Chapter 2

MATT

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I'm never more alive than when I'm at the beach. I love the feel of the water pulling against my ankles as I stand in the surf. The smell of the salt air brings life to my lungs. There aren't a lot of waves this morning, so I decide to go for a run. I need to clear my head anyway.

My life has been a whirlwind lately, what with finding a place to live, meeting my new team, playing ball, living in hotels on the road, and thinking about my next step. Then the season ended three weeks ago, and it's like slamming on the brakes. I went from busy and chaos to nothing to do in one day.

I've never had this kind of downtime, and it makes me uneasy. Spending this much time with myself isn't something I'm used to, and it's made me rather philosophical. I wasn't a liberal arts major, so being in my head is a whole new level of mind-fuck for me. I was a physics major, for god's sake. This existential crisis shit is not something I'm used to, and it's got me a little freaked out.

I'm wired for action. I do things. Go to school. Study. Play ball. Hang with friends. There's always something on the calendar demanding my time and attention. But now, there's not.

I've also always lived with teammates, so when the time came to move into this new role, I got my own place because I thought it'd be nice to live alone for the first time. And now that I'm doing it? I don't like it. It's so quiet. Too quiet.

I admit being back home in Charleston, where I was born and raised, is comfortable. Most guys would kill to be in my shoes, but I haven't really lived here for the last four years since I went away to college. I didn't even come home for the summers because I was playing for the Savannah Pajamas, a college summer league that created some of my favorite baseball memories. It all was more time away from home. So, being back here? It's confusing. I don't know if I belong in Charleston anymore, but I'm grateful for the familiarity when I see specific landmarks. It's home.

Mom and dad like having me over occasionally, but they've grown accustomed to the empty nest. I love my folks, but I'm twenty-three and should be living my best life, not hanging with my parents. I mean, I'm living my dream. I'm getting paid to play baseball after being drafted in the third round with the Carolina Reapers, my childhood dream team. Most guys would give their left nut to be in my shoes. Now I'm assigned to their triple-A team, the Charleston Ghost Peppers, which brings me here. Home.

So, what the fuck is wrong with me? I don't know how to process this uneasy feeling settling in my chest.

My rental house is on the Isle of Palms in a year-round, primarily locals, residential part of the island. This morning, I run down the beach further than usual because I have extra steam to let out, and I find myself in the expensive vacation home part of the island.

I stop and put my hands on my knees to rest and catch my breath. The wind burns my lungs as I take a few deep gulps of air. The weather in October can be unpredictable in Charleston, and this morning, it's cooler than expected.

I check out the mansion behind me while I steady my breathing. It's hard to believe these ginormous places are vacation homes and not someone's primary residence. There are three levels of porches spanning the width of the house and the entire side is made of glass, giving amazing ocean views, I'm sure. Its imposing size dominates the dunes. Why would anyone need this huge house?

As I survey this monstrosity, movement on the upper porch catches my eye. These houses are usually closed up in the off-season, so seeing a beautiful girl in a baggy Raleigh Renegades Hockey sweatshirt captures my attention. She leans against the rail, warms her hands with her coffee cup, and stares off into the horizon, watching the sunrise. I do a double take because if I didn't know better, that girl looks like Darcy Davidson, my best friend's sister.

What would Darcy be doing at this big beach house so early in the morning? Maybe she spent the night with a friend? A girlfriend, my head tries to convince me. Darcy may be a senior in college, but I can't imagine she'd be with a guy old enough or rich enough to own a house like this.

Maybe my brain is playing tricks on me, and it's not even Darcy. I can't deny she's been on my mind since Cole's housewarming in Nashville a few weeks ago. And I promised Cole I'd check in on her and haven't done that yet. Fuck. Some best friend I am.

I automatically walk closer to the dunes to verify whether I'm going crazy. A tall, bearded guy walks out on the porch to join her. He leans his athletic body against the rail and bumps her shoulder. She laughs and takes a sip of her coffee. He reaches over and tucks a piece of dark hair behind her ear that has blown out of her messy bun.

I'm stuck, frozen in place, watching this interaction, and I realize I've become a fucking peeping tom. I'm watching my best friend's sister get cozy with Chance Fuller, NHL superstar, at the literal crack of dawn. My stomach rolls, and I feel like I might throw up.

Yeah, they were friendly when we were all together a few weeks ago in Nashville. I wasn't a fan of their playful banter, the way he tossed her over his shoulder, and I absolutely don't like what I see now. Could they be together?

There's no way. He's at least ten years older than her, and Cole would have a stroke to think they're hooking up. And honestly, I don't like the idea much at all, either. Darcy's relationship with Chance differs from Ashleigh's, so could she be fair game? After all, Ashleigh is the little sister of Chance's best friend, and we all know you can't be with your best friend's sister. It's rule number one of the bro code. The problem here is there is no bro code between Chance and Cole.

Chance puts his arm around her and leads her inside.

I don't like this in the slightest. Nope. Not at all.

Add it to the growing list of things making me uneasy. The real question is, what am I going to do about it?