8. Chapter 8
The crowd is on its feet, cheering, when Whit and I lift the ProAm catfish cup over our heads. With one hand holding the cup, I wrap my arm around Whit’s waist—she’s holding the cup’s other side—and pull her closer to me.
She looks up at me and smiles.
Invincible. I feel fucking invincible when she’s pressed against my side.
“We did it,” she says, and it takes everything in me not to lean down and kiss her.
“That we did, Coach.”
“Smile!” The photographer calls, drawing our attention to the group of them. We both smile. Mine’s more of a full-blown grin, if I’m honest.
I’ve got the cup. I’m holding the girl. Who needs the fucking All-Star Game to feel like an All-Star?
The photographers keep firing off shots as Max, Jess, and the rest of the ProAm couples crowd around us.
“Good game,” Austin says, slapping me on the shoulder.
“Thanks, Rookie. You didn’t do too badly yourself.”
“This should’ve been mine,” Max jokes, reaching over all of us because he’s one tall motherfucker, and tries to take the trophy from us.
Whit pulls the trophy down, hugging it into us. “Maybe next year, but for now, it’s ours.”
Ours.
Yeah, baby. This weekend it’s fucking ours.
“JB,” Sienna, our usual on-field reporter, says. She pushes through the crowd, knocking Max with a visible elbow to the side. Max steps back, laughing as he takes her in.
“Sorry for getting in your way, Specs.”
She doesn’t acknowledge him, instead she moves to stand in front of Whit and me. “Congratulations on the win, you two.” Then she turns to Whit. “And thank you for making our catcher look good out there.”
“Oh, I did noth—”
I lean toward the mic, cutting her off. “Whit did everything. She's the only reason we're holding this right now.” I refuse to let her minimize everything she did for us. We are only here because of her—and because she entertained my superstition.
Sienna nods. “She certainly did. It seems like the momentum shifted for you both during the back nine yesterday. What did you do to lock in?”
My fingers squeeze her hip. She makes a little noise but covers it by looking down and laughing quietly.
“Whit fixed something in my swing when we were stretching in the morning, but it took me until the tenth hole to stop fighting it.”
“So she reeled you in?” Sienna tilts her head at me, smiling. “I didn't think that was possible for you,” she says with a light edge to it, one that might be considered flirty to anyone who doesn't know her. It’s not. It’s just her cadence.
Beside me, Whit shifts her weight, trying to subtly pull herself away from me. My grip tightens on her waist, keeping her glued to my side.
“Many have tried. Only Whit has succeeded,” I answer.
Sienna looks between the two of us, and a small smile grows on her face. “You guys really are the dynamic duo. Are there any future collaborations in the pipeline, since this one proved successful?”
Collaborations? Like physically? Damn, I'd like to collaborate with Whit a hell of a lot more. Preferably every waking hour, if it were possible. But would that be something Whit is into?
I turn to look down at Whit, and although our eyes catch, she leans toward the mic to answer for us. “Well, next year will be a pivotal year for us, as we’ll need to come back and defend our title.”
My brain goes a little lightheaded and my dick stirs because she wants to come back.
Fuck. Yes.
“Ah, we’d love to have you back, Whit.”
Wouldn’t we just?
“Sienna, we need to wrap it up and move to Max and Jess for the next segment,” her producer says, and she nods.
“Thank you both for your time, and congratulations on the win. See you later, JB.” She scans the crowd until she finds Max.
“Let’s get this over with,” she mutters to herself as she walks past.
The cameras drop as Sienna leaves, but my hand doesn’t. Frankly, the little hip dip Whit has fits my palm perfectly, and it likes having a little resting place.
Resting place. Pfft. That sounds like I want to die. That’s so far beyond the truth. I am dying to touch her again, though.
Shut up, brain.
Without my buy in, Whit steps out of my hold, places the trophy on the table at the side, and clears her throat. “Are you seeing her?”
“Seeing who?”
Whit tilts her head in Sienna’s direction, who’s already started her interview with Jess and Max.
“Sienna?” I ask with my brows raised.
Whit’s cheeks heat the tiniest fraction. “Yeah. I don’t know, she just looked a little cozy with you,” she admits, but doesn’t look at me. “It would make sense. She’s your on-field reporter, right? Knows baseball, travels the country with you, is beautiful...”
My, my. Is Whit Marlow jealous of our on-field reporter?
She closes her eyes and shakes her head. “It would be fine.”
Her tone does not suggest it would, in fact, be fine.
“I get it. You’re a guy who has needs, and she’s around. I assume you’re not serious, considering everything that happened—”
She doesn’t finish the sentence, and honestly, I probably should’ve stopped her a long time ago, but there’s something about watching Whit fight her feelings that gets my dick a little hard.
Just three days ago, I was falling over my words with her. Now, it’s her.
“I’m not interested in Sienna.”
“Y-you aren’t?”
The crowd is thinning now, the caddies are packing up, and the camera crew are migrating toward the clubhouse, so I decide to take this up a notch.
I step closer. She doesn’t step back.
“Nah.” I point toward Sienna. She’s walking away from Max and Jess, her head shaking. “In fact, I’m pretty sure there’s something going on with her and Max, though.”
“Really?” Her voice rises several octaves as she follows my gaze. “She looks at him like she hates him.”
I shrug. “It's the same way you looked at me when I caught your ball two days ago.” Then, I wrap my arms around her waist and pull her in. “And look at us now.”
She groans and tries to push me away with her hand on my chest, but instead of letting it go, I grab it and intertwine our fingers.
She looks at our hands, giving our connection a soft smile.
With no one around, I figure it’s time for us to have an actual conversation. One I've been thinking about since the eighteenth hole yesterday. Possibly since the tenth.
Who am I kidding? I've been thinking about it since she put her hands on my hips on the practice green and told me my glutes were the problem—a sentence I’ll be thinking about for the rest of my natural life, if you must know.
“Whit?”
My throat tightens as she glances up at me.
She’s so pretty.
Fuck.
Now everything I had planned has left my head.
“I, uh, forgot what I was going to say,” I tell her, giving her an awkward smile.
“Are you coming to the gala tonight?” she asks. “You’re part of the winning team, after all. I think everyone will want to see you there.”
I’ll take that as her way of telling me she wants to see me there. Well, if she wants more of me, then I’m going to give it to her.
“Yeah,” I say, trying to act cool. “Are you?”
“Yeah.” Her voice is wistful, and her gaze drops to my lips, making them tingle.
Mine immediately drop to hers, and I want to kiss her so badly.
Every instinct in my body tells me to close the distance, and I’m all for following my body’s desire.
I start to lean in.
Her breath catches, and she starts to lean back a little.
Oh, shit.
Maybe I misjudged this.
I move back, about to release my hands, when she pushes onto her toes and brings her hand behind my neck.
We’re inches away from kissing.
“JB!”
Larry.
His voice makes me jump away from Whit, and I hold my hands up as though I’ve just been caught committing a crime.
Did he see us?
Whit runs over to her father and wraps her arms around him. He picks her up and spins her around, making her skirt rise slightly.
Don't look. Don't look.
I look.
Duh.
Whit is like a 7th inning hot dog, and I'm starving. In no universe am I ever going to stop myself from getting a potential look at her promised land.
“Congratulations, honey.” He kisses the top of her head. “Your back nine was something else.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
When he puts her down, he comes over to me and holds out his hand. “JB! Thanks for making sure my daughter won.”
I reach forward, only inches away from shaking his hand, when my brain stops me.
My right hand... hasn’t been washed.
Whit’s on there.
I whip my hand back and hold up my left one instead.
Larry blinks a couple of times before he brings his hand up to meet mine.
But then the same realization comes through a second before contact.
I used that one too.
I pull it back.
Larry is standing in front of me with both arms slightly raised and furrowed brows. Not surprising after two aborted handshakes in under ten seconds.
“JB, are you—”
She cuts herself off, and I see the moment the realization settles in for her too.
There is exactly one move available to me.
I step forward and pull Larry into a hug. My arms around his back, and both hands pointed safely away from him.
“Thought a hug would be better since we're practically family now,” I say, hoping that explains my peculiar behavior.
Larry laughs, warm and full, clapping me on the back. “I love the enthusiasm.”
I step back and stuff my hands in my pockets, hiding them away from anyone.
“Family?” Whit snorts. “We played golf for two days,” she adds with her usual sass—I assume to get Larry off the scent.
Unfortunately for you, babe, there’s no getting your scent off me now.
“You need to work a lot harder to become family.”
She doubles down. So I do too.
“Is that your way of telling me I’m not invited to Thanksgiving?” I look at Larry. “Your loss, for the record—I do a dry brine. I work on it for two days minimum. Put a little herb butter under the skin, let it marinate in a secret sauce, and that bird comes out perfect every time.”
Larry points at me. “You're always invited to Thanksgiving, JB.”
“Dad—”
Larry rubs his belly. “He feeds me, Whit. He's been feeding me for two seasons. The man gets a standing invitation.”
She shakes her head, muttering something under her breath, but doesn’t argue with her dad.
Larry elbows me and winks.
That’s right. Winks.
I go very still, studying the facial expressions of a man whom I’ve eaten at least two hundred hot dogs with over the years. When the faintest hint of a smile shows, I know he knows.
He knows there’s something going on between his daughter and me. I’d have to be a fool to think he didn’t see that almost-kiss just now.
There’s just one weird thing about this whole situation. He’s not looking at me like he wants to lock me in the back of a van, drive me out into the country, and leave me there. He’s smiling. An expression I’ve never seen on any of the women’s dads I’ve dated.
He’s happy about it.
I guess that’s not too surprising. The man has been a Fish fan his entire life; getting the Carolina Catfish's starting catcher as your son-in-law is probably the single greatest flex in the history of Catfish fandom.
I hold his gaze and tip my chin in response.
I know you know that I know you know.
He grins.
“Okay, kiddos,” he starts. “I’m going to head back into the clubhouse. They’ve got sandwiches, apparently.”
“No hot dogs?”
“Sorry, JB. We’ll have to save those for Monday.” He squeezes Whit’s shoulder and kisses her temple. “See you in there, sweetheart.”
He heads off across the now quiet green and Whit watches him the entire way. I find myself watching her. For someone who doesn’t like to show much emotion, I can see all the love she has for her father in her deep blue eyes.
Perfect. She’s absolutely phenomenal. Not only is she driven, competitive and family-oriented; she’s funny, loving and sexy.
“So,” she says, folding her arms and turning back to me.
Should I kiss her?
I want to. Badly.
“It worked,” I blurt out, holding my hands up, and making my fingers dance.
Yeah, it’s not my smoothest move, but I’ve never been cool no matter how hard I try.
She lets out a little laugh. “Oh, please. I think it had more to do with fixing your swing, than anything.”
I shake my head. “No. It was you. And you know what? I'm starting to think that if it worked that well with my golf game, maybe we should try it out before my game on Monday.”
Shit, did I really just ask her out on a date by offering to finger her before a baseball game?
Idiot.
“Oh my gosh.” She rolls her eyes, and her hand comes up, landing flat on my chest. She's absolutely about to push me away from her and say something sharp, but I take her wrist before she can and pull her in instead. She lets me, until there's almost no space between us.
Her eyes drop to my mouth.
Come on, Marlow. Make a move.
She steps back.
Both hands smooth her skirt, and she looks toward the clubhouse, then back at me. When her eyes land on mine, she's got most of the shutters back in place, but not all of them.
“I'll see you tonight,” she says calmly. Almost unbothered. “At the gala.”
“Yeah,” I say. “You will.”
“Good.” She nods once, then turns and walks toward the clubhouse. I stay exactly where I am, the trophy long gone, but the winning feeling still rushing through my veins.
“I’ll see you tonight, Coach,” I whisper to myself knowing full well there’s no way I can let this be the end.