Chapter 1 #2
"You put the hat on."
"It was raining."
"It's not raining in here."
He studied the ceiling. "Fair."
She should have gone to the kitchen. Checked on table twelve. Restocked the limes. Any task that didn't involve standing across from Ethan Beck while he watched her like she was the only person in the room who hadn't already decided who he was.
Instead, she stayed.
"And," she said, "there's the walk."
"The walk?"
"The baseball player walk."
"I have a walk?"
"All of you have a walk. Like the ground owes you money and the room should be grateful you entered it."
"That's not a baseball player walk."
"No?"
"That's a man with a bad shoulder trying not to look like he has a bad shoulder."
The thing under the charm. Again.
This time she didn't turn away.
"Well," she said, softer than she meant to, "you're doing a terrible job."
"At hiding it?"
"At not looking like a baseball player."
His mouth curved, but smaller now. Less weapon, more shield.
"Luke said you were sharp."
"Luke says a lot of things."
"He said you were mean too."
"He didn't."
"No. But he paused before he said sharp, so I inferred."
That almost got her.
Almost.
"So that means I can take you out Friday night?" he asked.
"No."
"Why not?"
"I know Luke Banks and Brady Johnson," she said. "They've got plans for you that don't include fun."
His face shifted.
Not emotionally. Physically. Like the sentence had reached across the bar and pressed a thumb into the bad part of his shoulder.
"Those two don't scare me."
"They should."
"I played in the Bronx."
"Congratulations."
"I've been booed by forty thousand people."
"Did they make you do band work at six in the morning?"
His face changed.
Kirstin let herself enjoy that for exactly one second.
"There it is."
"There what is?"
"The first sign of fear."
"I'm not afraid of resistance bands."
"You will be."
"I'm afraid of becoming a man who spends Friday night alone because a woman at Sailor Jon's has terrible judgment."
"My judgment is excellent."
"You said my hair wasn't original."
"It isn't."
"It grew out of my head."
"So did your ego."
The laugh came again. Smaller. Lower. The kind that meant something hurt but not enough to stop enjoying himself.
He leaned both forearms on the bar.
Careful with the right.
She noticed.
She wished she hadn't.
"One drink," he said. "Friday night. After whatever Luke and Brady do to me."
"No."
"Dinner?"
"No."
"Walk on the beach?"
"You really are out of original material."
"I'm injured, Kirstin. I have to work with what I've got."
She shouldn't have liked that.
She absolutely shouldn't have liked that.
"You don't even know my last name."
"I know where you work."
"That's not romantic. That's how police reports start."
His eyes held hers. Quieter now. The SportsCenter version of Ethan Beck had left the building, and whoever was sitting at her bar was someone the cameras hadn't met.
"I'll learn it," he said.
Kirstin held his gaze for a beat too long.
Then she took his glass, though it wasn't empty, and turned toward the tap.
"You want another?"
"I want your last name."
"You want another beer?"
He considered pushing.
She watched him decide not to.
That was interesting.
"Yeah," he said. "I'll take another beer."
She poured it. Set it in front of him.
"Kirstin Green," she said.
His hand stopped around the glass.
"Kirstin Green," he repeated, like he was testing the weight of it.
"Do not make that weird."
"I wasn't."
"You were absolutely about to."
"I was going to say it's a nice name."
"That's making it weird."
"Everything I say is wrong with you."
"Now you're learning."
He turned the beer once on the bar and glanced down at his own shirt. A few golden hairs clung to the gray cotton near his chest.
"You have dog hair on you," she said.
He pulled his phone from his pocket. Didn't hesitate. Didn't brush the hair off first. Just opened the camera roll and held the screen toward her.
A golden retriever. Young, maybe three. Deep gold coat, dark eyes, a face that was all joy and no apology. Sitting on a couch with one paw on a pillow like he owned the deed.
"Hudson," Beck said.
Kirstin looked at the photo.
She didn't have a comeback for this.
She didn't want one.
"He's here?" she asked.
"He's at the rental. Probably eating a shoe."
"He's allowed in the bar."
Beck's eyebrows lifted. "I thought you had rules."
"I have rules for baseball players. Dogs are welcome."
He put the phone away. He was trying not to let her see what that answer had done to his face, and he was failing.
"You from here?" he asked.
"Born and raised."
"Never left?"
"For college. Came back."
"Why?"
She wiped the bar between them even though it was already clean.
"Because this is home."
He took in the room. The old fishing photos on the walls. The scarred tables. The bar lights. Sailor Jon yelling at a tourist for asking if the shrimp was local. The windows facing the dark water where the boats rocked against their ropes.
"I get that," he said.
"No, you don't."
His eyes came back to hers.
No offense in them. No quick defense. No athlete's pride rising up because she had challenged him in a room where people knew his name.
Just attention.
"Maybe not," he said.
That was worse than arguing.
Arguing, she could handle.
Humility, from a man like him, felt like a trick.
"You're here for Luke and Brady," she said.
"I am."
"They're good."
"I know."
"They won't lie to you."
His jaw moved once. Tightened, then released.
"I know that too."
"And if you're not coming back, they'll tell you."
The noise around them seemed to pull back.
Not stop. Sailor Jon's never stopped. But something in the space between them went quiet enough that she could hear the ice shift in the well beneath the bar.
Beck held her eyes.
"You always go straight for the bruise?"
"No," she said. "Usually I wait until the second beer."
He glanced at the glass in his hand.
"Good timing."
She wanted to apologize.
She didn't.
Not because she was cruel. Because the last thing Ethan Beck needed was one more person treating him like glass.
He stared at the beer for a few seconds, then turned it slowly on the bar.
"I can still hit," he said.
She believed him.
She didn't know why, and she didn't like that either.
"I didn't say you couldn't."
"I can still run."
"I didn't say you couldn't do that."
"The shoulder's better."
"That's the first lie you've told me."
His eyes lifted.
"First?"
"The first one I cared about."
That one got through.
She saw it.
A flash of irritation. Pain. Pride. The man he had been, maybe. Standing in center field under forty thousand people who paid money to watch him do something she'd never seen him do and probably never would.
Then it was gone.
He sat back slightly and took his hands off the bar.
Kirstin let herself give him one then.
A small one.
Barely anything.
But he saw it.
Of course he saw it.
The front door opened again, and Luke Banks walked in with Brady Johnson beside him.
Luke had his cap backward and Addison's hand in his.
Brady was half a step behind, shoulders easy, Morgan talking beside him with both hands and a face that said whatever story she was telling had already become more dramatic than the truth.
Luke saw Beck at the bar.
Then he saw Kirstin.
Then he grinned.
"Oh no," Kirstin said.
Beck turned on his stool. "What?"
"Your life is about to get worse."
Luke crossed the room first, already enjoying himself.
"Beck," he said.
Ethan stood.
The movement was smooth until it wasn't.
Just one hitch. One small betrayal. The right shoulder lagged behind the rest of him, and Kirstin saw Brady see it. She saw Luke see it too.
Neither man reacted.
That was why they were good.
Luke hugged Beck with the careful brutality of men who knew exactly how much pressure another man could take and applied one ounce less.
"Good to see you, brother."
"You too."
Brady stepped in next. No hug at first. Just a handshake, firm and long, his other hand coming to Beck's shoulder but landing low, away from the injury.
"You made it," Brady said.
"Barely."
"Flight bad?"
"No."
"Drive?"
"No."
Brady glanced at Kirstin, then back at Beck.
"Ah."
Morgan slid onto a barstool with the delighted expression of a woman arriving at a fire she didn't start but fully intended to warm her hands over.
"Kirstin," Morgan said. "Why is Ethan Beck sitting at your bar looking emotionally injured before Luke and Brady even touched him?"
"Because he wore a hat inside."
"Uh huh," Morgan said.
She glanced at Luke's cap, still backward on his head, then at Beck's cap sitting on the stool. "You made him take his hat off?"
"He looked suspicious."
"Uh huh," Morgan said.
Addison studied Kirstin, then Beck, then Kirstin again.
Then the corner of her mouth moved.
Kirstin hated that. Addison Banks had a gift for seeing the middle of things before anyone else admitted there was a beginning.
"Don't," Kirstin said.
"I didn't say anything."
"You said plenty with your face."
"My face is supportive."
"Your face is a lawsuit."
Luke laughed and leaned against the bar beside Beck. "You meet Kirstin?"
"I did," Beck said.
"And?"
"She hates baseball players."
Luke nodded. "That tracks."
"She told me my shoulder was a lie," Beck said.
Brady's mouth twitched. "That also tracks."
"She hates my hair."
Morgan leaned forward, studied Beck's hair, then turned to Kirstin.
"No she doesn't."
Kirstin pointed at her. "You're not helping."
"I'm not trying to."
Beck took in the line of them. Luke, Brady, Addison, Morgan, all standing in Sailor Jon's like they weren't a trap disguised as a friend group.
Then his gaze came back to Kirstin.
There was still pain in him. Still charm. Still the confidence that came from being very good at something for a very long time and the fear of no longer knowing who he was past it.
But there was something else now too.
Interest.
Not easy.
Dangerous.
Luke clapped him once on the back, low and safe.
"Drink up," Luke said. "Six tomorrow morning."
Beck's eyes stayed on Kirstin.
"I heard."
"Band work first," Brady said. "Then movement assessment. Then we'll see how much you've been lying to yourself."
Kirstin picked up a towel and folded it over her shoulder.
"I told him he should be scared."
"You did?" Luke asked.
"I did."
Luke turned to Beck.
"She's right."
Beck finally pulled his gaze away and picked up his beer.
"Good thing I'm not scared of resistance bands."
Brady's mouth curved.
Luke's matched it.
Neither one was kind.
Kirstin almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
Beck took one drink, set the glass down, and turned back to her.
"Friday," he said.
"No."
"I didn't ask anything."
"You were about to."
"I was going to say I'll be here Friday."
"That's unfortunate for both of us."
"For both?"
"For me because I'll have to look at you. For you because by Friday you'll need help lifting that beer."
Luke made a sound he couldn't quite contain.
Brady didn't bother trying.
Beck's mouth curved.
The quiet one again.
The one she already knew was going to be a problem.
"Then I guess I'll need a straw," he said.
Kirstin shook her head and walked toward the kitchen before he could see what was happening on her face.
Behind her, Morgan said, "Oh, I like him."
Kirstin pushed through the swinging door.
She didn't look back.
She didn't need to.
Ethan Beck was still sitting at her bar. The room had rearranged itself around him. She'd pressed the bruise and he hadn't flinched enough to run.
That was the problem with baseball players.
They always thought the game was still going.
And worse, sometimes they were right.