CHAPTER 13
I have the weight room to myself this morning. The first rays of morning sun stream through the windows, waking me up while I try to focus on stretching instead of replaying the night before. No matter how I turn up my music or breathe into the movement, I can’t stop thinking about that moment Reyes turned around and invited the entire team to the dinner I’d asked him to.
Granted, he had no way of knowing I wanted to have dinner with him, not dinner with the team, especially since Dante was right there when I asked. And it isn’t like I had a bad time once we got there. It was probably a much-needed opportunity to endear myself to the rest of my teammates, who are already coming around to being the only team in the league with a woman in the locker room. At least to my face. Truth is, Reyes did me a favor by inviting all the guys along. On his dime.
There’s also my personal rule about never dating ballplayers.
Not that I was asking him on a date.
“You’re here early.”
I practically jump out of my skin when I hear him behind me. My only saving grace is that I’m seated touching my toes, and it’s impossible for me to compound my embarrassment by losing my balance, falling on my face, or something equally mortifying.
“Mhmm,” I grunt noncommittally.
“How late did you all stay out last night?” he asks, plopping down beside me and groaning as he reaches for his toes in an inflexible mirror of my pose. “Oh, to be twenty-four again, partying late and still the first one in the gym—”
“Just because you cut and run early, doesn’t mean any of us were out ‘partying late.’” I put the last two words in irritated air quotes that slice the tension between us.
“I wasn’t trying to ‘cut and run.’” He matches the attitude with air quotes of his own. “I’ve got to work earlier, longer, harder, smarter than the other guys—”
“And I don’t?” I interrupt, but he keeps going as if I didn’t say anything.
“I needed rest to be up this early. I needed an ice bath and to beg Alejandro to make a house call after catching yesterday’s extra innings and sitting on a bus for the better part of four hours. Hopefully one day you’ll last in this game long enough to understand how much it sucks to not be able to keep up with your teammates socially anymore. At least not if you have any hope of keeping up with them on the field.”
I hate that he turned things around enough to make me feel like I’m the ass this early in the morning. I haven’t even finished my coffee yet. But mostly, I’m concerned about how casually he mentioned asking the physical therapist for a house call at nine o’clock at night.
“Are you sitting out today’s game? Or playing first?” The twinge of selfish worry I feel at the idea of pitching to someone who isn’t him makes me feel like even more of a jerk.
“No. Of course not.” He scowls at me, but a heavy-browed expression morphs into a grimace when he moves to stretch the other hamstring. “A couple good games, and you’re already trying to get rid of me?”
“Alejandro does house calls for everyone on a whim?” I pry, ignoring his jab and dropping my head as I move into another stretch.
“Has anyone ever told you, you worry too much?”
“I’m not worried. Maybe I’m just jealous.” I snort, but the noise is clearly forced.
The last thing I need is for Reyes to think I’m some love-sick rookie and put distance between us. I’ve never pitched as well as I do when he’s behind the plate. Even if I didn’t have an unbreakable personal rule about dating ball players, losing him as a mentor is not worth chasing after a relationship that would inevitably fail. In a spectacularly awful fashion, if my one past exception to the rule is anything to judge by.
“I’d say there’s plenty of Alex to go around, but if you steal him away from me, I would never forgive you.” He says it in that voice that tells me he’s only half-joking.
I jump to my feet, and he glares at me. I pull my hair back into a braid that brushes the waistband of my emerald yoga pants. Reyes lowers his glower to the toes he’s trying so hard to touch. I grab a jump rope to finish warming up, and he glares at me again. The feel of his eyes on me only makes me bolder, and I decide to show off a bit. Reyes glares harder.
He gets up slowly with a groan, and I gather my breath to tease him without breaking my skip. I don’t have time to come up with a clever response. He turns as he rises—giving me a view of the tight curve of his ass and the swell of his hamstrings stretching his gray joggers. The split-second distraction is enough; I whip myself in the back of my own legs with the speed rope.
“Shit.” I drop the rope and rub my burning cheek. That’s going to leave a welt.
I worry my lip with my teeth and rub the growing welts harder, forbidding myself to imagine leaving welts on a certain someone else’s big thighs.
“That’s what you get for showing off, rookie.”
His laugh fills the room. It doesn’t boom, and it’s not even particularly loud. It’s no raucous cackle, but it is genuine and full of depth. It’s the type of laugh that’s impossible not to join in with.
“I’m surprised you could hear it over your knees,” I counter through my own stifled giggles. I brush past him and climb onto the treadmill under the fan. “Honestly, I’m amazed you haven’t leveraged that for a breakfast cereal endorsement.”
“What on earth are you muttering about now?”
His fingers hook the hem of his hoodie while he speaks. His shirt sticks to the heavier material. Peels up to reveal abs hanging on for dear life to the memory of a six-pack. When his shoulders shrug, his lats flare like sculpted wings.
I should not be so distracted that I forget how to form words. His body is the honed tool of an athlete, nothing more. At least not to me. It can’t be.
“Snap, crackle?” I clear my throat after my throat comes out squeakier than a torn-up dog toy.
“Pop?” he finishes. “Thanks.”
“I thought so,” I say over my shoulder. “More creative than ‘Texas’ or ‘rookie,’ at least.” I grab the long handlebars and push hard to get the manual treadmill started, hardly faster than an easy walk. Not even enough to work up a sweat, yet, but at least this won’t leave my distracted ass tiger-striped red. “How much longer are you going to be warming up? Some of us are trying to get a real workout in.”
“So that’s how it’s going to be, huh? Awfully cocky, aren’t we?” he asks.
“Yes. You are.”
“Little shit,” he grumbles, but I look over in time to see the sparkle in his brown eyes. He climbs onto the treadmill next to me and matches his pace to mine. “Want to put your money where your mouth is?”
“No,” I snort.
“Scared?” he asks. I grab the handlebars for a split-second to steady myself while I pick the pace up incrementally. He follows my lead.
“Of course not,” I answer. It’s a lie, but not the way he thinks. “Competing with you would be like taking candy from a very grumpy baby.”
“Good thing I’ve never had much of a sweet tooth then.” He stares at me in the wall-to-wall mirror in front of us and picks the pace up one more time, pushing me to follow his lead. “It’s early. It’s just you and me. Let’s make things interesting.”
Three sentences.
That’s all it takes for Mateo Reyes to wreck my world.