Chapter 33

Mackenzie

I believe.

I believe.

I believe.

And I believe that if Brooks doesn't take his ass back to his apartment to see what we've done to it in the next five minutes, I'm going to break and tell him everything.

He pulls out of the parking lot with a few disappointed fans dashing behind the Land Rover, which I swear smells like our naked bodies, and which I would like so much more if he'd gotten a hit in our pick-up baseball game today.

I shift in my seat to look at him, and I can't resist settling a hand on his thigh, because first of all, it's a very nice thigh, and second of all, I need to touch it while I still can. "Can we go to your place?"

He starts to wince, and I blurt, "It's closer," and tug my shirt low while I push my breasts up.

The Land Rover swerves, and his shorts tent. "Yes."

I don't remember getting to his parking garage. Or getting in the elevator.

But now that we're here, I'm very much enjoying having his hands up my shirt while he backs me against the mirror and kisses me like nothing in the world exists except the two of us.

We might accidentally ride the elevator all the way to the top of the building, which is several floors above Brooks's apartment, and where an old lady joins us.

"Give her breathing room, sonny," she snaps.

We leap apart.

She punches the button for the ground floor.

Brooks rubs the back of his neck and angles his body away from her—presumably so she doesn't see the pole in his shorts—while I push the button for his floor.

She harumphs at both of us, and I get the feeling she'll bop us both with her cane if we try anything in the meantime.

I meet Brooks's eye.

He coughs, lips twitching, and I struggle so hard to suppress a giggle that I end up hiccupping.

Coco Puff barks.

"The world is better because you're in it!" his collar announces.

And even the old lady giving us the stink-eye smiles at the puppy.

We tumble out of the elevator on Brooks's floor after what feels like seventy-five million years trapped with the old lady, who's starting to smell like roses and microwaved fish. Even Coco Puff snorts out a sneeze of relief when we get to fresher air.

Brooks fumbles with his keys, then fumbles with jiggling the right key in the lock, his ears turning brighter and brighter red the whole time. When it finally clicks open, he turns to block my view without a single glance inside. "I told Rhett to find me a shithole."

My brows shoot up, and he keeps talking. "I knew, without a doubt, that I wasn't really coming here to stay, that New York would want me back once I was gone, and that this would be temporary. I knew they wouldn't betray me like that."

"Brooks," I whisper, because my heart hurts like someone's taken the Fireballs from me.

I don't know how that would feel. I don't want to know.

But he knows.

He knows, because he's lived it.

He shakes his head. "You were right. I forgot what it meant to be a baseball player. I forgot what it meant to be someone that little kids all over the country look up to. I forgot why I visit children's hospitals. I forgot why I donate to everyone else's foundations. And I forgot why I ever wanted to wear a uniform in the first place. And I didn't forget in spring training. I didn't forget when I got here to Copper Valley. I forgot sometime between the time I made it to the big leagues and the end of last year. New York knew it. I wasn't a leader in the dugout anymore. I was playing for the paycheck. I was relieved when we didn't make it to the post-season."

I swallow hard. "Burnout happens. You've been playing for a long time?—"

"Being here—having you holding me accountable, believing in the team, pushing me to be better again—I get it. I remember. I want to be the guy the rookies come to when they need to figure out how to navigate the big leagues, how to know when their agent isn't looking out for them, and which veterans they can prank without waking up with a taxidermied snake in their freezer. I want to be the player that kids pretend to be while they're catching balls. I want to remember how it feels to make a difference. I want to be the hero you thought all baseball players were, until I fucked that all up for you."

Oh, my heart.

This isn't about him having sex or staying a virgin. It's not about where he lives.

It's about who he is. Who he was. And who he wants to be.

"Gods," I whisper.

"What?"

"I thought baseball players were gods."

"Fuck, Mackenzie, I can't fix that."

I shake my head. "But you did. I shouldn't have thought baseball players were gods. You're not. You're human, and I expected too much. You get to have off-days, Brooks. You get to make mistakes."

"Not at this level."

"At every level. You get to be a real person with flaws. And you should enjoy your job."

"You're helping me remember why I loved it in the first place."

He pulls my fingers to his lips and presses a soft kiss to my knuckles, and I melt into a happy puddle of I am so in love with this man.

"I hate this apartment. Let me grab a bag, and we'll go to your place. Or another park. Or bowling. Or somewhere. Anywhere. So long as I go with you."

"I like being with you."

He's smiling an eye-crinkling smile as he turns inside and freezes.

Glances back at the door like he's checking the apartment number, then looks at me.

I suck my lips into my mouth and try to look innocent, which I'm sure does the exact opposite.

But that bewilderment making his hazel eyes flare wide and his lips part—yeah, that was worth the wait.

So long as the end result is that he doesn't hate his apartment anymore.

Or, hell, I don't care if he still hates it. He can think it's even uglier. He can miss the echidna penises drawn on the ceiling. He can want his lava lamps back.

I just want him to stay. I want him to want to stay.

And I want him to be happy, no matter how he finds his happiness.

"Did you?—"

He cuts himself off with a shake of his head, then drifts deeper into the apartment, checking out the clean gray slate tile in the entryway, the white walls decorated with blown-up prints of New York City landmarks—everything from the baseball stadium to the Brooklyn Bridge—and even glancing up at the ceiling.

At the end of the short entrance, there's a soft red glow over the fresh gray carpet and new white leather couches in the living room.

He walks haltingly deeper inside, as if he's afraid he'll step wrong and hit a button that'll reset the apartment back to what it was before, and when he glances back at me again, my heart squeezes at the astonishment and the husky tone in his voice. "What's this?"

I let the door close with a soft click. "You needed a home. I needed to say sorry for cock-blocking you."

"But how? And in a week?"

"Don't ever doubt a woman with connections and taste. Wait. I should probably ask if you like it before I claim we have taste."

He doesn't answer right away. I follow him into the living room, where there's a blown-glass chandelier with color-changing LED lights that are shifting from red to blue, and which I know will cycle to purple before going back to red, but can be set on any color, right down to a simple white. Gray textured pillows and blankets clutter the new white furniture. There's a small stone statue of Fortuna, the goddess of luck, on the simple coffee table, and decorative lamps on the end tables.

He turns in a slow circle, pausing when his gaze lands on the ficus in the corner. "I have plants?"

"And a watering service if you want it."

Coco Puff races across the rug and leaps into a basket filled with squeaky toys and those dildo-looking dog toys. He barks.

"I'm the luckiest dog in the world!" his collar crows.

I gnaw on my lip and lean in the doorway to the kitchen while Brooks looks at me again. I can't read him, partly because I don't have enough practice, and partly because I'm afraid to believe that all that affection overflowing his warm hazel eyes is real.

"Meaty helped." I grab the card we left for him when we thought he'd come here last night, and hold it out to him.

He glances at the meatball's face on the cover, and his grin is so broad and sudden, it's like someone threw back the drapes and let in all the sunshine. "I wouldn't have expected anything less."

"The other mascots didn't know. Meaty doesn't like them. He's an asshole in person."

"Mackenzie."

"What?"

He takes the card and tosses it over his shoulder, then cups my cheek. "Thank you."

"We did it for the whole team," I whisper while my eyelids drift closed.

"This was all for the team?"

"No. It's for you."

"I'm going to kiss you."

"Thank god."

He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering on the outer rim, and then his lips brush mine, and yes.

This is the kiss I've waited for my entire life.

The you get me kiss.

The you are my everything kiss.

The you're my kind of crazy kiss.

He's not a baseball player.

I'm not an obsessive nutcase.

We're two people who can't keep our hands and bodies to ourselves, learning all there is to know about each other.

And I'm still learning to trust that this can be real. "Why me?" I ask between soft kisses.

"Because you're the sunshine my life has been missing. And I want to be yours."

"I'm not sunshine. I'm crazy."

"You're Nutella-covered bacon in a baked chicken breast world."

Oh, god, this man. "You're a little crazy too, aren't you?"

"You have no idea."

I'm laughing as I lean in to kiss him again, because I can't contain all of my happiness.

Not when everything in the world is this right.

"I want to taste you," he says.

And that's all the warning I get before his lips move to my jaw. Then my neck. Down between my breasts. Over my belly, leaving a trail of kisses down my shirt.

I drop my head back against the wall as his hands and mouth reach my waist, and he deftly unbuttons my top button, whispering all the dirty things he wants to do to me, all the places he wants to strip me bare, how many different ways he wants to take me, and I'm helpless to resist.

I want him.

I want him when he's happy. When he's seducing me. When he's frustrated. When he's agitated with me. When he's playing with Coco Puff.

I gasp.

I definitely want him when he's licking my clit. "Brooks."

"Fuck, you taste good."

I clutch my fingers through his hair while he very effectively demonstrates that while he might not have years of experience, he has something better—sheer determination to always be the best.

And oh my god, this man.

He is the absolute best.

I don't know what I did to deserve him, but heaven help me, no matter what happens to my team tomorrow, I will do everything in my power to keep him.

No. Matter. What.