10. Chapter 10
My phone flashes on the nightstand, but I ignore it. If I answer it now, I'm going to be even later.
I missed the bus to the airport...
By an hour.
And yeah, at the time, I didn't give a fuck because I was tongue deep inside Whit.
Now, I'm starting to freak out a little. If I don’t head out in the next ten minutes, there's a very real possibility that I'll also miss my flight to Cincinnati and ergo, miss our first game. I’ve never missed a game in my life.
Not even the ones where I was sitting in the dugout listening to Max talk endlessly about the new grip for his slider.
I pull on, zip up my slacks and reach for my belt slung over the headboard, where I'd had Whit, ahem, tied up for a little while last night.
It clinks against the headboard, making me wince, and I fully expect it to wake Whit, who's currently buried under all the hotel bedding. She shifts a little but doesn't sit up.
Thank fuck.
I shouldn't be surprised. She hasn't made a noise since her sixth orgasm, when we decided to call it quits.
Still, she sleeps with the same commitment she brings to everything she does... including me.
Should I wake her?
I look at the pile of bedding and her curled hair peeking out.
I want to join her so badly, but if I do, I'm pretty sure I'll end up never leaving the bed, and I'm sure they're going to need the room back for other guests soon.
I reach over to the nightstand and grab my phone, only to see a message from Grayson flashing across my screen.
G-dawg: If you leave me to pitch with Kyle tonight, I'm going to purposefully hit you in the balls next time we're on the mound together.
I hold back my laugh. Typical Grayson, all bark, no real bite. Still, I'm his favorite catcher, and have never let him or my team down before.
I tiptoe back into the living room of the suite, take the pen and paper from the coffee table, and head to the counter of the kitchenette. If I'm not waking her, I'm definitely not going to let her think I've left her.
Clicking the pen a couple of times, I smooth the paper down and start to write.
Whit,
Had to catch a flight. Couldn't bring myself to wake you.
I rip the paper from the pad, scrunching it up and throwing it in the trash beside me.
Too bland. Whit deserves the fucking world.
I try again.
My dearest Whitney,
Oh, for fuck's sake, what the hell is this?!
Another rip from the pad.
Cricking my neck, I shake my wrists out.
One more time.
Whit.
Last night was—
Was what?
The best night of my entire life?
The only thing I'll be thinking about for the rest of the month?
The reason I'm going to have a real problem looking at your dad while eating a hot dog at my next home game?
All of the above, but writing that down might be coming on a little strong. Although, she did like it when I came on strong last night.
Do not make a pun. Do not make a pun.
The room is filled with the sound of ripped paper as I scrunch up another piece.
Whit.
Don't disappear on me.
There. That's more like it. It's honest, but possibly a little too needy for a guy who has approximately twenty minutes to make a flight.
“Is this why you told me we'd figure things out tomorrow? Were you always planning on leaving me?”
Her voice.
I turn and lose my fucking breath entirely.
Whit's leaning against the doorway wearing a white hotel robe with the belt loosely tied around her waist, still looking a little love drunk. Her hair is down but messy and she's looking at me with this surreal, relaxed smile.
What did I do to deserve this?
“Fuck, I want you so bad,” I say before I can stop myself.
I have a plane to catch.
I have a plane to catch.
The warning plays in my head, but I ignore it, heading straight for her.
Cupping her cheeks, I pull her in for another kiss.
I have a plane to catch.
“I'm sorry,” I say, pulling away from the kiss.
Her eyes are still closed, and shit, all I want to do is throw her over my shoulder and take her back into that bedroom.
“I didn't want to wake you,” I say, putting the pen down, “but I've got to be on a plane soon, and I still need to grab my gear from home.”
“I remember.” I take a step back as she leans her head against the frame. “Cincinnati first, right?”
“Right.”
“Yeah, but I'll be back in Charlotte in two weeks. Maybe we could see each other then?”
With her eyes still closed, she shakes her head. “Can't. I'm leaving then,” she replies almost dreamily. “Heading to Tennessee after Wyndham.” Her eyes open, and that soft smile starts to fade. “Missouri after that, then Oregon...”
The words hang between us, the silent implication that we're both too busy for whatever this is between us.
“I want to date you,” I blurt out. “Ugh. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it to come out like that.” I take a beat, compose myself, and start again. “What I meant to say was, I really like you, Whit.”
“I like you too.”
Did she hear my heart explode? Because it did. I'm surprised I'm still standing upright.
“But-”
The second that word falls out of her beautiful, plump lips, I want to stuff it back in her mouth and list all the reasons she's wrong with whatever she's about to say.
I don't, though. I just bite my tongue and let her continue.
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
Wait, what?
“Do what? You?”
“Date me,” she clarifies, completely unbothered by my clumsiness. “Last night around the sixth orgasm, I gained some clarity.”
“Good to hear.”
“Look, we're both busy people. We're hardworking and competitive. I like that you aren't waiting around for me and have your own thing going on, but is that what you want from me? I won't be able to watch your every game or travel with you.”
“I'm not interested in dating my biggest fan, but I sure as hell hope you're interested in dating yours.”
“We'd have to actually talk,” she says. “Like, actually talk. Not just—” she waves her hand vaguely at the bedroom behind her. “That's a lot of pressure to put on any relationship, let alone a new one.”
“I can talk.”
“JB.” She just looks at me, a little tired, a little undone around the edges in a way she never is when she's in full Whit Marlow mode, and I like this version of her so much it's genuinely becoming a problem. “I don't know how to do this in the middle of a season.”
“Neither do I,” I say before stepping forward and resting my hands on her hips to pull her into a hug.
“That's not reassuring.” Her voice is muffled against my chest.
“It's honest.”
“Are you sure?” she asks again.
“Do you think I'm not all in?”
Her silence is enough of an answer.
Leaning down, I kiss her on the nose. Then on the lips. “Whit, I've been calling pitches in front of forty thousand people since I was twenty-two. I know how to read a situation, and I know when something is worth fighting for. You are. This is. Let me prove it to you.”
She studies me for a beat before stepping out of the hug, which I do not love, but I am getting alarmingly close to missing my flight, so there's that.
She holds her hand out, palm up in front of me, expectantly. When my brows furrow, she wiggles her fingers. “Come on. Give me your phone.”
“My phone?”
“Well, if we're going to do this, you're going to need my number.”
That pushes me into action. I reach into my pocket and hand it over to her.
She raises it to my face to unlock it, then turns the screen back to herself.
Shit. I hope my Catfish group chat doesn't blow up while she's got it.
Pulling down the collar of her robe, she reveals a little of her collarbone as she takes a selfie. It's only when she finishes that I realize the hickey I gave her last night is on full display.
She hands the phone back. I look at the screen, and immediately bark out a laugh.
“Did you seriously save your contact details as Coach?”
“Isn't that what I am? Or would you prefer good girl, since that's all you kept shouting last night?” she asks with wide, innocent eyes, her shoulders shimmying slightly.
Yeah, that boner is fully grown now, because all the memories from last night are right at the forefront of my mind.
She steps forward, pushes onto her tiptoes as her hand threads through my hair, and she kisses me.
I am going to miss this flight.
I am one hundred percent going to miss this flight, and our GM is going to lose his goddamn mind.
She pulls away just as I try to deepen the kiss. “Have a safe flight, JB. Call me when you're free.”
She walks back into the bedroom, and I find myself watching, memorized by the sway of her hips.
“Hey, Whit.”
She glances over her shoulder and raises a brow.
“For what it's worth,” I say, “I think you threw a great first pitch.”
She laughs. “Get out of here, Callahan,” she says, but she's smiling as I head for the door.
When I'm outside, I stand in the hallway for a second longer than necessary, then head for the elevator, still smelling faintly of her, with her number in my pocket and my flight window getting narrower by the minute.
Worth it.
“I’m here!” I yell, pushing through the airplane doors and nearly knocking over one of the broadcasting crew on my way.
“Oops. Sorry, Jeff.”
He grumbles as I help him regain his balance.
“Didn’t see you there.”
“No problem, JB,” he says, dusting his jeans off.
When I glance up, I’m met with not only the forty-man roster looking at me, but the entire broadcasting team and the coaching staff, all watching my near takedown of Jeff.
“Sorry I’m late,” I say, clearing my throat.
“JB!” Grayson booms as he jumps out of his seat and heads toward me. “Don’t worry, boys,” he says to the rest of the team as he wraps his arm around my shoulder. “We’re all good! Our catcher didn’t eat himself into a hot dog coma after winning the ProAm. We’re all safe.”
His comment earns a few hollers from our teammates.
“Is that what you think happened?”
He doesn’t answer. He just steers me down the aisle toward the back of the plane where the pitchers always sit and talk about Tommy John surgery. At least that’s what I think they talk about. I’m never really listening.
I high-five teammates as I pass.
“Why is no one yelling at me? I’m ten minutes late.”