16. Pink

Pink

Roasters 97–60

I t was safe to say that most people—dear old Dad notwithstanding—would describe me as a fairly agreeable person. In fact, the phrases “aggressively outgoing” and “golden retriever puppy” had been thrown around on more than one occasion by multiple people. It was a well-known fact that I shined when given the opportunity—on the field, in the bedroom, and during interviews.

“We’re almost done, Pink. Just a few more photos.”

I nodded from my spot on the mound, tucking my glove under my arm as I waited for Brock Heller’s photographer to reframe his shot.

The three of us had been at this for nearly an hour, ever since our abysmal game. Losing was a natural part of the sport—not that that made it any easier to swallow—but it weighed a little differently on the pitcher’s shoulders. This was my loss, my fault. Nobody else on the team had given up three homeruns in four innings. That had been all me.

And now, I had to smile pretty and pretend like everything was okay, as if the loss hadn’t fazed me one bit. Good thing I’d had years of training in that arena.

What most people—not even my teammates—didn’t realize was that I never chose the spotlight; the spotlight chose me.

Even in junior high—well before my baseball career had begun—when my dad had been on his second gubernatorial run, most weekends had been filled with attending social functions and fundraisers. While the other kids had spent their Sundays by the pool or playing the latest version of The Sims , I’d attended polo matches with the sons and daughters of Connecticut’s finest, in a suit picked out by my father’s executive assistant/mistress.

By thirteen, I’d dined with more U.S. Congress members than most people met in their lifetime. At fourteen, I’d joined my school’s Model UN chapter. It hadn’t been until my sophomore year of high school that I’d tried out for the baseball team, and even then, I had only done it to spite dear old Dad, who’d thought a son who played football would be “more beneficial” for his career. At least, that was what his advising staff had told him.

It seemed that in trying to go my own way, I had merely traded one dog and pony show for another. At least this one came with friends who liked me for me—most of the time, at least—and not my dad’s connections.

“While he’s setting up, do you mind if I ask a few more questions?” Brock asked, tentatively approaching the mound.

He had traded his usual beach casual attire for some wide-legged trousers and a button-down, short-sleeved top. The floral print reminded me of the sofa from our old house on Martha’s Vineyard.

“Sure,” I answered, toeing the dirt. “You just had to cover my shittiest game of the season, huh?”

He smiled. “Now, we both know that’s not true. Your game against Detroit back in June was way worse.”

“Damn. Way to hit a guy when he’s down.”

“Actually, since you brought it up, how do you deal with a loss like this? Do you have a specific postgame ritual?”

The answer was yes, but I didn’t want him to know that. If Brock knew about the game diary, he might ask about the story behind it, and that was a road nobody wanted to go down, least of all me. It had been hard enough to make it out the first time.

“Nothing special,” I told him, lying through my fakest of smiles. “I treat myself to an inordinate amount of carbs—the Totchos from Thorn Tavern are my absolute favorite. I ice my shoulder, get lots of rest, do some gardening if I have the time for it—”

“You garden?”

“I do,” I sounded proudly. My passion for plants wasn’t something I shared with everyone, but I felt like I had to give the guy something. “Believe it or not, I know my way around a gourd.”

Brock’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. “Gotta say, I didn’t see that one coming.”

“I’ve been told lately that I’m full of surprises.” An image of Nessa clad in an oversized sweater and leggings, clutching a book to her chest, popped into my head. “Actually, a good friend of mine got me into reading romance novels recently. She owns a romance bookstore in Rose City.”

“Wow, another Rose City shoutout. The town should hire you to do tourism campaigns.”

I held my hands up in front of me, glove and all. “Hey, I wouldn’t say no.”

We talked for a few more minutes after that. He even snapped a few photos of me in the dugout with my Hitters are for Quitters paperback before downloading a digital copy to his Kindle app. Brock Heller was okay, more down-to-earth than most of the journalists I had interacted with previously.

“I probably shouldn’t hedge my bets, but this ‘good friend’ of yours who got you into reading romance . . .”

Brock trailed off, leaving me to fill in the blanks. “Was there a question in there, Brock?”

A knowing grin spread across his lips. “C’mon, you know what I’m getting at. Until now, you’ve been pretty tight-lipped about your personal life.”

With good reason, though he didn’t need to know that. In fact, a part of me wondered if Brock already knew more about me and my past than he was letting on, but that was beside the point.

“Is there somebody special in your life?”

“On the record?” He nodded. “Yes, and that’s all you need to know.”

“And off the record?” he pressed.

“Same answer.”

“Are we sure that the woman who wrote this has ever watched a baseball game in her life?”

I nearly came in my shorts when Nessa’s laugh sounded from the other end of the phone.

“Now, now. Don’t be mean.”

It had been six days since she’d apologized that night after book club, and we had found a reason to talk for those six days straight. It had started with a text or two about that day’s game or the dress she had picked out for the benefit, but after a particularly grueling doubleheader earlier in the week, I’d picked up the phone and called her.

I hadn’t thought too much about it, other than the fact that I’d wanted to hear her voice. It wouldn’t have mattered if she was telling me about her day or reading out of the dictionary—I just wanted her.

“C’mon, I know you’re not a baseball expert by any means—”

“Hey,” she interrupted. “I’m getting better.”

“—but she mixes up force play and tag play in the second chapter.”

“Force play, back-door slider, riding the pine—why do so many baseball terms sound sexual?”

“Don’t forget the mound, angel.”

A groan accidentally slipped out of me when I lay back against the pillows to stretch my legs out. We were four games into a seven game road series, and I had never been more desperate to crawl into my own king-sized bed. I was a restless sleeper by nature, always had been.

Thankfully, Bennett didn’t give two shits about my moaning and groaning throughout the night since he took his audio processor off before bed. Nessa and I could have bed-shattering phone sex right now and he’d be none the wiser.

“Are you okay?” she asked when I groaned again. Today’s game had been particularly taxing, made worse by the humidity. I fucking hated the Midwest.

“Yeah, just stretching out.”

“Where are you?”

My cock twitched. “In bed.”

“Oh.”

“How about you, angel?

Her frustrated sigh made me smile. “Still at the store. The power went out this afternoon, and it took forever for the PGE guys to get it back up and running, so I’ve got some work to catch up on.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” I asked her, even as I fired off a quick text to Dani.

I hated the idea of Nessa being on her own so late at night, even in a small town like Rose City. Dani had flown back after this afternoon’s game, so maybe she could take a quick drive by Smutty Buddies on her way home from the airport. Or call on Bruno, the Roasters’ chief security officer. Bruno had the face of an ex-mafia member and the body of an MMA fighter—nobody messed with him and lived to see morning. Dani, though, had the Russian bad ass wrapped around her finger.

“I’m okay. Just frustrated.”

That made two of us. Mine was a different kind of frustration, though. One that I had yet to work out, no matter how many times I jerked off.

“Tell me something to distract me.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Anything. Tell me about your family. You have a sister, right?”

This was virgin territory for us. We hadn’t discussed my family before, and though I was reluctant to go into some of the grittier details that still gave me the occasional nightmare, my sister was a safe subject. “I do.”

“Is she younger or older?” Somewhere in the background, her fingers clicked against the keyboard. The soft pitter-patter of nails on keys reminded me of raindrops on a roof.

“She’s three years younger.”

“Twenty, then?”

“Twenty-one. I had a birthday recently, remember?”

Her sharp inhale made my chest rumble. Oh, she remembers. I knew exactly what she was thinking about—our kiss that day in the street. Best birthday ever.

“She’s away at college in Maine. Although, if she had it her way, she’d drop out and move out here tomorrow.”

“To Oregon?”

I dug my fingers into a particularly painful kink in my neck. “To wherever is farthest from our parents and that also allows bees.”

“Bees?”

“That’s right, bees. Bella is what you might think of as a professional hobbyist. Bees are her latest intrigue.”

Now that I thought about it, the fact that Belles was still as into her bee craze as she was spoke volumes. Her interest in things tended to wane as quickly as it began, but that didn’t seem to be the case with bees. Of all the things.

“Bees are cool.”

A smile tugged at my lips. “That doesn’t mean I want them in my yard. Especially not when I have plans of my own.”

“Plans for what?”

“A poison garden.”

Her stunned silence spoke volumes.

“I’m sorry,” she said, biting back a laugh. “A poison garden?”

“That’s right.”

“What are you, a serial killer?”

I didn’t expect her to understand my strange fascination with plants; most people didn’t. It wasn’t something I talked about with many people either, not even my teammates. I gave enough of myself away already—to my fans, to my family, to the game. I deserved to have a little something for myself, a kingdom of my own.

“When I was in college, I studied abroad for a semester in England and visited this garden full of intoxicating and narcotic plants. Over a hundred species, if you can believe it.”

“That’s wild.”

My eyes drifted to half-mast while her keyboard clicking continued, syncing seamlessly with Bennett’s dulcet snores.

“Are some of your tattoos poisonous plants?”

“Yeah, actually. All of them.” I traced a finger across the ivy down my side, circling the sprig of hemlock nestled just between the belladonna, I’d gotten in honor of my sister, and the blooms of oleander. “I think I was taken with how something so beautiful, like a flower or shrub—”

Or bookstore owner.

“—could be so dangerous and out of control if not handled with the right amount of care.”

“Mm-hmm,” she mused. “But what about the bees?”

A deep belly laugh rolled out of me. I half-expected the vibration to wake Bennett.

“The bees don’t pay my mortgage,” I told her. “Oh, by the way, that guy interviewed me today.”

“Brock, the podcast guy?”

I snorted. “Yes, that is his full name.”

“Shut up,” she teased, her voice laced with laughter. “I checked out a couple of his episodes. I didn’t understand most of what he was talking about, but he seems legit.”

“Glad to know he’s got the Nessa Gibbs seal of approval.” I took a deep breath before adding, “He, uh, also might have taken a few photos of me reading that book.”

“What book?” A lightbulb went off in her head before I could answer. “ Our book?”

“He saw the paperback sticking out of my bag and asked about it.”

“And you told him?” she asked, shocked.

“Why not? I’ve got nothing to hide.”

Just because I didn’t broadcast every facet of my life didn’t mean I was hiding it. I wasn’t embarrassed about my reading preferences. Hell, most men—and their partners—would probably benefit from a little more romance reading.

“I also might have mentioned your store, so don’t be surprised if you get a call or something.”

Hopefully, she wouldn’t see that as overstepping or, heaven forbid, another act of swooping.

“Oh. Well, that’s—” I held my breath while she searched for the words. “Thank you, Jared.”

We fell into a comfortable silence after that. While she tapped at her keyboard, I couldn’t help but think about how much had changed between us over the course of the last week. The wall Nessa had erected between us months ago had crumbled, leaving nothing but a pile of dusty bricks in its wake. That was nothing a few hours with a shovel couldn’t fix.

Child’s play.

Turning down the chance to back out of our fake relationship had been the easiest no I’d ever given. A better man might have thought twice about it, but that wasn’t me. There was no turning back now.

Not until I made Nessa mine.

“I like that,” I rumbled, my voice roughened with fatigue.

The clacking ceased. “What?”

“Your fingers on the keyboard.” A few of my teammates swore by ASMR to help them sleep at night—something about brain tingles—but I had never given it much thought until now. “I don’t know. There’s something soothing about it.”

I rolled over onto my side and tucked the phone between my ear and the pillow. “Will you stay on the phone with me for a little bit?”

“You—” She stammered her words. “What should I—”

“You don’t have to say anything.”

“Okay.” Her soft tone caressed my skin, settling between my muscles and easing every knot. “Goodnight, Jared.”

“Goodnight, angel.”

I drifted off to the melodic rhythm of fingers on plastic. Tonight, I would rest easy—more so than I had in weeks— knowing that the dust between us had started to clear. We were finally on the same page.