those sessions plugged in—everything would have been uploaded to the servers immediately as opposed to stored on her camera.
“This is what I’ve been looking for.”
The frustration coursing through my veins inhibits my ability to make a rational decision. Instead, I lean into the hurt making my chest ache and say, “Then run it.”