11. Chapter 11 #2
We both know exactly what’s going on here, but are either one of us going to admit it?
I slowly lower my arms, cough and take my seat.
JB is rounding first with his helmet on, and his head down. Right as he crosses the plate, he stops and sets himself up with an imaginary golf club. Then he swings, and I'm happy to see even without a club or ball, his form is still good.
He winks at the camera before Tate is giving him a high-five.
That was for me.
I just know it.
“Just golf partners, huh?” My dad says with a snort.
I grumble under my breath and take my seat instead of answering.
When the inning ends and the broadcast cuts to a commercial, I feel my phone buzzing on my hip.
JB: That one was for you.
I press my lips together, so I don't smile in front of my father, which I have already failed at.
Whit: I saw.
JB: Did you like it?
Whit: It was okay. Your hips still look a little tight.
JB: Marlow.
Why does it feel like he’s growling my last name?
Whit: Yes. I liked it a lot. You were incredible.
JB: Was Larry happy about it?
Whit: Of course. He nearly wept at the sight.
JB: Good. I’ve got to prove myself worthy of you.
Whit: Oh, please. You’re worthy.
JB: I hope so.
Whit: What are you doing after the game?
JB: Going to my hotel room and thinking about the best weekend of my life.
JB: The one I spent with you, in case that wasn’t clear.
Whit: Can you call?
JB: Yes!!!!!
JB: Fuck, how is this my life. I’m going to win this game and then talk to you.
Whit: Don’t get ahead of yourself. You still have another eight and a half innings to go.
JB: Just watch, Coach. This is for you.
I sink into my chair with a smile, looking forward to watching the rest of the game, and trying to keep my excitement about talking to him later from showing.
The way my dad grins, though, makes me think he already knows.
“Wait, what’s that picture of?” JB asks through the phone. We've been talking for the better part of an hour about nothing and everything, and I hate to admit that it's been one of the best nights of my life.
I slow my camera, stopping at the white-framed photograph sitting on the bookshelf of my bedroom at my parents’ house. “That's me when I won my first adult amateur tournament.”
“Shit, Whit. I would've dated the shit out of you if we were in high school together.”
I bark out a laugh, watching him on my phone even though he can't see me because my video is flipped.
“Seriously,” he continues. “I would've given you the best promposal ever. It would start with me inviting you to one of my games. Then, during the seventh-inning stretch, I'd jog out to the mound and steal the microphone.”
“Oh, no.” I flip the phone back around so we can now both see each other.
“Just wait until you hear the rest before you judge. My teammates would come running onto the field carrying giant poster boards. One would say 'You're my favorite thing on the course.' Another would say 'You've been driving me crazy...'“
“How many teammates did you convince?”
“All of them. I bribed them with hot dogs. Anyway, the final two would say, 'I know this is a major question...' and 'I'd be teed off if you said no, but...'“
“Why does this feel like you've thought about this longer than today?”
“I haven't.” He shakes his head. “Your first amateur win has inspired me.
So after all of this, one of my teammates would toss me a golf club and a ball.
I'd make a show of catching it and then I'd place said ball on the plate.
Then I'd point dramatically at you in the stands and yell, 'Fore-get everyone else, Whitney Marlow. Let's take a swing at prom together.'“
I groan.
He grins, committed.
“And then I'd try to hit the golf ball.”
“Try?”
“Well, I hadn't worked on my finger placement or tight hips at eighteen, so I'm pretty sure I'd miss. Probably multiple times, but hopefully that would make me endearing.”
“Oh my gosh.”
“Tell me you didn't love it?”
I shake my head at the absurdity.
“Did someone ask you out better than that?” His eyes are wide. “Go on, tell me the truth. I'll try to pretend I'm not offended.”
“I didn't get asked. I didn't even go to prom.”
“What?”
“I was homeschooled for the last couple of years of high school, since I was on the tour.”
“Oh.”
“It wasn't bad. All the teenagers on the tour would do “classes” together. It's how Jess and I became friends.”
“That's good. Jess is good people, even if she would've told you to steer clear of me in high school.”
“Why would she have done that?”
“I played a lot of ball. I didn't have nearly as much control over my intrusive thoughts. I was a little on the husky side, had acne, and didn't have my growth spurt until I was twenty.”
“I think you're too hard on yourself, JB.”
He snorts. “Maybe. But trust me, seventeen-year-old me wasn't exactly drowning in female attention. I was awkward.”
“You're still awkward. It's part of your charm.”
“Fine. Maybe I've improved a little.” He settles deeper into his hotel bed. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“You were homeschooled, traveling the country, winning tournaments.” He points at the screen. “And apparently looking ridiculously cute in that picture.”
I smile faintly as I turn the camera back to me and walk over to my own bed.
“Come on,” he says. “You're telling me nobody had a crush on you?”
I hesitate.
“Did you have a boyfriend?”
A small laugh escapes my lips as I get comfortable on my bed. “I dated a little, but it was nothing memorable.”
JB tilts his head. “Nothing as memorable as a baseball promposal. Good to know.”
“It's safe to say that I have never had a boyfriend as committed to the bit as you.”
“Mhm. How many boyfriends are we talking?”
I narrow my eyes. “That's none of your business.”
“We're dating. I feel like former boyfriends are at least a little bit my business.”
“Former boyfriends. Not many.”
“Were any serious?”
“No.”
His expression softens slightly. “Nobody ever broke your heart?”
“None of them lasted long enough to.”
“That tracks.” He studies me through the screen. “I can't picture you giving some idiot enough of a chance to hurt you.”
I nod. “You're probably right.”
“Okay, here's a question.” JB scratches his jaw, giving me an easy smile. “How old were you when you lost your virginity?”
My jaw drops.
“JB!”
“What? You're my girlfriend now. I was twenty, and it was to this girl who I thought was into me, but she was just dating me to get within the vicinity of Holden Fox. We were roommates in the minors.”
“If it makes you feel any better, my first time wasn't much better. I was eighteen, and it was with some guy on the tour. I kind of regret it now.”
“Is he still on the tour?” JB's voice is measured, which is different for him. Usually there's a lilt, or light cadence. Now, his eyes are dark. Is he... jealous?
“No. He was as terrible at golf as he is in bed. I think he works in insurance now. I did date a few other guys on the tour, but once they split, I focused on winning championships instead of finding love.”
JB bites his bottom lip, which does absolutely nothing to stop his grin.
“Oh, yeah? Were you waiting for me, Whitney?”
“Please tell me you didn't just rhyme?”
“No can do, Kangaroo.”
“Stop,” I say through laughter. “You're giving me the ick.”
“Oh, I'm giving you the ick? Is that what you call it?” JB bites his lip, smirking. “I give you so much ick, you came on my fingers in the golf cart, let me eat you out for luck, and then fucked me stupid after you won.”
“Wow. Full play-by-play and everything.” I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling. “You’re not giving me the ick, you’re giving me severe déjà vu of how easy it was to ruin you in that hotel room. Confidence looks good on you though... even if your mouth is a little filthy.”
“A little filthy?” JB echoes. He shifts on his bed, making his camera catch his catfish shirt. It's the first time I've ever considered how hot a catfish could look stretched across a well-defined chest. “Baby, you have no idea how filthy my mouth can get when it comes to you.”
I bite my lip. “I think I have some idea.”
His grin turns a little heated. “Yeah?” He pauses as his eyes flick over what he can see of me. “You know you look really good right now, Whit. All cozy in bed.”
I laugh softly, leaning back against the headboard and adjusting the phone so he can see me better. My cheeks feel warm under his gaze.
“You’re really laying it on thick tonight,” I tease, though I can’t hide how much I enjoy this.
JB’s grin turns into a smirk. “Can’t help it. You’re in bed, wearing that big Catfish shirt that keeps slipping off one shoulder... it’s messing with my head in the best way.” He shifts on his own bed, propping himself up higher.
I pull the shirt back up over my shoulder. “I've been wearing it for years.”
His reaction suddenly makes me self-conscious about everything. I reach up, ready to pull my hair out of my messy bun.
“No. Don't,” he says. “I like seeing you like this, Whit. All cozy and soft for me. Pull that shirt back down your shoulder. Slowly.”
His voice has that gentle but firm edge I’m starting to crave. I bite my lip and obey, tugging the neckline down one shoulder until the fabric sits low and loose across my collarbones.
“Good girl,” he murmurs. Even through his small pixelated form, I can tell his eyes are darkening. I like it. “Just like that. Fuck, you look beautiful. Keep your hand there and trace your fingers along your collarbone for me. Nice and slow.”
A shiver runs through me at the quiet command and the praise. I follow his words, letting my fingertips glide lightly over my skin.
“Like this?” I whisper.
“Yeah, baby. Exactly like that.” JB watches me intently. “You like when I tell you what to do, don’t you?”
I nod, my cheeks burning. “I... yeah. I do.”
“Good.” His voice drops lower. “Now slide your hand down a little more.”
I obey, trailing my fingers slowly down between my breasts. My nipples are tight and sensitive against the thin fabric, and I let out a soft breath as I brush over them.
JB groans quietly.