Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Nate
“You don’t have to swing hard to hit a home run. If you got the timing, it’ll go.”
Yogi Berra
“Oh, is this yours?” she asked, her lips curving up on the sides. “My mistake. I was searching for someone else.”
“What are you doing, Cassidy?” I sighed, scrubbing a hand over my face as irritation and annoyance twisted down my spine. I fucking blew the game.
Everyone kept saying I was brilliant through six, but no one seemed to care that brilliant still lost the game.
I didn’t want to be comforted. I didn’t want pity. I didn’t want her looking at me like I was still the man who kissed her breathless two nights ago—because that guy was riding a high. She was the last person I wanted to see.
I was a fucking mess.
My body ached like I’d been put through a damn car wash—shoulders stiff, lower back throbbing from one bad landing on the mound.
But it was my head that hurt the most. I couldn’t stop replaying the pitch.
The angle. The placement. The sound of the bat making perfect contact, and the way the stadium died in that moment.
It was a perfect game, and then it wasn’t.
It was supposed to be everything I needed, and instead it became one more reason for the front office to look for someone younger, faster, better.
I wasn’t in the mood for Cassidy Calloway’s teasing smile. “I don’t have time for your games tonight.”
“Games?” She frowned, yet made no moves to get off my truck. She had to have hoisted herself to get up that high. I instantly searched her legs for any bruises or cuts. Just the scraps from the softball game—the game where we kissed in the closet like we were in high school.
Hell, I felt like I was young and out of control with how much I’d thought about her mouth and the way she tasted, the sounds she made. All of it replayed in my mind, every hour, which was another reason I didn’t need to see her. I needed distance.
“Yes, your games, Calloway. Your teasing and flirting and endless charm. I’m not in the mood for fake sympathy.”
She recoiled, and I hated myself for it.
My personal form of self-destruction often meant pushing and shoving people away from me, not physically, but with words.
I didn’t want comfort. If I blew a game, I wanted to feel the pain and wallow it in to make me better the next time.
I sure as shit didn’t want pity from her, and whatever was in her eyes was close to just that.
“You think I’m fake.” She chewed her lips, a little of her confidence slipping away. It wasn’t obvious, but I was so in tune with her I noted the slight dip of her shoulder and the flexing of her jaw.
Fuck. I pinched the bridge of my nose, wishing she hadn’t been waiting for me despite the fact my heart jumped in my throat. I was an ass when I was pissed and she didn’t deserve it. “Look—”
“Well I think you’re fake.” She slid off the truck and I stepped toward her, hoping to catch her but she swatted my hand away. “How do you like that, huh?”
“Wait, what’s happening?”
“How dare you call me fake, saying I’d give you fake sympathy? I get that you’re grumpy and pissed because yeah, you had a hell of a game but one stupid pitch caused a loss. That’s just bad luck. I’m here for whatever you need, okay? But I draw the line at insulting me. So what’s it gonna be?”
She spoke so fast, so passionately, my brain took a minute to catch up.
She wore my jersey again with cut off shorts that showcased her sexy ass legs.
Her eyes flashed with emotion and I hadn’t ever seen anything so beautiful.
Her hair was wild, like she ran her hands through it a thousand times watching me play.
Hell, she came to the game because I asked her to. I wanted to kiss her, again.
This wasn’t for PR. She didn’t need to be here, yet she was and I handled it like a dumbass. No one spoke to me like she did and while it jarred me, I craved more of it. “I’m shit at losing.”
“Who isn’t? Name one person who enjoys losing, Nate.
Do you not think I know how it feels to hit a new milestone or break personal records?
Do you not think I know about ambition and setbacks?
I have plenty of ambition, thank you very much.
” She crossed her arms and tapped her foot.
She wore an ankle bracelet and I had a million questions.
Was it from her ex, or her dad? Did it mean something to her?
Was there a number dangling on it? Who’s was it?
“Are you even listening to me? Ugh, this was a bad, bad idea. Just wanted to be there for you. I figured … I don’t know, we could’ve done something to ease your mind. Clearly, this was a mistake.” She shook her head and walked away, showing me her back. “Have a good road trip.”
No.
I caught up to her and reached out, gently brushing my thumb against her wrist where her pulse fluttered, and whispered, “Don’t go. Please, stay.”
She halted.
She spun around, eyes distrusting as she stared at our connected hands. “You’ve seen me at my lowest of lows, Nate. I can handle a lot, but if you don’t even trust that I have good intentions, then what is the fucking point?” She yanked her hand out of mine and marched off.
God, she was right.
Fuck.
“Wait.” I jogged to catch up with her.
“I never had someone show up for me like this,” I said, my voice thick “It surprised me, then I realized how disappointed I’d be if you weren’t here. That fucked me up so I pushed.”
She nodded, released our hands and pointed to my truck. “You want me to stay? Then act like it. Now unlock your doors.”
Well shit.
How did this tiny, feisty younger woman always seem to get the best of me?
Her words landed and the message was received.
I did want her to stay and I was a fucking grown ass man, I had to act like it.
I tossed my bag into the back of my truck and hopped into the front, not quite sure what to expect.
She wasn’t smiling, yet she didn’t seem angry, either.
I liked being able to read every emotion across her face, yet she had her walls up again. “Hey,” I said softly, waiting for her to stare at me. When she did, one brow was arched as she nervously rubbed her lips together. “You’re not fake.”
“Guess it depends on who you ask.”
“I’m not asking someone else. I was an asshole, and I didn’t mean it. I wanted to fucking wallow and didn’t want you seeing me like that.”
“I mean, a good wallow is okay. I know how to wallow. Are we talking full on crying in the shower or more broody and replaying the moment until you pass out?”
I almost smiled as I pulled out of my spot, suddenly unsure where to go.
I didn’t want to drive her home, that I knew.
We left town tomorrow and somehow, I hadn’t thought about not seeing her for ten days.
A part of me wanted the space after that kiss, yet now that she was here, the thought of saying goodbye to her caused an ache I hadn’t felt in … years. “No crying in the shower.”
“It’s okay if you need to. Everyone has feelings, big guy. Let them out.”
I snorted.
“Ah, got ya! Point to me.” She made a dramatic act of pulling out a post it note from her small clear purse and writing out her name with one line underneath. “Don’t mind me, I’m keeping score how many times I can get you to laugh or smile tonight.”
“I didn’t do either though.”
“Okay, snorting counts.” She flashed me a wicked grin. “What is your to-go pout, live in the suck thing to do after a loss?”
“Go home. Have a beer. Watch the game. Hate myself. The typical cycle.”
“Ah, yes, sounds super healthy.” She scrunched her nose and glanced over at me, her lips curving again.
I had no idea how her lips were still so red. I just knew if I didn’t stop looking at her, I might crash the damn truck. “Did you have a plan when you waited for me, or did you just wanna bust my balls?”
She sucked in a breath. “I always wanna bust your balls, O’Brien, never forget that for one second.”
“No way I could,” I mumbled.
Cassidy shifted in her seat, tucking one leg under her and turning to face me completely, like she was about to pitch me a business deal.
Her ponytail swayed as she got that look—the one that usually meant chaos was coming.
“Okay,” she said, voice bright but eyes still watching me carefully.
“We sneak back into the stadium, go full gremlin mode, and scream into the dugout. Like, full cathartic rage purge. Or,” she held up a finger, “we film a TikTok roasting you. Title it: ‘Hot pitcher gives up one run and spirals—someone send help (and snacks).’ Very vulnerable. Very trending.” She didn’t even pause before barreling into the next one.
“Or—and this is a personal favorite—we make a hate-watch list of every baseball movie ever made and argue about which one deserves to be thrown into a dumpster fire. Spoiler alert: Kevin Costner is going on my banned list.” She smiled, wide and wicked, like she knew she was starting to break through.
“Or,” she said, reaching over to tap my arm, “I do a GRWM pretending to be you. Hat backwards, permanent scowl, voice-over like ‘I don’t need feelings. I have a fastball.’” That almost got me.
My lips twitched before I could stop them.
“Or—last one—I swear—we go to my place, cook something truly sad, like breakup pasta, and I film us like we’re two broken exes healing through carbs.
You chop onions, I cry for the algorithm.
Everyone wins.” She leaned back, crossing her arms with a satisfied sigh.
“Pick your poison, O’Brien. Or I’m picking for you. And I’m choosing the one with carbs.”
And just like that, I laughed.
It snuck out before I could stop it—low and rough, scraping through my chest like it hadn’t been used in days. She looked so proud of herself.
No one had ever tried this hard to pull me out of my own head. No one had ever stayed after a loss just to make me laugh and I’d never even wanted to let them.
“Okay, I’m counting that as two points because it was a big one,” she said.