Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Cassidy
“Slump? I ain’t in no slump. I just ain’t hitting.”
Yogi Berra
The second we pulled into his complex, nerves exploded in my stomach.
I might’ve been all flirty and teasing to distract him, but inside I was giddy and foolish.
It was wild how much relief I felt, that he took my confession that I had no idea what I wanted too calmly.
I usually projected what I think others want, but I spoke my truth and he accepted it.
I wanted to kiss the hell out of this man, even with all his grump exterior.
But he was taking me to his house? I was going to be in Nate O’Brien’s house. His home. The place where he slept.
Naked?
Stop it. Now was not the time to give into the growing, thick attraction I had for him.
Even his I don’t do well with wanting something I can’t have comment had me questioning every feeling I had for him.
God, when did this happen? Why was my heart skipping beats?
I’d never had this sort of nerves with Mathias before.
He was always calm, predictable. Dare I say even a little boring.
Nate was the opposite.
He glanced over at me as he turned off the engine. “You good over there? Awful quiet for someone who often speaks their mind.”
“Peachy,” I said, unclipping my seatbelt with more sass than grace. “Just mentally preparing to enter the The Cave of Grumpiness.”
He snorted. “That’s what we’re calling it?”
“I also toyed with the Lair of Brooding or The O’Brien Gloomplex.”
He stared at me a beat, something like amusement crossing over his handsome face before he climbed out, grabbed his duffel, and gestured for me to follow him.
I did, because despite the teasing, my heart was beating way too fast. I was about to see Nate’s space—not the field, not the dugout, not the broody public version. His actual home.
The elevator ride was silent but warm. Tense.
Every time he shifted his weight, I caught myself sneaking a look at him.
His forearms. His jaw. The little wrinkle at the corner of his eye from years of squinting into the sun.
He was hot, no way around it. Being in this tiny elevator was a mistake.
The not wanting to kiss him again was biting me in the ass because honestly it was a great idea.
Oh, expect for my still healing heart.
I hated when my conscious spoke up.
When we reached his floor, he unlocked the door, pushed it open, and said, “It’s not super fancy. I moved in two years ago and barely unpacked.”
His place was clean. Organized. Minimal, but not in the soulless, sterile way. In the I-don’t-bring-people-here-often-so-this-is-just-for-me way. It smelled like cedar and laundry detergent and something warm and earthy that made me want to sit cross-legged on the floor and stay forever.
The walls were painted a soft gray, and the furniture was dark wood and navy, all clean lines and comfortable fabrics.
His couch looked like it had seen more naps than conversations, and there was a navy throw blanket folded with surgical precision over the backrest. There were no plants, obviously—Nate didn’t give plant dad energy—but there were baseball things. Oh, so many baseball things.
On one wall, he had floating shelves with a baseball card collection so pristine I was almost scared to breathe on it.
Each card in a little clear case, each one perfectly spaced.
I recognized a few names: Pedro Martinez.
Randy Johnson. Greg Maddux. There were even some vintage Nolan Ryan cards, and my dad would’ve passed out if he saw them.
“Holy shit,” I whispered, stepping closer. “Do you dust these with a tiny toothbrush or…?”
He came up behind me, arms crossed. “They’re in order. Don’t touch anything.”
“Your dad always talked to me about Satchel Paige,” he said, his voice quieter now, less teasing. “Not just to me, really. To anyone who’d listen. But he always said I reminded him of the way Satchel carried himself—quiet but relentless. He said I pitched like I had ghosts on my heels.”
I blinked, that ache in my chest blooming wide. “My dad never told me that.”
Nate glanced at the framed art again, jaw flexing slightly.
“I remember one night … after a brutal loss, I stayed late. Just sat in the bullpen staring at the dirt avoiding leaving. Your dad was locking up outside the clubhouse and saw me sitting there. Didn’t say anything at first. Just walked over, handed me a water bottle, and said, ‘That’s what makes you good, O’Brien.
You care enough to sit in it. But don’t drown in it. Go home. Tomorrow’s waiting.’”
I couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. My hand stretched out, needing the connection, the touch. Nate noticed and took it, his large palm closing over mine as his voice softened even more.
“He always made time for us,” Nate added.
“Even when no one was looking. That was the kind of man he was. And … I never forgot that. He saw us as humans, not a product. When I heard he passed, I was devastated as someone who only knew him a short amount of time. I can’t even imagine what it was like for you. ”
My lip trembled as I held onto his memory. That sounded like my dad so damn much. If I squeezed my eyes shut, I could almost smell his cologne and feel his arms wrapped around me in a bear hug. I couldn’t quite speak, but Nate just smiled and guided me further down the hall.
“Let’s finish the tour, okay?”
I nodded, thankful for having a moment to collect myself. I didn’t expect that—for his story of my dad to comfort me. I was here to comfort him.
There were a few more framed pieces—some signed jerseys, a couple of black-and-white action shots, one oversized canvas that I suspected he’d spent real money on.
There was a signed Koufax jersey framed over his TV.
In the corner, a leather glove that looked older than me sat on a shelf like it was sacred.
“Was that the story you tried to bribe me with?”
“Bribe you?”
“Yeah,” I cleared my throat, finding myself again as I eyed the collector’s items. “The day I almost bought Pavin’s jersey. You promised me a story about my dad.”
“You bought mine,” he said with a smirk. “You made the right choice that day.”
The way he studied me, his gaze moving up and down my body had me sucking in a breath. There was no possible way to misinterpret the heat in his gaze. “I beg to differ. I think I would’ve had more fun wearing his jersey.”
“You are trouble.” Nate laughed, all the tension from earlier evaporating off his shoulders. “God. You are … have you always been a pain in the ass or is this reserved just for me?”
I just smirked.
“Are you comfortable? If we’re watching movies, I can let you borrow a sweatshirt or something.”
“Sure, yeah, I’d love one.”
Alert. Alert.
Wearing his sweatshirt will only create more obsession with him. I knew I shouldn’t do it, but when he returned a moment later with a large gray hoodie, I had no choice but to slip it on and sigh into it. “Oh my god, this is the best thing I’ve touched in months.”
“Do you need a moment alone with it?”
“Oh, the things I could do alone in this.” I shuddered with as much dramatic flair I could.
He coughed, earning a huge grin from me. “Cat got your tongue, big guy?”
He blinked and then stood, pacing a few feet from me. “Do you need anything to drink or a snack? I can make you popcorn or grab something. Or I could order something.”
“Nate?” I asked, finding myself so adorably charmed. “Sit down and stop being nervous.”
“I’m not—”
“It’s okay, it happens to all of us.”
“I’m not nervous.”
“It’s clear you are.” I patted the cushion next to me. “Come over here and relax. I need you to put on some old people baseball movies.”
“Old people? Cassidy. Cassidy.” He plopped down, the movement causing me to tip just slightly into his side. Without missing a beat, he slung one arm along the back of the couch. Not quite touching me, but close enough that my skin buzzed with awareness.
I didn’t lean in. Not yet. But God, I wanted to.
I wanted to just let someone else take care of me, hold me, keep me safe.
Nate gave me that sense of safety and it was a worrying and addicting feeling, one I wasn’t ready for at all.
So I ignored the butterflies and slight goosebumps exploding down my spine all from his fingers being an inch away from me.
He reached for the remote and started the movie.
The film started with that familiar old-school baseball charm—grainy footage, soft narration, and the kind of hopeful music that sounded like childhood. Nate had picked The Sandlot, and it hit me like a sucker punch.
My dad used to quote it constantly. “You’re killing me, Smalls.” “Legends never die.” I couldn’t even count how many summer nights we sat on our crappy futon eating microwave popcorn and watching that movie with the windows open and the air thick with bug spray.
I smiled. Then blinked a little too fast. Then smiled again.
Nate must’ve sensed the shift in my energy because he turned his head slightly, voice low. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I said, barely above a whisper. “He used to say this movie was sacred and quotes it so many times, it was annoying. This was the first obsession before quoting Yogi.”
“It is a sacred movie though. He wasn’t wrong there.”
I nodded, throat tight, and focused on the screen again.
We stayed quiet for a while. Laughed at the same lines.
Quoted a few together without meaning to.
I felt myself relaxing into the couch, into the warmth of the blanket, into him.
His arm hadn’t moved. Still resting just behind me, close but respectful.
I couldn’t tell if I wanted him to stay that way or pull me fully into him.
It was clear he wouldn’t make a move and I wasn’t sure if I loved or hated him for it.