Chapter 11 Trevor
Trevor
My old fantasy had been of Kenzie finally seeing me as more than her roommate before tilting her face up for a kiss.
My new fantasy is Kenzie pushing into my space, calling me smart, and explaining baseball to me.
Man alive, that was the sexiest thing I’ve ever experienced.
I know women hate when men explain things, but she can Kenzie-splain my own sport to me all day, every day.
I try to be subtle about sneaking glances at her as we continue down the beach.
Fortunately, Kenzie is closest to the water so I can always shift my gaze over the horizon if she looks my way.
We walk for a long while with nothing but the crashing waves to keep us company until I can’t ignore how she’s wrapped herself so tightly.
The day feels nice to me, but Kenzie has considerably less body mass and looks to be shivering.
“Do you want my hoodie?”
“What?” Her gaze stalls on the corner of my jaw before snapping back to the sand in front of us.
“You’re hugging yourself like you’re cold.”
“Oh, no. I’m fine.”
When a full-body shudder wracks her small frame, I tug on her wrist, pulling her to a stop while extending my hoodie.
“Take it.” I gesture to her forearm. “You’ve got goosebumps.”
Kenzie doesn’t say anything but accepts the hoodie, tugging it over her auburn waves. I punch my hands into the pockets of my jeans to keep myself from straightening out the hood when it gets bunched by her ear.
“Thanks,” she murmurs, adjusting the fabric herself.
I try not to feel overwhelmed by the sight of Kenzie wearing something of mine.
I try—I really do—not to relish the way my hoodie hits her mid-thigh or how her slender fingers barely peek from the cuffs, but it’s so freaking adorable.
My heart pounds in direct defiance of my mental command to calm the heck down.
“No problem,” I manage, continuing toward the tall, chain-link fence separating Wilks Beach from the nature preserve.
Once we hit that, we can head back into town, past the library on the way to the fire station where Noah’s truck is parked. Maybe in that time, I can regain my sanity.
Kenzie’s flat expression drops once she sees the historic library, adding commentary as we pass the small market, tailor shop, and coffee shop.
“I’m going to grab a hot chocolate. Do you want anything?” she asks, her eyes back to their usual brightness.
“I’m good. Thanks,” I tell her. “Why don’t I get the truck while you order. I’ll pick you up here.”
The bustling coffee shop swallows her whole as I jog across the street.
Turning down the EDM blasting through Noah’s speakers, I repark the truck in one of the spots in front of Seabreeze Beans.
Through the glass windows, Kenzie shifts her to-go cup into one hand to use the other to gesture at the chess board between two elderly men.
They each look up at her like she carries starlight in her pockets.
“I know the feeling, fellas.”
One of the men says something that makes Kenzie throw her head back with laughter, and I can’t help the wistful sigh escaping my mouth. Then she turns her attention toward the front of the store, and I quickly school my features.
“Get it together,” I say through gritted teeth.
As Kenzie gets into the truck cab, I shift the clasp of my necklace to the base of my neck just to give my fingers something to do.
The plan had been to drive straight back to my house and then thump my forehead on the steering wheel all the way back to Wilks Beach. I clearly need a bit of distance from Kenzie to keep my wayward thoughts in check. What comes out of my mouth, however, is entirely reckless.
“We could stop by the lighthouse at the southern end of Virginia Beach on the way back if you’d like. Knock two things out in one day.”
It’s unfair because I know how much Kenzie loves crossing things off the lists she makes.
There’s a house chore list hanging in the pantry, complete with a multitude of stickers.
I’ve seen her take up to a minute deciding which sticker to set beside laundry, change sheets, or meal prep.
It has no right being as endearing as it is.
Kenzie uses both hands to take a slow sip of her hot chocolate, thinking. Meanwhile, the blood in my ears roars louder than the Waves Stadium at peak capacity.
“Sure.”
Was there a tremble in her voice?
Kenzie coughs into her hand, most of which is covered by my hoodie cuff. “That would be nice. Thank you, Trevor.”
I can’t help but notice her formal, almost detached tone. My chest stings, but it’s the reminder I needed to stay on track.
We’re roommates.
That’s it.
Kenzie slumps in her seat with a sigh as we enter the miles of farmland that separate Wilks Beach from Virginia Beach.
Tiny shoots form neat lines on either side of the winding two-lane road.
Birds flit over the fields between the far-flung farmhouses and the occasional roadside stand, still closed from winter.
“Missing home?”
“A little,” she admits.
Her fingertips press against the passenger window before she sits up sharply, using the hoodie sleeve to clean the glass.
I chuckle. “I don’t think you need to worry about fingerprints on the window. It doesn’t look like Noah has ever washed this truck.”
Kenzie isn’t aware that I tossed the balled-up napkins, empty water bottles, and discarded fast food bags in the fire station trash can before driving to Seabreeze Beans.
Even now, a pervasive stale-fry scent lingers in the air.
I’d crack a window, but Kenzie finally looks comfortable, snuggled up while sipping her hot chocolate.
We fall back into comfortable silence, the murmur of the tires on the curvy road droning in the background.
“What’s with the sevens?” Kenzie asks, tucking a leg beneath her as she rotates to face me in her seat.
“What sevens?” I hedge.
“The boat name—Number Seven. Your necklace.”
My hand tucks the gold number seven pendant back into my shirt.
It’s not unusual for baseball players to wear necklaces, often outlandish ones.
Our first baseman, Tennessee Jackson—or Tenny as everyone calls him, wears a tennis necklace with sapphires and aquamarine stones, matching our blue-on-blue jerseys.
Not to be outdone, DJ Rivera wears both a sapphire and a diamond one with his gold chains.
As far as baseball drip goes, mine is tame.
The answer I give sports reporters—that it was my little league jersey number and that I like to remember where I came from—usually earns me a fond, approving smile.
It’s also completely true. I played on several different teams as number seven until I got onto school teams in middle and high school.
Then it was whatever multi-use jersey the coach tossed in my direction at the beginning of the season.
Even when I signed with the Waves, I chose from what was left over—number eighteen.
“It’s not because I’m good at math, if that’s the answer you’re hoping for,” I say with a chuckle.
“No.” She digs a discarded straw from the seat crack and flicks it at me, using the tone she gives Banks when he tries to chew on an electrical cord. “Stop doing that. No more self-effacing jokes at your own expense.”
“Did you just…” I pause, wracking my brain for the word Kenzie would use in this situation. “Did you just fling detritus at me?”
I’m pretty sure I mispronounced detritus, but when I glance right, it doesn’t matter.
The beaming smile on Kenzie’s face nearly knocks the wind out of me.
My gaze traces the sparkle in her eyes to the soft pink of her cheeks until the lane departure alert sounds.
We lurch to the left as I right the truck, causing Kenzie to press a palm over her stomach.
“Sorry,” I tell her. “I’ll slow down.”
Pushing up her sleeves, Kenzie faces straight ahead and takes several deep breaths.
“Need me to pull over?”
Kenzie shakes her head, not looking at me.
After a few rounds of breathing, she says, “Sevens.”
A noisy exhale leaves my nose. Apparently, we’re not letting this go.
“It was my jersey number as a kid.” I let that answer hover in the air for a few beats before telling Kenzie the part reporters don’t know. “My friend’s mom gave me this necklace.”
A gnawing pit churns in my stomach like it always does when I examine this part of my life too closely.
“My parents had very busy careers, and travel baseball is a lot, even when you’re playing 9U.
For years, Trish, my friend Jacob’s mom, drove me to and from practices and games.
After traveling to Cooperstown—which is this big 12U tournament—she bought Jacob and me necklaces with our numbers on them. ”
The gut-wrenching fact is that my parents could’ve easily afforded the gold necklace I haven’t taken off since Trish gave it to me with tears in her eyes, telling me how proud she was.
“They moved the next winter.” My palm presses over my heart, feeling the shape of the pendant beneath my shirt. “Jacob gave up baseball in high school, but we still keep in touch, and Trish sends me a Christmas card every year.”
“Your parents didn’t go to your games?”
Kenzie’s question is so soft I don’t dare look over.
“They’re doctors—surgeons, actually—so they were saving lives.
And my three older sisters followed suit.
Christina is an orthopedic surgeon like Dad.
Nicole followed Mom by specializing in brain surgery.
And Allison is still technically a surgeon since she’s an OB and delivers babies via C-section. ”
I leave out that Allison caught heat for not going into a more rigorous surgical specialty. By that point, they’d written me off as the family dummy, so they weren’t even fazed that I left college when I got drafted. They also have no idea that I took classes remotely over the years and graduated.
Growing up, I struggled to keep up with my sisters’ academic prowess, seeing tutors and working with specialists.
The only thing that came naturally to me was baseball.
At home, shame stuck to me like a second skin because I couldn’t keep up mentally.
On the weekends, I’d blow my coaches away.
I was consistently hitting home runs over the fence by nine and had my first grand slam at ten.
When I had a bat in my hand or my knees in the dirt, everything made sense to me.
Kenzie gets that wrinkle between her brows like she’s calculating something. “Have they been to a Waves game?”
My skin starts to itch, my neck flaring hot. “Like I said, they’re busy.”
“Are you telling me”—Kenzie rotates in her seat, but I keep my eyes straight ahead—“that no one in your family has ever been to one of your games, pro or otherwise?”
I focus on the sensation of the steering wheel beneath my hands, on the hum of the engine, as I draw in a slow breath.
It’s kind of ridiculous for someone who gets paid millions of dollars to play at the highest level of baseball to still feel inadequate.
But it’s like there’s this corner of my heart missing, because deep down, I’ve never been enough.
Knowing that Trish believed in me, that she’s still proud of me, helps that dark spot feel less soul-crushing.
That’s why I’ve never taken off the necklace.
A forced laugh comes out of my dry throat. “I’m sure they attended a game sometime.”
It’s a lie, but the truth makes my skin feel scrubbed raw.
“Like I said, there are a lot of games in baseball. It’s impossible to watch them all.”
I can feel Kenzie’s gaze on the side of my face, but I can’t look at her.
Not now.
A brown sign in the distance saves me from spiraling. “Oh, look. It’s the turn-off for the lighthouse. Why is seeing a lighthouse on your list anyway?”