Chapter 42
“What’s that?” Wes asks when Finn comes sauntering back into the clubhouse.
The look on his face is interesting. I expected him to have lipstick marks all over his face after sneaking out to meet up with Aubrey. Instead, there’s a cup in his hands with a logo stamped on the front that steals my breath.
I take a single step forward, then move it back again, plastering myself against the wall. Finn’s attention skips right over Wes and lands on me instead. Fear creeps in, and I bite down on my tongue before I can demand an answer to soothe my curiosity.
Jett scrunches his face, moving right into Finn’s space. “Is that matcha?”
“Maybe?”
“You don’t even know what your girlfriend brought you?” Kellan pushes.
Finn sidesteps Jett and walks up to me with that weird green drink extended.
My brows jump. “Aubrey brought this for me?”
“No, dumbass. It’s from your girl, not mine.”
“She’s not—” I don’t make myself finish the sentence.
With my shoulders back, I take the cup and inspect it. The green fluid has mixed with what I think is milk, but there are some chunks floating in it. There’s no straw, only the tiny hole in the side of the lid.
“You have to try it,” Finn adds, nudging his chin toward the cup.
“Did you see her?”
Sympathy floods his eyes. “Yeah.”
“Right.”
“She looked like she wanted to bring it herself.”
“But she didn’t,” Kellan grunts.
His tone grates on me the way it has for the last two days. After the engagement party, he grew even more frustrated with Quinn than he had been the entire time I’d been with her. He’s never trusted her, and as much as it fucking burns to admit, he called it.
That doesn’t mean I’m a fan of him getting snippy when she’s brought up, though. I’m still in love with her. I don’t see that changing for a long, long time.
I turn away from my teammates and bring the cup to my lips.
The first taste has my eyes burning as a cough tears through me.
It’s like running my tongue across the inside of a sushi roll, and not in a good way.
The milk didn’t lessen the taste in the slightest. I scrub my mouth with the back of my hand and swallow excessively to try and clear the taste.
“Oh, fuck. That good, eh?” Jett barks a laugh.
Wes joins in, suddenly beside me. He smacks my back. “Yeah, I didn’t want to say, but that shit tastes like grass.”
“Grass? No, it’s fishy.”
Turning back around, I’m already handing the cup back to Finn. He takes it, watching me with his lips pressed tightly together.
“Why did she bring you that, dude? Think she planned on poisoning you?” Wes asks.
I swallow again, trying not to gag as the taste lingers. “Anyone got water?”
“Catch.” Kellan throws his bottle at me, and I squirt the cold water into my mouth.
Finn reaches past me to set the cup in my locker, his eyes lingering on it for just long enough to draw mine to the same spot. I block the rest of them from looking at it and reach for the wall.
(BB): Pitcher can’t find the zone. The batter walked to first base after pitcher threw 4 pitches called balls. You hardly do this.
I’ve seen it enough to know it’s Quinn’s handwriting. Not even my blaring confusion can keep me from smiling at it. It’s the most contact we’ve had in a week. I want to kiss the cup, to hell with all the guys watching me.
“What do you want me to tell her, Beck?” Finn asks.
I tense my jaw, dropping my head. “Whatever you want.”
“Come on. She’s clearly trying here.”
“To do what?” Kellan asks, annoyed. “She waited until right before a game to bring him that, and he didn’t even like it. No offense, but it’s cowardly—”
“Enough! Call her that again and neither of us will be playing today, Kellan. Keep your thoughts to yourself. Or better yet, don’t think about her at all. I can’t fucking deal with this right now.”
My temper flares before I can stifle it. Heavy silence follows, sagging in the air.
None of them follow me when I leave the clubhouse.
I get another drink the next day.
Done with the fishy green, she delivered a blueberry pomegranate smoothie to the front desk in my condo building.
There were firm instructions for the guard, and he wouldn’t let me go back upstairs until I’d tried it and rated it on a scale of one to ten.
I gave it a six and then read the rule on the cup.
Balk: An illegal motion by the pitcher with one or more runners on base, entitling all runners to advance one base. Can be a number of movements related to the pitching motion, but the intention is to catch the runners off balance.
Yeah, I don’t get this one. Maybe you can explain it to me? Have you ever done this?
I didn’t expect anything once we left Vancouver.
But during our first night in Tampa, there was a delivery at my hotel room.
The drink in the brown paper bag didn’t come from Blank Page, but she’d still managed to customize it with another note.
I followed her instructions and tried the drink labelled as a London Fog before texting Finn my four out of ten rating.
Saves: The number of times a relief pitcher finishes a game where the potential tying or winning run is on base, at bat or on deck.
You have a lot of these. Did I ever tell you how impressed I am with you? Of all the athletes I know, you’re my favourite. Don’t tell Finn or he might stop helping me.
Every day for a week, she gets different drinks delivered to my hotel rooms. It doesn’t matter where we go or when the games end. They always arrive once I’m in my room, never before.
Her lack of baseball knowledge was never a turnoff for me. I was completely confident that I’d be able to teach her everything important, and if it turned out that she was really against learning, then I’d leave it. She was always more important to me than baseball.
If she never wanted to watch another game, I’d make it work. As long as she loved me, who gave a shit if we didn’t share the same interests?
Now, though, I can’t seem to get over the fact that she’s been learning important rules and terms completely on her own. It’s such a little thing, but it doesn’t feel like it to me. She’s . . . trying. Really trying.
I keep every note that’s stapled onto the delivery bags and carry them with me back and forth to the different stadiums. I’ve started looking forward to stepping into my hotel rooms at the end of every game.
Being away from home has always made time drag, and while it still does, it’s been easier to ignore.
Even without texting or calling her, I feel like she’s still close.
And ever the lovesick idiot, I’ve gotten used to the feeling again.
Losses (L): The number of games lost.
This one also seems pretty self-explanatory, but I’ll point out again that you have a low number of them. You can smirk now, I know you want to. It’s a very nice smirk.
My favourite one arrived last night.
Strikeouts (SO): The number of times a batter has swung and missed on three pitches.
I watched a few of your highlights. I’ve also learned what a perfect inning is, and I think you deserve to be cocky from time to time. You’re amazing. Best closer in the league, if I do say so myself. I was the luckiest girl in the world to be loved by you. I’d still like to be her. <3
After tonight’s game, we’re down by two in the four-game series against Seattle.
I sat in the bullpen and watched as the team got nailed to the wall with a seven-to-nothing final score.
There was no need for me, so I spent three hours staring at the field as my friends got the pulp kicked out of them.
More than anything, I want to call her.
Kellan’s still all growly when it comes to her, but he hasn’t voiced anything since I snapped at him.
I know it comes from a place of protectiveness.
We’re best friends and have been for years now.
Quinn’s special to me, though. This isn’t a fling.
I can’t just pretend that I don’t still ache for her.
That I don’t feel like half of myself is missing every single day that I go without her.
She hurt me with her refusal to accept me completely, but that doesn’t change how I feel.
Call me too forgiving or a total fucking helpless fool, I don’t care.
I know that this couldn’t have been easy for her, either.
She’s been facing the possibility of rejection every single day, when that was something that kept her from being all in with me in the first place.
This all means something. If she wants me to love her, then I will. All I ask in return is for her to do the same.
Sitting on the foot of the hotel bed, I swipe through my phone and pull up her name. The line rings twice before cutting off. I’m sent to her voicemail.
An invisible draft of icy air cuts through me. I try again, and it does the same thing.
Fuck. Did I wait too long to call? Instead of trying again, I send a text.
Please answer the phone.
The lack of texts between us recently doesn’t sit well. I want to talk to her all the time. This distance isn’t working for me anymore. I don’t give a shit if that makes me a pushover. This silence isn’t doing anything but making me miss her more.
Quinny
Not yet. I haven’t finished grovelling.
I choke on a laugh. This sound is rare as of late.
When can I expect to hear your voice again then?
Quinny
You’ll be home soon.
Not until then?
Quinny
Not until then. You deserve a grand gesture.
I want to be the one doing those.
Quinny
You have. More than once. It’s my turn, so don’t interfere.
Goodnight, Beck. You have a delivery arriving.
The Seattle crowd hates me more than usual.
I let their boos move through me as I nod at Wes.
He squats behind the plate and taps his glove to the dirt, decoying.
The ache in my shoulder is from overuse, but I haven’t dared bring it up to Roman this last week.
If he knew I was getting tired and wasn’t getting better fast enough, he’d sit me, and that would be far worse than the stubborn pain.
Setting, I bounce on my foot twice. The ball is smooth in my fingers, and I adjust my grip to where I need it to be. When it catches the top right corner of the zone, Wes catches it with ease. The ump behind him makes a loud noise, and the stunned batter shakes off his lack of swing.
An electronic voice in my ear tells me the pitch Wes wants, and I shake it off once before another takes its place. I agree to it, then set again.
Everything feels normal as I move. Despite the pain, my body has moved the way I need it to. My knee comes up perfectly, and I lunge forward normally. Then I throw. The searing pain starts in my shoulder and then explodes, shards of heat zipping down to my fingertips.
“Fuck!” I shout, only half-aware of the ball going too far from Wes’ glove for him to make the catch.
It rolls out of view a beat before I squeeze my eyes shut and let my arm dangle at my side. Suddenly, Roman’s in front of me. Kordell appears beside him, and then our trainer is taking hold of my wrist and trying to brace my arm.
“What happened?” Roman barks, panicked.
I drop my head back and inhale through my nose, teeth together.
“Alright, we need to get him off the field.”
“Who do you want coming out, Rome?”
My manager doesn’t waver from his position in front of me. I know it’s his hands that cup my head and move it down until I can open my eyes and look at his. “Are you okay, Beckett?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize for a fucking thing. Go and get looked at. Let them take care of you.”
He releases me softly before spinning to the men in black approaching our circle. My teammates are crowding the mound, and my eyes are glassy as I find Kellan moving toward me the fastest.
“Call her,” I order him. Order Roman and every one of my teammates close enough to hear me. “Don’t make her find out any other way.”
He nods once. It’s enough for me.
Fuck my fucking life.