Chapter 12
TWELVE
Wild
The crowd is loud tonight, rowdy, electric, the kind of energy that hums through your bones and sharpens every instinct. I’m locked in on the mound, breathing steady, arm loose, body doing what it’s done a thousand times before.
I’m pitching great.
Fastball painting the corners. Curve dropping like gravity remembered its job. Kamden’s glove snaps with each catch, our rhythm flawless, the kind that only comes from years of trust.
Then, between pitches, I lift my eyes.
And see her.
Amelia is in the stands.
My pulse spikes so hard it almost throws me off balance.
She’s tucked a few rows up behind home plate, hair down, jacket pulled tight against the evening air. She’s not trying to be noticed, not dressed like she’s making a statement but fuck if she isn’t one anyway.
She wasn’t supposed to be here.
We’re meeting tonight. Dinner. My place. The thought’s been sitting heavy in my chest all day, anticipation tight and dangerous. But seeing her now, unexpected, real, watching me, does something feral to my focus.
I drag my eyes back to Kamden.
Focus.
He gives me the sign. I nod once, wind up, and let it fly.
Strike.
The inning rolls on, and I don’t look up again. Not because I don’t want to, but because I know if I do, I won’t stop. Still, I can feel her presence like heat at my back, grounding and distracting all at once.
We close it out clean. Another win. The stadium erupts.
In the tunnel afterward, the guys are buzzing. Hgh-fives, shouts, someone already talking about shots and where we’re heading next.
Kamden slings an arm around my shoulders. “I’ll grab us an Uber,” he says. “First round’s on Evan since he struck out twice.”
“Not for me,” I say.
He frowns. “What?”
“I’ve got other plans.”
His brows lift as we slow near the locker room. “Other plans?” He studies me for half a second, then grins. “Oh shit, you’ve got plans with a chick, don’t you?”
I rub the back of my neck, suddenly very aware of how thin the ice is beneath my feet. “Maybe.”
He laughs and slaps my back. “About damn time. I was starting to worry you’d turned into a monk.”
“Hardly.”
“I’m glad to see you getting back to yourself,” he says easily. “Have fun and don’t let her get too attached.”
He laughs again, already turning toward the showers.
The sound sticks with me longer than it should.
I feel like shit about the lie by omission, about the way my stomach twists when I think about Amelia sitting in those stands, trusting me in ways Kamden doesn’t even know exist.
But I’ll take the win.
On the field.
And the one waiting for me tonight.
I shower fast, like if I slow down even a second I’ll lose my nerve.
By the time I pull on clean jeans and a fitted black T-shirt, my apartment doesn’t feel like mine anymore. It feels like a loaded weapon. Every surface charged with the fact that Amelia Bronwyn is about to walk through my door.
I’ve never been nervous about a woman coming over.
Excited? Sure.
Hungry? Always.
But this is different.
There’s a knock.
Once. Firm. Confident.
I open the door and forget how to breathe.
Amelia stands there like she walked straight out of a fantasy I should not be having. Tight jeans that hug her just right. A soft sweater slipping off one shoulder like it has a mind of its own. Her hair is down, framing her face, and her makeup making her blue eyes impossible to look away from.
“Damn, Doc,” I say before I can stop myself. “You look gorgeous.”
She blushes, and that alone nearly kills me.
“Hi,” she murmurs, stepping inside.
She pauses just past the threshold, actually looking at my place, and something in my chest tightens when her eyes widen.
“Wow,” she says. “Your place is amazing.”
I didn’t expect that. Didn’t expect how much I’d care that she’s impressed.
Dark hardwood floors stretch beneath us, the gray walls clean but warm.
The deep charcoal couch sits just off to the side, the one that’s seen more late nights and postgame crashes than I’ll ever admit.
Framed photos line one wall. Team shots, stadium lights frozen in time, and one picture I never took down.
Me and my dad at a little league field. Dirt on my knees. A crooked grin on my face.
The kitchen is open, stainless steel and concrete counters, low lights instead of anything harsh. It’s calm. Grounded.
Like I wanted her to see this version of me.
“Sit,” I say, gesturing to the island. “I’ll grab wine.”
She slides onto one of the stools as I pour, the sound of liquid hitting glass louder than it should be.
“I ordered pizza,” I add, handing her a glass. “Hope that’s okay. I don’t get to cook as much as I’d like during the season.”
She takes a sip and smiles. “So you cook?”
I lean against the island, shrugging. “Had to feed myself growing up. Then I realized cooking is actually something I enjoy.”
“Well,” she says, laughing softly, “I’m a terrible cook, so I’ll happily leave that to you.”
We talk food. Our favorite meals, worst disasters, late-night cravings. Easy. Natural. Too easy.
Without thinking, I move around the island until I’m standing right beside her. Close enough that I can smell her perfume. Warm. Clean. Tempting.
“You surprised me,” I say. “Showing up to the game tonight.”
“I wanted to see you pitch.”
The way she says it, so quiet and honest, hits hard.
“You didn’t tell me.”
“I didn’t want to distract you.”
Too late.
“What if Kamden saw you?”
She lifts one shoulder. “I would’ve said I was there for him.”
Damn.
I don’t know why her having a cover story turns me on this much, but it does.
Before I can say something stupid, the doorbell rings.
Pizza.
The moment pops, just like that.
We move to the small table by the window, knees brushing occasionally, the contact electric every single time. We talk about everything except what we’re doing.
She tells me about a disastrous statistics class she nearly failed.
I tell her about the first time I ever pitched in a real stadium and nearly puked from nerves.
“You don’t strike me as someone who gets nervous on the field,” she says.
I laugh. “I get nervous all the time. I just don’t let people see it.”
She studies me, eyes thoughtful. “I see it.”
“How?”
“You can hide a lot of things from people,” she says softly. “But you can’t hide what’s in your eyes. They’re the door to the soul. I can see everything in your eyes.”
Fuck.
“What do you see in them now?” I ask, knowing exactly how dangerous that question is and not caring.
“Want,” she says. “Need. Arousal.”
She’s not wrong.
“Everything I see in yours,” I reply.
The pizza goes cold. The wine warms. Neither of us notices.
She blushes, then reaches across the table, her fingers wrapping around mine.
I stand slowly, heart pounding, blood nowhere near my brain.
“Would you like to see the rest of my apartment?” I ask.
It’s a childish line. A transparent one. And I don’t have it in me to do better.
She rises, that small, sexy grin playing on her lips.
“I’d love to see it all.”
Fuck me.