Chapter Nineteen
The Pilots are on fire, and it’s not their special gold uniforms.
Still, the Pilots and Jackals are neck-in-neck. The last game of a series is my favorite because with two phenomenal teams like this, it’s a fight to the finish.
“These are some nice seats,” Brett says, stuffing a handful of popcorn into his mouth.
“I’ve already thanked you like ten times.” I nudge his arm off my arm rest. “I get it. You’re popular.”
Thanks to my basketball client’s star status, we got the best seats in the house.
Well, to me. Most people would give their left lung to sit behind home plate, but my happy place is between home plate and the first-base dugout.
The harmonious sound of cracking bats and snapping gloves is best from here.
Brett leaps to his feet when Dawson strikes out another Jackal, hollering for the man on the pitcher’s mound. He’s got the lungs of a toddler who had sugar for lunch.
A smug smile pulls at my lips. “I’m starting to question your lifelong hatred for baseball.”
Affronted eyes cut in my direction. “I never said I hated it. I said I didn’t get the hype.”
Maybe not, but he does now. After two seasons with the NC Grizzlies, it’s about time Brett dipped his toe into other professional sports in Charlotte. Halfway through the third inning, he promised to attend a Carolina Rage soccer match. Holly and Victoria will be thrilled.
“So, how’d it go with the future Mrs. Blane?” he asks, never taking his eyes off the field.
Layla was even sweeter than she looked, with adorable dimples and ringlet curls that shone like molten gold under the stadium lights. I expected her to be like Adri, but the moment she sat down, she was like Jo in that quiet way I love.
I shrug. “It went well.”
“Do you think she’ll give you a glowing endorsement?”
Again, I shrug. Making a good impression on family members and partners is important because they can sway recommendations, but I want Garrett to work with me because he thinks I’m the best agent for his career. Still, I hope she liked me.
Brett stuffs another handful of popcorn into his mouth. “How much longer until you get an answer from him? You’ve been courting him forever. He can’t keep stringing you along.”
“He isn’t, Brett,” I explain. “Garrett is exploring his options and figuring out who best fits his needs, which is normal. I probably won’t know for another few months.”
Courtships often require a slow-burn strategy. I must prove my value to him over time, not with one flashy pitch. It’s part power play, part chess game.
Lucky for me, I love a good slow burn.
“Well, I picked you after one phone call—what the hell? That was a strike!” Brett leaps to his feet and waves down the plate umpire. Thankfully, the man ignores my passionate client. When he finally sits down, he grins. “Why didn’t I know baseball was cool like this?”
The crowd cheers as the Pilots make the third out, bringing us into the bottom of the ninth inning. As Cade jogs to the dugout, stopping to pat Dawson’s butt, I notice his gait is smooth with no limp. I’m still upset with myself for not bringing it up earlier.
Brett shivers, rubbing his arms. “That was weird.”
“What was?” I ask.
“You know that feeling of being watched?” I nod, and his eyes shift to the home-team dugout. “I’ve been feeling that way all night and couldn’t put my finger on why. Then your newest client ran by, and I felt like I was stabbed by a million daggers.”
It wasn’t until I sat down in our seats that I realized the colossal issue.
I’ve got front-row seats to Cade and all the things that make him my favorite baseball player.
The way he rocks forward on his toes between pitches, ready and twitching with energy.
The crease in his jersey from bending forward to catch his breath.
The double pat to his thigh when deep in thought.
The beads of sweat running down his cheek that he never wipes away, refusing to be distracted for even a second during a play.
I clocked the moment he saw me. Then I watched his jaw tick when Brett sat beside me.
Going for a nonchalant professional and not a woman whose body is on fire, I wave Brett’s concerns away. “We’re in a big section. He could be looking at anyone. Don’t think too far into it.”
Brett opens his mouth to respond but stops when Cade makes his way to the batter’s box.
The announcer whistles into the mic. “I don’t know about y’all, but I feel like the golden boy is in his own league.”
My lips twist at an odd angle, loving the praise for Cade while stewing at the nickname. “His name is Cade,” I mutter. “Not golden boy.”
Brett smiles. “Protective Shay. Me likey.”
“Shut up.” I laugh but grow serious when the Jackals pitcher winds up and releases a fastball. I would cry if a ball came at me like that, but Cade doesn’t flinch.
“Ball!” the umpire shouts.
The next ball is a fastball too, and Cade swings. The umpire throws his clenched fist out to the side and the crowd lets out a collective groan.
Brett sucks in a sharp breath. “I changed my mind. I hate baseball. How is he not crying right now? I’d be in tears if I were him.”
All I can do is nod, keeping my eyes on the man in front of me.
The third pitch cuts through the air, and I almost scream. Strike two.
I cover my eyes and peek through the gaps in my fingers. Even with a slightly distorted view, it’s clear that Cade is unaffected. He’s calm and cool in the batter’s box with a simple tilt to his lips.
Some people are made to save lives. Some are meant to teach.
Cade is meant to play baseball.
The pitcher winds up, and the moment the ball leaves his fingertips, I’m on my feet. The roar of the crowd is deafening, but nothing can stifle the victorious crack of wood, signifying the perfect hit as the ball disappears into the upper deck.
“Clear skies! Fly high!” fills the air as Cade taps two fingers to his temples, a silent reply to the crowd’s cheers. When the scoreboard flashes WALK-OFF, Cade tosses his bat aside and begins the home run trot.
But instead of focusing on the field, his attention lands on me, and one hazel eye flutters shut. It’s so fast that I don’t think anyone caught the wink, but I felt it.
And it’s oddly nice to be the one he’s looking at again.
“I have work in the morning,” I whine, using my go-to excuse.
“You have work every morning.” Adri tosses her sandals aside. “And I don’t want to leave! I miss you and this house.”
Her words aren’t meant to be a barb, but they prick my skin anyway. The red brick house on the corner was our spot for years. Even when Mallory moved in with Kenneth, we still tried to hang out here. After I canceled three times for work, hangouts moved to their place at Lake Anita.
“We all do,” Mallory butts in, pausing to glare at Adri. “But if you need us to go, we will.”
It’s not that I don’t want them here, but the state of my house is embarrassing. Only Mallory has been here recently and has never commented on the bare space that used to be our solace. She’s not one to bite her tongue, but she tries for me.
“No,” I finally say. “We can watch a movie.”
After saying goodbye to Brett at the stadium, I let Mallory, Jo, and Adri convince me to hang out for a bit.
Being here reminds me of simpler days when Mallory lived down the hall and Jo and Adri would barge in at all hours.
We would stretch across the couch after a hard practice or stay up all night for post-date recaps as we divulged private information.
But ever since I started at Permian, I’ve lost those nights.
Putting my job first may be for the best, but I’m lonely.
Slipping on a tattered CLU sweatshirt, I ask, “Where’s Kenneth?”
Mallory rolls a vial of insulin between her hands, warming it for her injection. “He took Nan and Titus home. Knowing them, they’re finishing a puzzle, but he should be here soon.”
“I missed our grandparents?” I groan. Nan and Titus, her man-friend—because boyfriend is apparently too juvenile—practically adopted us after Kenneth and Mallory started dating two years ago.
Jo drops a stack of flashcards onto the plastic dining table. “Nan said if she doesn’t see you soon, she’ll drag you out of the office by your bows.”
I laugh. She would.
The doorbell rings, and I rush to it like a dutiful host. I’m expecting a head of red hair and freckled cheeks, but bronze skin and broad shoulders fill my vision.
It should be illegal to wear thin T-shirts out in the world when you look like this.
The fabric is literally bursting at the seams, and I almost want it to.
He’s your client. Pull yourself together.
Cade Owens is on my doorstep. At prime booty-call hour.
What if one of my elderly neighbors is watching us right now as he looms over me? Him looking sinfully sexy with tired eyes and slutty little glasses. And me in my . . . Oh my god.
The CLU baseball sweatshirt he gave me before he left for California swallows my torso, hanging down to mid-thigh. The teal color is almost gray from being worn and washed so often. I tried to trash it once but chickened out. It was too comfortable to sacrifice.
“Nice outfit.” He grins. “Looks familiar.”
I refuse to smile back. “What are you doing here?”
“Movie night. Am I wrong?”
He’s not, but the risk is too high. According to my contract, being linked to a client isn’t a fireable offense.
It’s how Winston met his wife of twenty years.
But me? Because I’m a woman, I’d be torched and judged for the rest of my career.
It would be assumed I couldn’t control my emotions or all I wanted out of this job is an athlete boyfriend.
No agent would respect me, no player would want to work with me, and no player’s significant other would trust me.
My worst nightmare.
Delicate taps to my temple pull me from my spiraling panic. “Don’t worry. I’ll go,” he whispers. “Sometimes I forget that we’re not still us. I can’t just show up at your home. Please tell everyone I said—”