Chapter 4

She was no longer clammy—just chilled. Goosebumps prickled on her arms despite the thick, stifling humidity. She kept her anger at a simmer, deliberately removing her batting helmet with care, quietly stowing it in their team bag of helmets.

"Ro."

"Not now," she said to Ryder.

He shook his head, his eyes zeroed in on her. "What did he say to you?"

"Not now," she repeated in the same bland tone. "I need to be alone."

He continued to look at her as she began to put away the rest of her gear. He didn't look happy, but eventually he nodded. "Later, then."

"Later," she agreed.

As if they could sense human contact might set her off, the rest of the team kept their distance from her. Once Andrew gave them all a "See you Monday," she walked to her car without looking back.

Levi watched her go, resisting the sudden urge to go after her. But he'd heard her tell Ryder she wanted to be alone.

And as he made it back to his own car, he saw that Cristina was there, leaning against the driver's side door.

He stopped near the hood, swallowed. "Hi."

"Hi." Then her lips curved, and she pushed off the door. He dropped his gear bag and opened his arms as she stepped into them, enfolding her tight against him.

"I missed you," he murmured against her hair.

"I missed you, too." She gave him one more squeeze before pulling back. "Coffee?"

He shook his head. "I need a beer. And food."

"Even better."

He went home to change real quick, then met her at a burger joint they both favored, and they were mostly silent until they ordered. Once they had, Tina set her elbows on the table and asked him what he'd been up to the past week. He caught her up on the inn project, and the games she'd missed, at which point their server dropped off their beers. When he had nothing more to say, he leaned forward, looked at her. Waited.

"I broke it off with Billy," she started. "That time you saw us in the coffee shop was our only actual date, but I'm not sure that qualifies either. He just kind of…talked at me the whole time. And I don't think he ever once asked me about myself, the entire week."

She smiled weakly. "Obviously, you were right. He is kind of a dick."

"And an asshole," he reminded her, lips twitching.

"Y un pendejo," she conceded, and her expression turned distant. "It didn't take me long to realize going out with him because you'd rejected me was just stupid. I had no interest in him at all, and when he asked when our second date would be, I told him there wouldn't be one."

Now her eyes flicked back to his, and she kept her gaze direct. It was something she did whenever she felt she was saying something truly important, so he inclined his head to make sure she knew she had his full attention.

"The thing is…" She took a breath. "Somewhere during this whole escapade, I realized that as much as I missed you, I wasn't longing for you. Not the way I thought I had been."

He blinked. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I think I conflated my feelings for you," she explained. "A few years ago, when Ryder started talking about Farrow, and you were so intrigued by her, I was jealous. I assumed that meant I must have romantic feelings for you, and maybe on some level I did. But I think it was mostly just convenient for me; I wanted to be in love with someone—and who better than my best friend? So, I convinced myself I was in love with you, and the more interested you were in Ryder's mentions of Farrow, the easier it was."

He listened with a sense of disbelief, and he was sure she could see his skepticism in the furrowing of his brows. "So that's it? You were just mistaken? You've magically realized you were never in love with me?"

"I know it sounds hard to believe."

"That's because it is." He sighed, watching her carefully. "Tina, as much as I want our friendship to go back to the way it was, I also don't want you to say all this just to make me feel better."

"I'm not."

"How do you know?"

"Because." She cleared her throat, blushing a little. "Even though you're very attractive…"

At this he raised a brow, and she glanced down at her hands, but forged ahead. "And I did go so far as to fantasize kissing you, I never once imagined…anything more. I tried, but something stopped me every time."

She bit her lip, cheeks pinking further, and took a sip of her drink to avoid looking at him. He thought he understood, and his lips quirked into an amused smile.

"So I'm hot enough to kiss, but not have sex with?"

Tina sputtered. "Levi!"

It was good to hear her laugh, he thought. Good that they could laugh about it.

"If that's the way you want to put it," she teased, "Yes, I could probably stand kissing you, but I can't imagine being intimate with you."

"Same," he admitted.

Her eyebrows perked up. "What do you mean, ‘same?'"

"I may have thought about kissing you once or twice, when we were in high school." He shrugged. "Even debated trying it, but then David Carter asked you out and I didn't mind at all."

Her eyes had widened at his confession, but now she smiled readily as she thought back to their teen years. "That was junior year. And after I started dating David, you started dating Nora Dashwood."

"Yep." He had fond memories of Nora. She'd been a very sweet and wicked smart girl with a talent for sketching, and they'd dated until the summer before college, when they amicably decided to part ways. "I saw on Instagram that she's just moved back from L.A."

"Really? I thought she had a job at a film studio."

"She took a job at an independent animation studio downtown. We'll have to catch up with her."

"Absolutely," Tina grinned, and a particular glint came into her eyes when she suggested, "We could invite her to a game."

"We could." Levi was almost afraid to ask what that glint was about. If she had some scheme in mind, he didn't want to know.

And just as the lull in their conversation came, so did their food, for which Levi's empty stomach was eternally grateful.

Though his reunion with Tina had significantly boosted his mood, once he was alone, Levi's thoughts automatically drifted to Farrow, and their first loss of the season.

It happened, he thought as he drove toward home. They couldn't be expected to win every game.

But there was something troubling about Farrow's reaction to Greg Wyatt, not to mention Ryder's and Andrew's reactions. Ryder had indicated their history with Wyatt was less than stellar, but what concerned Levi was the effect he clearly had on Farrow.

And he'd obviously said something to her that had, at the very least, gotten under her skin. Levi could admit now what he hadn't been able to earlier: he was worried about her.

As he approached the baseball fields, he was surprised to see their usual practice field wasn't empty—he could make out a lone figure stalking toward home plate, a bat on their shoulder. Curious, he turned into the park entrance; even before he parked next to her car, he recognized Farrow, dressed much like she'd been at that first practice in jeans, her orange converse, and her Longhorns jersey, dropping a small bundle of baseballs on the other side of the plate.

It felt as though thinking of her had summoned him there. Keeping his eyes on her, he stepped out of the car; surely she'd noticed him drive up, heard the door slam shut, but she studiously ignored anything but the bat and ball in her hand. He was close enough now to see her face, set in frustration and grim determination.

He walked toward the dugout, watching her eyes narrow in concentration, as she held the ball out in front of her, her bat gripped in the other hand; then she bent her legs, lowered her arm, and tossed the ball straight up into the air over the plate. When it descended back into range, she swung, sending the ball into the outfield with a piercing crack!

Then she picked up another ball, did the same thing, only this time she swung harder. He watched her fungo the remaining couple balls in quick succession, drop her bat, and stomp out to collect the balls.

How long had she been out here? Did she realize it was nearly sunset?

He thought for a moment she seemed angry, but decided anger was too simple an emotion for her present disposition; her every move was stilted and hard, like she was just managing to contain a barely suppressed rage.

He had a feeling he knew what had caused such rage, though he doubted she wanted to talk about it.

By the time she returned to the batter's box, he'd gone to retrieve his mitt, and was standing in front of home plate, arms crossed and brow raised.

"Levi." She acknowledged him with a nod, her tone one of affected indifference.

He didn't buy it for a second. He could practically see the storm cloud above her head, bruise gray and crackling with furious, untamed energy.

Well, he could act as a lightning rod, he supposed.

"Need a hand?" he asked.

"No."

"You sure? I can go field anything you hit, or I can try pitching for you."

Eyeing him, she dropped her arms, letting the balls plop unceremoniously in the dirt, then placed her hands on her hips.

"Why are you here?" she bit out.

He kept his tone and smile even as he picked up one of the balls that had rolled against his foot. "I was curious who was practicing by themselves at this hour. You?"

When she said nothing, he casually tossed the ball up, let it fall lightly into his glove.

"Because it seems to me," he said just as casually, eyes on the ball's trajectory as he lobbed it up and caught it again, "that you're trying to blow off some steam. I can help with that."

This time when he tossed up the ball, she stepped over and snatched it out of the air before it could land in his glove. He only lifted his brows, waiting for her to speak.

"I'm not very good company right now," she said plainly.

"I'm not here for company." He paused and met her eyes as it occurred to him why he'd joined her. "I'm here because you're upset, and I want to help."

"I don't want to talk about it."

He shook his head. "No talking necessary. Just swinging at balls. You can pretend they're Wyatt's."

This got a sliver of a smirk, and a quiet huff that informed him his hunch was correct. She watched him carefully for a moment before finally sighing, nodding at him.

"Fine. You can pitch."

He scooped up the balls and carried them to the mound, setting them to the side. He did his best to throw accurately, preferring that over trying to throw it hard and fast. They weren't great pitches, but they weren't terrible either; besides, he wasn't trying to be good at it—she just needed something to hit.

She hit a grounder first, then let the next pitch sail by and bounce off the back fence before lobbing it back at his feet. She hit the next two a little harder, just past the edge of the infield, and missed the last one.

He gestured for her to stay put as he went to collect the ones she'd hit, and they repeated the process; this time her hits were more consistent, and she nearly took his head off with a hard line drive that smacked into his glove inches from his face.

"Whew." Chuckling, he blew out a breath.

"Sorry." Her expression went from concentrated anger to sheepish in a heartbeat.

"You're fine," he assured her, and gestured for her to keep going.

She hesitated, but nodded, and by the loosening of her stance, he guessed she was done swinging as hard as she could. Perhaps it was time to lighten the mood.

For her amusement, he played it up as she took her stance, making an exaggeratedly focused face, pretending to shake his head at an imaginary catcher's pitch suggestions before nodding, pivoting, and hiking his leg absurdly high.

She let out a short laugh, too distracted to swing in time when he let the ball fly.

"Hey!" she complained, but there was no edge to it.

He grinned, winked. "Gotta keep you on your toes."

They went through a couple more rounds this way, with him acting as a caricature of a pitcher, and her playing around with different swings, even switch-hitting a few times to test him.

He decided to mix it up by tossing it underhand, which made her laugh, even as she sent the ball flying over his head. When he threw it underhand again, she crouched low over the plate, tapping the ball in a bunt—and surprised him by taking off down the first base line.

Now it was his turn to exclaim, "Hey!"

He leapt toward the ball, which had made it about three-quarters of the way toward the mound, grabbing it up and racing after her.

She was fast, but so was he; she had a second's head start, but he had longer legs.

They made it to the bag at nearly the same time, though her head start proved enough to get her there first. He reached out his foot to tap the base just after hers, and as she turned her head to give him a wicked grin, her shoe slipped on the dirt-brushed surface of the base.

Instinctively, she yelped and reached out to grip his arm for support, even as he reached out to catch her, the result of which was they both lost their balance and went down in a heap of tangled limbs.

He landed on his butt, managing to catch himself reasonably well, while she'd twisted to land on her hip, her hands smacking the dirt with a thud.

"Oof," she mumbled—but before he could ask if she was alright, she started laughing.

It was a bright, delighted sound that shot straight to his gut and lit a fire. And it had him shaking his head and laughing along with her.

Eventually their laughter died out and left them grinning at each other, and he pushed up and pulled off his glove, held out his hands to her.

She smacked her hands against her jeans, causing little puffs of dirt to sprout around her as she dusted some of it off before clasping them in his, then pushed up with her legs. He pulled her up with minimal effort, but even so, he wasn't expecting the momentum with which she got to her feet.

She bumped into his chest, and without thinking, he placed a hand against her waist to keep her steady. In turn, her newly freed palm slapped against his chest to steady herself, eyes widening when she peered up at him and realized how close they were.

"Is the next dance a waltz?" he asked, his voice a little huskier than usual.

"Ha." She practically squeaked in response, and stepped back. "Sorry. These shoes have no traction anymore; I shouldn't have been running on the dirt."

She lifted her foot to show him the bottom of her Converse, where the tread was almost entirely smoothed.

He nodded, but smiled. "I'm not exactly wearing field-appropriate shoes either. But maybe we should call it a night."

"Probably."

But she didn't move, and neither did he. She had an odd little smile on her face, studying him patiently, and he wasn't sure if she was waiting for him to speak or not. When the silence stretched a bit too long, she bit her lip.

"You've got…" She tapped a finger against her chest, and he looked down at his own chest to see a light handprint dusted on his shirt where her hand had been.

"Oh." He brushed it away with a few swipes before glancing back over at her.

She was still chewing on her lip, watching and waiting as if she expected him to do or say something else—but her lips still curved slightly in that quiet smile.

Yeah, it was awkward, he thought. But it was a wonderfully far cry from the weary, rage-filled Farrow he'd come across.

He finally realized the sun had nearly disappeared now, said, "I'll help you pack up," and headed to the grass to retrieve the balls she'd hit out there.

When he got back to the dugout, she'd already slipped her bat back in its slot in her gear bag and slipped the remaining ball in a side pouch. He handed her the others, unable to ignore the little zing that went through him when her fingers ghosted over his. When she'd zipped up the side pouch, she slung the bag over her shoulder.

"Shall we?" she asked.

At his nod, they walked to their cars in silence; she threw her bag in her trunk while he stowed his glove back in his, and still the silence held.

When she'd closed her trunk, she turned to him, the last dregs of golden light giving her dark hair ethereal highlights. He shoved his hands in his pockets, just to have something to do with them.

"Well, goodnight. Drive safe," he said.

"You, too."

He'd only taken a couple steps when, in a hurried, almost breathless voice, she called, "Levi?"

His steps halted, and he turned back around, raised his eyebrows expectantly. Her eyes moved in quick succession over his face as indecision wavered in them; but before he could speak, she moved toward him, stepping up to him and placing one hand on his shoulder, the other lightly against his cheek.

She raised herself up onto her tip-toes, instinctively causing him to bend his head down as she pressed her soft lips to his other cheek.

"Thank you," she murmured next to his ear, before pulling away and turning to open her car door.

"You're welcome," he said absently, even as she closed it. His feet moved mechanically toward his own car door, but his eyes continued to watch her as she drove away.

It was nothing, he told himself. Just a little peck on the cheek.

And yet, there'd been that zing again. And the feel of her pressed close to him, her breath tickling his ear…

Had she noticed goosebumps had broken out down his arms?

It'd taken everything decent in him not to tug her against him and ravish her mouth—or better yet, pull her into the backseat of his truck and see if they could steam up the windows.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, the idea he was attracted to her had hovered like a helicopter waiting to land; objectively, he'd known it was there, but now it was just plain obvious and he could no longer deny it.

Because, damn it, he cared about her.

What had finally done it? he wondered. The kiss? Her laugh?

It was a bunch of little things, he realized as his mind raced through all their interactions. And this, tonight, was the first time they'd been alone together. He'd wanted to help her vent her anger without really asking himself why, and she'd let him for reasons unknown to him.

And they'd had fun. They'd actually laughed together.

And she'd thanked him, and kissed him goodbye, and now he couldn't deny he liked her.

Wanted her.

Now what the hell was he supposed to do about that?

She could use a nice, full glass of wine, Farrow thought as she shed the dirt-smudged clothes she'd hastily changed into in the back of her car after the game. And, what the hell, an indulgently long shower—she deserved it.

So thinking, she walked to the kitchen in her robe and underwear, poured herself a glass nearly to the brim before heading to the bathroom and stripping down. She took her wine with her into the shower, sipping every now and then as she took her time scrubbing the field dirt from her skin and reflecting on her impromptu practice with Levi.

She'd spent the drive home recalling how it felt to have his arms around her, and the feel of his stubble-rough cheek under her lips. Wondering what would have happened if she'd given him a proper kiss.

And now, in the comfort of home, she allowed herself to think about what it meant to her that he'd come. She didn't know how he ended up at the field, but she was glad, and grateful.

She'd seen him embracing Tina, and her heart had ached to see it—ached with both joy and sadness. Though she'd suspected Tina's feelings, she couldn't know for sure what had happened between them; her only clue was Tina's absence, which had indicated a disagreement of some kind. While she was glad to see Levi make up with his best friend, she couldn't deny she'd be disappointed if he decided he returned Tina's feelings.

But somehow he'd found her at the field, and insisted on staying with her. He might have guessed some of what was bothering her, and he'd not only wanted to comfort her, he'd also managed to make her feel better.

She'd nearly hurt him with her angry batting, which had instantly doused the fire—the need to hit something. His goofball antics had amused her, then cheered her, and the fact he'd cared enough to help her work through her anger only served to make her like him more.

And the heat she thought she'd detected in his eyes when he'd held her gave her hope there might be something between them after all.

She was still contemplating this possibility as she put on a cozy pair of sleep shorts and a tee, and her phone buzzed from the nightstand. She thought it might be Ryder—she did have a couple texts from him—but it was Bree.

"Hey," she answered, tucking the phone under her ear as she walked to the kitchen. Her stomach was grumbling, as she'd neglected to eat, but she could scrounge up a late dinner to go with her wine. "What's up? If it's about Wyatt, I don't want to talk about him."

"No, it's not about Wyatt," came the nervous response. "I have a dilemma."

"You always have a dilemma."

"I know, but…" Bree paused. "I think…I think Jackson might ask me out."

Opening the fridge, Farrow reached for ingredients to make a sandwich. "Oh."

"Yeah."

"Why do you think that?" She set everything she wanted on the counter, then put her phone on speaker and set it on the counter, too.

"I don't know, I just realized he kind of seeks me out. He doesn't really flirt, but he does pay a lot of attention to me…and I may have paid some attention to him back."

Farrow paused. "So are you saying you want him to ask you out?"

"I don't know. I do like him."

Farrow sighed.

Bree must have heard, because she said, "You see my dilemma."

"Honestly?" Farrow paused again. "I don't. I don't understand why you're doing this to yourself."

When there was no response, she added a couple slices of cheese to her sandwich and kept going. "You have feelings for someone else, Bree. That's not fair to you or to Jackson."

"I know, but what if—"

"And how do you think Ry would feel if you started dating someone? One of his closest friends?"

The line was quiet as Farrow finished making her sandwich.

Finally, Bree's voice came softly from the phone. "Ryder doesn't see me that way. Maybe going out with someone else will help me get over him."

"I'm pretty sure you're wrong about that." Actually, she was one hundred percent sure about that. "What if he does have feelings for you, but like you, thinks you don't feel that way about him?"

"…Do you think so?"

Farrow resisted sighing again. "Bree, if you want to find out how Ryder feels about you, you need to bite the bullet and ask him."

She couldn't see her friend, but she imagined Bree was biting her lip. "What if I ask him out, and he says no?"

"The answer will always be no if you never ask."

Which was exactly what she'd told Ryder multiple times, but he hadn't listened. For whatever reason, something held him back. Maybe Bree would listen, and she could finally stop watching two of the people she loved most torture themselves over their lovesick lack of communication.

It was Bree who sighed this time. "I'll think about it. But you're right. It would be unfair to lead Jackson on."

A little later, after they'd said goodnight, Farrow sat on her couch and polished off her sandwich as she thought about Bree and Ryder's situation. She'd put on a video from one of her favorite YouTube channels on the TV, but she barely paid any attention to it.

It had pained her over the years to see Ryder do nothing about his feelings for Bree, and her for him in turn. She'd never understood it.

But now, she thought maybe she was starting to understand. It was a bit terrifying to fall in love. Some might find it exciting, a reason to celebrate—and it was, or at least she thought maybe she'd get there eventually.

She'd thought maybe it was just attraction, and considered it an inconvenience. Then eventually she'd admitted there was some interest, but worked to hide it; she didn't need the distraction of dating. But something had shifted today; there on the field, she'd been vulnerable, and he'd been there for her. She could acknowledge now her heart had ached with something else entirely.

Now she wanted to feel it—and couldn't stop the smile that overtook her face at the thrill. But that didn't make it any less scary to realize she was probably falling in love with Levi Bennet.