2. Chapter 2 #2
It's the only explanation. Fate wants me to fix what happened between Whit and me during our meet cute. I need to show her my fun, non-creepy side, and that's what I'm going to do.
Time to shine, Big Bear.
The crowd cheers even though Whit isn't. No, Whit looks like someone just told her that her flight's been canceled and the only other option is a middle seat next to a man who wants to talk about crypto.
But that doesn't matter because I'm cheering—internally, externally, with every cell in my body.
I'm the lucky bastard who is going to spend two days with Whit and talk all about her golf game.
I jog out there since walking feels disrespectful to the moment, and when I reach her, I don't think about it—I just wrap my arm around her shoulder and pull her in, because we did the awkward photo thing on the mound already and I've decided we're past that. We're partners now. We're a team.
I feel her go slightly rigid in my arms. That will need to change. We need to be comfortable around each other.
“You stink,” she whispers in my ear.
Talk fucking dirty to me, why don't you?
“I do,” I agree. I've been in full gear since the first inning and the situation underneath is not something I'm prepared to defend.
The stadium erupts, and I can't help myself, I lift her. Just a little. Just enough that her golf shoes leave the ground for a second and the jumbotron catches it. The stadium erupts. I've only heard them louder when I hit that go-ahead homer in the playoffs back in the day.
She grabs my shoulders, her fingers digging in like she's bracing for impact, but I barely feel it thanks to the pads.
When I put her down, her brows are furrowed and her lips are pinched with annoyance. I know that look well. It's the same look pretty much every girlfriend has given me before breaking up with me.
Apparently, I come on a little strong. Shocker, I know.
Fix this.
“Don't worry,” I say before she can weaponize whatever's building behind her eyes, “I won't be in all this over the weekend.” I gesture at the chest protector, the shin guards, and the whole sweaty apparatus.
“I've got a much better outfit. You won't even recognize me. Actually–” I take her in.
She looks fine as hell in her jeans and a blue Catfish polo shirt, “—make sure you wear blue. So we match. We need to look like a unit out there.”
She narrows her eyes with detest again. “I'll wear whatever the sponsors tell me to.”
“Right, and the sponsor for the ProAm is the Carolina Catfish. So good. We'll be coordinated.”
“We are not a we.”
“But you just referred to us as a we.”
“Smile,” the photographer says.
Two photos in one day? What a privilege.
I grin. She does not. The photographer takes another shot and we move to the side to wait for the rest of the pairings. The entire time she's standing next to me waving at the crowd with that locked-in smile.
“If you ruin this for me,” she mutters through her teeth without moving her lips, which is a skill I genuinely admire. “I will make you regret it.”
“Ruin what? We haven't even started.”
“You already caught the worst throw in history. I will not tolerate embarrassment on my own green.”
“If you think that was the worst throw in history, you clearly didn't see Grayson's debut. The guy has all the confidence and women now, but wow. That was terrible.”
“I swear to-”
“Whit, I promise I will shower.”
“That shouldn't need to be a promise. It's a basic requirement.”
“Understood.”
We stop talking the second Chip asks Jess Kwon to come up. Jess does a shimmy for the crowd as she reaches in and pulls out a name, reading it with glee.
“Max Brennon.”
Max strolls over and gives her a polite hug. It’s very noncommittal and relaxed, I should've taken notes; maybe then I would've gotten a better reaction from Whit.
They get their picture taken and then join us at the side. Max's shoulder brushes against mine as he looks between Whit and me.
“We're going to beat you,” he says, flat and casual. Kind of like he's telling me the time.
Whit whips her head in his direction, her eyes narrowing at my teammate.
“Excuse me?” she says, leaning past me.
Max doesn’t flinch. He just looks at my newest teammate and says slower, “We're going to beat you.”
The tension. I feel it between them, and something rumbles in my stomach. Anger? Annoyance? Maybe just hunger since I didn't get my hot dog.
Jess snorts beside Max, patting him on the back. “Love the energy, partner, but Whit will literally eat you alive if you aren't careful.”
Max and I laugh. Whit doesn’t. She's locked in. After giving him a death glare, she looks me up and down. “Can you play golf?”
“Better than Max can bat,” I say, pointing my thumb toward him.
“I don't bat. I'm a pitcher,” he says.
“I rest my case.”
In all honesty, I don't really know how good I am at golf. Do I win when I play a round with my buddies while blasting country music from the golf cart? Hell, yeah, but I've never had a partner this cute.
“We're screwed.”
She watches the next pick, and I can feel her disappointment from here.
“We'll be fine. I'm the best catcher in the league and you're the best golfer on the planet. The math works.”
“If you say so.”
She cricks her neck and refuses to speak to me for the rest of the pairings. It's okay. It takes time to like me. I know that.
With one last wave to the crowd, we head back to the dugout, and just as I try to say something to Whit, she runs past me and straight toward Larry.
Aw, my Hot Dog Homie.
The man I've been buying hot dogs for every home stand because Larry is always working and never eating. I'd like to point out, I've been doing it since before I knew he was my partner's dad.
“Dad,” she says as he wraps her up and she sinks into it, noting that all her stress seems to immediately melt away.
“You did so great out there, sweetie. I'm so proud of you,” he says, kissing her on the forehead.
“Yeah, well.” Whit peels away, bats his arm, and laughs. “I guess that explains why I didn't make the softball team in high school.”
“Uh, I don't think it had anything to do with your throwing arm. It was more to do with your team spirit.”
So she's not a team sport kind of girl. Got it.
Larry spots me and waves me in.
“JB! Hell of a pairing. You two are going to be great.”
I take his hand and shake it vigorously.
“Mr. Marlow, this is—I feel like this is fate.”
Whit stares at me. “It was literally random.”
“Still,” I say, still looking at Larry. “I feel like I should ask your blessing or something because I'm about to spend two days with your daughter on a golf course and I want you to know that my intentions are purely athletic.”
“Oh my God,” Whit says.
I continue, still ignoring her “I think the right thing to do is get your blessing before we embark on this winning journey together.”
“It's a golf tournament,” Whit says.
“It's a partnership, Whit.” I turn back to Larry.
Larry drops my hand as he laughs. “Have you ever thought about taking a week off from golf prep and going on a date, Whit?”
“Dad.”
“I'm just saying, JB's nice. He's got good energy and great taste in hot dogs.”
“Thanks,” I say, blushing. Biggest compliment in the world from the best maintenance man this team has ever seen.
“Dad.”
“And he's your biggest fan.”
My mouth drops.
“How did you—” I don't finish my sentence because Larry's already pointing over my shoulder.
“Tate mentioned it to me the other day. I always like a man who can appreciate women's sports.”
Tate gives us a small wave when he sees us looking.
Traitor.
I tip my chin, not sure if I'm happy he's been my wingman all night.
It's only when I turn back to Larry and Whit that I realize her attention has completely shifted. Her lips, which have been curling all afternoon, go flat and then curve into something I haven't seen from her once. She's smiling. A real, genuine smile... aimed at Tate Sorenson.
The worst part: Tate smiles back.
Look, I'm not going to make a big deal out of this.
I'm not. It's a smile. People smile at each other all the time.
It's a normal human interaction and I'm a normal human who is completely fine with it, but she didn't smile at me like that.
She smiled at me like she was being audited.
And okay, I get we didn't start off on the right foot, but she threw me off my game when she asked me if I was done.
She's still looking at him. Did she forget I'm standing right here? That I just did a whole bit with her dad, and bought him hot dogs, and—
Fine. It's fine.
Tate Sorenson might have cheekbones that would make angels weep, but he also comes with his fiancée, Emma Ross, who has four million followers and once live-streamed herself crying about a candle for forty-five minutes because it reminded her of her grandmother.
I watched eleven of those minutes. They are eleven minutes I will never get back, and I think about them at least twice a week.
Gotta admire the hustle, though. Girl started with a ring light and ended up with a famous ballplayer and the unshakeable belief that she's the main character of a show nobody else auditioned for.
My mouth moves before my brain signs off on it.
“Larry,” I say, wanting to draw Whit's attention back to me. “The plate's been really consistent today... what'd you do to it?”
Larry's brow furrows, and before he can answer, the golfers are called back to the stands. Whit gives her dad one final hug before turning and glancing at me.
“I'll see you this weekend,” she says flatly.
“Can't wait.” I meet her with my widest smile and open arms.
She walks past, giving me absolutely nothing, and shit, if I don't like it.
I watch her walk up the tunnel, and Larry pats me on the back.
“She's something, JB.”
“Yeah,” I say. “She really is. Now where are our hot dogs?”
If I can't get Whit to hug me, the least I can do is feed her father.