Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Jack
My name echoes through the lobby of my condo building just as I’m about to push through the door to go outside, and I turn to see Dozer, one of my teammates, hurrying from the direction of the elevator.
“Hey!” he says, getting closer, a wide smile stretching across his face. “How are you, man? Haven’t seen you in a while!”
I clasp his outstretched hand, and we both pull in, bumping our shoulders together before separating. His girlfriend Marissa steps up behind him, her long dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. She offers a little wave.
Smiling, I nod at Marissa. “How are you two? Did you enjoy your vacation?”
“Oh, man,” Dozer crows, “it was amazing. We went down to Cannon Beach and stayed in a hotel right on the water. The weather was perfect, and the views were gorgeous.” He reaches behind him, pulling Marissa forward and draping an arm around her. “We had the best time.”
“I’m a little surprised you didn’t go with Abernathy again. Didn’t he go back to that cabin you and he and Eastman went to last year?”
Dozer grimaces, ducking his head and rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, things were a little awkward last year, and I got the feeling that I wasn’t exactly welcome again.”
“Ohhh, that’s right.” I grimace too. I remember hearing about that.
He wasn’t with Marissa then and brought some other chick along and it didn’t go well.
She was mean to Abernathy’s kids, from what I heard.
Uncle Dozer wasn’t so nice to them either, thanks to her influence.
And while I know he’s been forgiven—he brought Marissa to Abernathy’s house for American Thanksgiving last year, after all—I can see why they’d be loathe to invite him along on another summer with yet another woman, even if she is pretty great.
“Plus,” Marissa adds, “we wanted our first summer vacation to be just for the two of us.”
Dozer kisses her cheek, looking completely smitten, and I can’t help grinning at how whipped he is. Something about the guy who’s most likely to start—and end—a fight on the ice being all goo-goo eyed over a woman is funny to me.
“Well, it was good seeing you guys, but I gotta go.” I hitch a thumb over my shoulder.
I’m leaving plenty early to pick up Maggie, but I know how crowds at sports stadiums get.
I don’t want us to feel rushed finding parking and getting inside to claim our seats.
She’ll for sure want to be there for the ceremonial first pitch.
Looking me up and down, Dozer raises an eyebrow as he takes in my baseball hat, though I’m wearing a solid navy T-shirt. I bought the hat special for today. “Where’re you going?” he asks.
“Uh, I’ve got tickets for the baseball game tonight. I gotta pick someone up, and we’ll want to get there with enough time to try to find a decent parking spot.”
Dozer’s brows climb his forehead. “Baseball?”
I shrug, catching Marissa’s knowing smile. “Is your friend the woman I’ve seen you paired with on the gossip sites a few times?”
Brows now furrowed, Dozer turns to face Marissa. “What? What are you talking about?” Then he looks at me. “What woman?”
Shrugging again, I resign myself to this conversation.
“Her name’s Maggie. We started going out after we lost in the playoffs.
Since I’m under strict orders not to party, going out with her to different things makes the summer more bearable.
” I cringe inwardly, hoping that doesn’t sound as dickish out loud as it did to me.
I like spending time with Maggie. And if I had to choose between taking Maggie out every week or partying with Connor?
I think I’d choose Maggie. No, I’d definitely choose Maggie.
As much fun as I had with Connor, and as much as I don’t regret it, spending time with Maggie makes me feel …
better, somehow. And I don’t wake up feeling like ass afterward, which is also a nice benefit.
Still smiling, Marissa nods. “I’m sure it does.
Having company makes a lot of things more bearable.
” She and Dozer exchange a look, but I’m not really sure what it’s about.
A tiny sliver of jealousy lodges under my skin watching them, though, which is a new and weird feeling.
Not that I’m jealous of Dozer, per se. It’s more like I want what they have together.
I want Maggie to look at me the way Marissa looks at Dozer.
And I want to be able to look at Maggie like that without it being weird.
“Have fun at the game!” Marissa chirps, turning back to me. “Eat a hot dog for me!”
With another wave, I turn to leave, and I hear Dozer murmuring something about feeding her a hot dog, and I do not need that double entendre in my head when I’m off to pick up my platonic date.
It’s my own fault I find myself in this situation, though, where I’m letting everyone think that Maggie and I are dating—including my teammates—even though I promised I’d keep things strictly friendly between us.
The truth is, I’ve always been interested in more than a platonic relationship with Maggie, more than a series of dates that make us look like a couple when we’re really only friends.
She’s gorgeous, funny, smart. Who wouldn’t want that?
But she seems to think that her schedule, her baggage, her life would be too much for me to handle. That was what she was trying to tell me at the very beginning when I was still hoping I could get her to go out with me for real.
Did I fuck things up by offering this option? She did agree to have lunch with me after that. Maybe I could’ve turned this into something real, but I was impatient and too willing to concede defeat instead of playing the long game.
Shaking my head at myself as I climb into my car and start the engine, I decide to stop worrying about that.
Whether we kiss or sleep together or not, I’m taking Maggie on real dates.
If I’m cock-blocking myself, I could just …
stop doing that. I won’t do anything to make her uncomfortable, of course.
I like Maggie a lot. And I care about her a lot.
But if I want her to think I see her as more than a friend, I need to start letting her know, and then let her decide where we go next.
“This is so great,” Maggie says, grinning at me as she tosses some popcorn in her mouth and wiggles in her seat like she just can’t contain her excitement. “Thank you so much for getting these tickets.”
I can’t help grinning back at her. Making her happy makes me happy. “The pleasure’s all mine.”
“Aww.” She swats playfully at my arm. “Such a gentleman.”
She’s been practically bouncing with excitement since I picked her up earlier, talking about the Mariners’ record so far this season, how they stack up against the team they’re playing tonight, and I’m once again baffled that anyone would try to steal even the tiniest spark of that joy.
Why wouldn’t you want the person you’re with to be happy?
Even if you think baseball is boring—and I’ll be honest, it’s not nearly as exciting to watch as hockey or basketball—if taking your wife to a baseball game makes her this happy, why wouldn’t you do it just for the joy of that?
The only answer is because you’re a miserable asshole who’s determined to make everyone else miserable too, I guess. I have experience with that kind of person myself.
My dad, as “supportive” as he’s always been of my career, is that type of man.
He’s a miserable old jerk, and I’m old enough now to see him for what he is, even if it took me well into my twenties to finally figure it out.
And even though I know that, some part of me still wants to make him proud and is still disappointed every time he turns up and tells me all the things I need to do to be better without ever acknowledging the things I did well.
And with all this bullshit after that hit piece by Savage? I haven’t even answered his calls. I don’t want to hear what he has to say. I don’t need his advice. And I don’t need him to make me feel worse over an already shitty situation.
I can only imagine what he’ll say when he sees me linked in the papers with Maggie.
He’s always been of the opinion that women are a distraction, and that hookups were only okay if being totally celibate was more distraction than one-night-stands.
So me going out with a woman consistently, even if it is the off-season, would have him blowing a gasket.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I pull it out to see who’s calling. Speak of the devil …
Once again, I press the button to make the vibration stop but not send him immediately to voicemail. I’ll have to deal with him soon, but now is definitely not the time.
He’s the reason that I want so badly to give Maggie whatever she wants—all the things she’s been missing while someone else was stealing her joy and sucking all the life out of her.
My mom was the one who did that for me. She celebrated every win, congratulated me for playing hard even when we didn’t win, made sure I had friends and a life and got to be a kid when all my dad wanted was to have me running drills every waking minute I wasn’t in school or in practice anyway.
Mom put her foot down about that, saying that overtraining had negative consequences and throwing example after example of teenagers being pushed so hard they were injured in high school and never got to pursue professional careers.
That was the only thing that made Dad back down. Mom always knew how to outmaneuver him.
The situation with Maggie is different, of course. For one thing, no one’s trying to make her into the next Wayne Gretzky.
But the way she acted so lost when confronted with a free evening? That was relatable. Too relatable. That’s the same situation I found myself in, after all. Without hockey, without partying, what was I supposed to do with myself?
For her it was being without her kid leaving her at a loose end. The difference is, hockey is the main thing I’ve always wanted to do. I work out to stay in shape in the off-season, but I know that I need to give my body a break so it can recover and be in good shape for next season.
I know that working for an asshole like Brock Savage isn’t her dream job, even if she’d normally enjoy social media management.
She’s damn good at her job—I’ve spent far too much of my free time than I’d like to admit stalking Brock’s show’s socials as well as her ex’s show, scrolling back to when I know she was still working with him.
It’s obvious, though, if you know what you’re looking for.
Whoever took over after she left doesn’t have the same instinct for what will perform well for the algorithm that she does.
Or doesn’t understand the data. I’m not sure all the ins and outs, I just know that her content is much more entertaining and holds my attention better than the more recent stuff on her ex’s show’s accounts.
Imagine what she could do for the Emeralds? Our social media’s fine, but it’s not amazing. Molly’d shit herself if she had someone like Maggie on her team.
I glance over at Maggie, who has a notebook open on her lap, writing things down every time a pitch is thrown, whether it’s a strike, a ball, or a hit.
Honestly, she’d probably be happiest working for a baseball team. I don’t have any pull with baseball teams, though. Not that I have a lot of pull in the front office of the Emeralds, but I at least know people there.
Next time I talk to Molly, I might see if she’d be interested in hiring a new social media person. I know Maggie hasn’t said anything about looking for a new job, but with a boss like Brock, no way she wouldn’t be happy to kick his ass to the curb.
The crack of the bat draws my attention back to the game, then Maggie stands up beside me, cheering and clapping. Grinning, I stand too.
I can’t really do much about her work situation, but I can do one thing—keep taking her to things that put that smile on her face.