Chapter 13
Squinting at my phone, I swipe past another photo before I have a chance to read the comments.
The next post that fills my screen is possibly the worst one thus far. In the last forty-five minutes, I’ve tortured myself by examining Beck’s social media pages. It was a moment of weakness. I was bored, alone, and a bit angry with myself for running away from him earlier.
I helped myself to the lone strawberry lemonade–flavoured cooler in my fridge and drained half of it in one go before beginning my perusing.
The fizzy drink has settled funny in my stomach, but it’s nothing compared to the weird scratchy sensation I feel when I skip past a comment of only two emojis.
The tongue and water give away exactly what their reaction to this video was . . . and I don’t disagree.
Clearly, Beck is some sort of poster boy for this sportswear company.
He’s lying on his back in a fancy, well-lit gym, doing a set of quick crunches.
The black mat beneath him is wet, as if he’s been working so hard that he’s drenched the thing in sweat.
I don’t doubt that actually could be the case, considering his skin is glistening, too.
Every inch of his bare, muscled chest has a sheen to it.
The chain around his neck is just downright slutty.
Having him keep it on for this was such a filthy call.
I feel for anyone watching while they’re ovulating.
My pulse thrums in my throat as I linger on the video, my thumb frozen.
He seems to go faster now, as if he has something to prove.
The bunching of his abs is borderline pornographic now, and I hold my breath when he lifts his arms behind his head, linking his fingers.
His biceps tense, bulging as he licks a droplet of moisture from his upper lip and smirks.
I force myself to swipe away.
The heat clinging to my skin is almost as bad as the tingle between my legs. I swallow, finding my mouth far too wet. At least the next few photos are tame. Normal. Respectable.
There’s a set of three photos from a home game weeks ago and a singular one where he’s got his arm around a familiar man and woman. The years have been easy on them. His mom’s hair is still as black as ink, and his father’s mustache is even bushier than it was then.
Lucky to play so close to my family. Blessed, huh, Ma?
I swallow, ignoring the pang in my chest that rattles my ribs.
It isn’t a surprise that he still has a good relationship with his parents.
I remember his mom sitting front row at every home baseball game that I ever attended in high school.
She used to make these signs that would have mortified me if I’d been Beck.
He couldn’t have been any more opposite than me. Now or then.
Even though I never stayed past the fifth inning most games, the few times I did, I’d catch him forcing her into taking pictures with him afterward with her signs held in front of him. The grin he’d flash at the camera has only grown bigger and ten times as handsome.
Tapping a nail against the back of my phone, I contemplate liking the post. Then again, I know what message that’ll send, and after ignoring his texts today, I feel bad showing any sort of interest.
There’s just something about this guy that makes me feel like I need to keep my walls up.
Maybe it’s our past—or lack of one. It’s not fair to be holding a grudge from so many years ago.
I’m nowhere close to the girl I was in junior and high school, yet that reminder hasn’t been enough for me to disconnect the younger him from the much older one. Not that I should have to.
He’s up to something here, and now, because of Ruthie, so am I.
A groan scrapes up my throat. With a quick swipe of my finger, I close the app and open my messages. The unopened ones clogging my inbox all come from the That Guy contact. I scoff at the reminder of his King Of My Heart suggestion and press on the conversation.
Beck
You’re ignoring me. That’s cold, Quinny.
Do you like beer? I hate it.
Opinion on beer pong? I’m pretty good. Want to be my partner next time?
The last text comes with a photo of an oversized ping-pong table decked out with more cups than I’ve ever seen used during a game of beer pong before. Though my experience is limited. The yellow liquid in the cups is frothy at the rim, making my nose crinkle.
I read the next set of messages with a bone-deep sigh.
Beck
You have some explaining to do. I’m not particularly skilled at letting things that interest me go.
I lost the game btw. I blame you. Wes is a terrible partner.
What time are you open tomorrow? JK I always know when
There’s an hour gap between that text and the next. Discomfort rolls my stomach. I wonder what was so distracting when he seemed so interested in spamming me. Then, just as quickly as it came, I shove that emotion into a hole and kill it.
Beck
I could really use a muffin right about now, gorgeous.
My fingers move on their own, typing a message back.
What kind?
It’s well past midnight by now. I should be asleep.
I’ve got to open at six tomorrow, and I’m already overtired.
The groan of the bathroom pipes hasn’t quieted at all, and calling a plumber keeps slipping further and further down my list of to-dos.
Every day, I can only seem to make it through half of my list before I’ve run out of hours.
My phone buzzes, forcing me to blink.
Beck
Your favourite.
Strawberry with a cream cheese centre.
Beck
I’ll remember that.
I stare at his message for a few too many minutes before opening up Google. Beckett Rourke fills the search bar before I realize what I’m doing. Hitting Enter, I watch as dozens upon dozens of links appear. Most of the ones at the top are about his stats, so I click on those first.
The site opens up to a photo of him in a Havoc hat and jersey and an action shot from a past game.
A giant list of stats appears, and I blink at the abbreviations, not understanding what I’m looking at.
The G clearly stands for games. I look past the 29 beneath it and to the side, scrolling my eyes over the rest of the information.
Swallowing, I open a second tab and search up what SV means, learning it stands for saves. And apparently, having a high number is good. Is 15 something he should be proud of if he’s only played 29 games, then?
Fuck if I know.
The only other thing I research is ERA, and only because I remember Eli mentioning it the other day. Something about Beck having the lowest in the entire league and not just the division. The 0.56 means nothing to me, but maybe I could use it to apologize to Beck for ignoring him.
Going back to our conversation, I type and retype a message before sending it.
Congrats on your ERA.
Immediately after it gets delivered, I turn my head into my pillow and yell. What the shit, Quinn?
The buzz in my hand sends panic slicing through me. I nearly toss my phone across my bedroom before forcing my face from my pillow and focusing on his answer.
Beck
Did you search for my stat line, gorgeous? Are you impressed?
No. Eli mentioned it.
Beck
You’re gutting me. I was hoping you saw that I also have the lowest WHIP percentage in the league.
I reread the message twice before going back to Google and reopening the page I was on. Copying the letters into a separate search, it takes me a couple of minutes to comprehend the meaning.
It’s lower than your ERA.
Beck
So? Are you?
Am I what?
Beck
Impressed.
They’re just numbers.
Beck
You’re right. But they carry a lot of meaning to me.
Why?
His answer takes longer to come this time. I roll my lips, wiggling my toes beneath the blankets. I sleep with a heavy comforter and the same fuzzy blanket beneath it that I’ve had since I was six. The ends are scrappy, and it’s missing an entire corner, but I have no intention of giving it up.
I’m sentimental, too . . . just not about the same things that he is.
Beck
The better I play, the more intimidating I am.
I want every team we face to dread facing me.
I want to step onto the mound and watch as the batters get nervous, knowing that I’m going to make them out to look like fools.
Every swing and miss guarantees my spot on the Havoc.
Each save I secure keeps my name on jerseys and posters in the stands.
If I’m the best, I’m irreplicable. Unforgettable.
More than just a name that can be erased from history.
I go loose, reading those words as I pull my blanket up until it creates a shelter around my hands. It’s the most human he’s ever sounded. Like he might actually know what vulnerability feels like.
And that’s what you want? To be remembered?
Beck
Isn’t that what we all want?
I can list a hundred things I’d choose to have instead.
Beck
Tell me a few.
Okay. To start with, a job where I’m not constantly fearing going broke.
I love what I do, but it could be taken from me at any moment.
I’d love to go one day without worrying about a fire ripping through and destroying everything I’ve ever worked for, or a sudden drop in customers to the point that I can’t pay my bills.
Beck
What would you do then?
I don’t know.
Beck
What else? If you could have anything?
I . . . can’t get myself to type a response. Not because I’m against sharing right now, but because I don’t know what to say.
What do I want? Outside of Blank Page, where do I even see myself ten years down the road? Am I still here, dealing with the same inability to sit still and craft a life that doesn’t involve coffee and stress?
I stare at the screen, unable to find a single thing to tell him. Then, another message comes through.
Beck
I’ll probably only be this good for another three years. If that many, as long as I don’t injure myself.
My shoulders fall, easily accepting the change of focus.
What comes after that?
Beck
I’d coach, if there’s a team that wants me. I don’t want to go back down to play at a lower level again. I’m past that.
What kind of injury could you get?
I expect him to tease me about caring, but he doesn’t. It’s surprising in a good yet mildly concerning way.
Beck
Tommy John, for one. It’s an elbow injury. At this point in my career, I can’t guarantee that I’d be the same after.
Is that common?
Beck
For pitchers? Yeah. I guess. I throw one inning when I’m needed, but on a good night, my fastball is a hundred and four. The odds of me hurting myself are pretty high if I’m not careful.
I refuse to think about the reason behind the sudden nausea rolling over me.
You should be careful then.
Beck
Yeah, Quinny. I’ll do that for you.
Not for ME. For YOU.
Beck
For both of us then.
I blame it on the sudden weight on my eyelids for how quickly I let that go. Yawning, I turn onto my side and prop my hand on the unused pillow beside me.
I’ll be at the café in the afternoon.
After I get an IUD shoved up inside of my vagina.
Beck
I fly out in the morning.
Oh. Right. He’s been home for a while now.
Cool.
Beck
Will you miss me while I’m gone?
Not at all.
Beck
Liar.
We need to talk when you get back. I’ll explain why I did what I did today.
Beck
You’ll make me wait a week to learn why you needed my hands on you? That’s torture, baby.
Take it or leave it.
Beck
I’ll take it. You’ll be the first person I text when I get home.
Okay, relax, lover boy.
Beck
Fine, the second then. But I’m not dropping you any lower. Now you can take it or leave it.
Goodnight, Beck.
Beck
Sweet dreams, Quinny.
I barely manage to lock my phone before my eyes fall completely shut, thoughts of Beckett Rourke plaguing me all night long.