Chapter 1

Chapter One

GABBY

“I can’t even believe he wasn’t there,” I say to Bower as I pick at a bowl of nuts in front of me.

“He wasn’t?”

“No,” I say on a huff. “Couldn’t even bother showing up. You would think he should be there, but nope. And I was so thrown off that I totally botched the entire thing.”

“You probably think that, but I bet it went well.”

“Trust me, Bower, it didn’t.” I slouch on my barstool and down the rest of my second vodka and lime. Yup, hitting up the hard stuff tonight.

After that embarrassment of an interview, I need it.

“What makes you think it didn’t go well?”

“Well, to start, I tripped walking into the room, sending myself straight into the wall.”

She snorts, just as expected, but follows it by saying, “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to laugh.”

“I ran into the wall so hard that I bent my finger back and nearly broke the stupid thing. It’s really sore.”

“Well, at least you didn’t break it, as that would have made the interview even worse.”

I toss a cashew in my mouth and wave down the bartender, asking for another drink. I plan on walking back to the inn with wobbly legs and a fuzzy head. Anything to help me forget today and the shot that I completely blew.

Ugh.

It’s not very often that women get the chance to break into the field of men’s sports. And this was it for me, an opportunity to start over—to procure a teaching job at the school and possibly assist the men’s baseball team—but one trip into the wall sent that idea tumbling away faster than I could say “ouch.”

And I needed this.

I needed it bad.

With my brother still in the minor leagues, I’m helping him pay his bills while he waits for that big break, and since there were budget cuts at my last school, this was an opportunity of a lifetime.

That meant sucking up my pride and returning to Almond Bay after leaving for three years. Did I grow up in the small coastal town? No. But did I move here when I found out that the high school had one of the best baseball programs in the state? Absolutely. I kept my distance, though.

I worked a job up north at a roadside pub with a flexible schedule so I could catch Bennett’s games and also have time to earn my degree in teaching. I was easily the oldest graduate.

From the outfield, I watched Bennett play while I studied. We shared a studio apartment, and while I spent late nights at the bar, he worked on his dream of becoming a professional baseball player, a dream I know will come true. A dream that we have both sacrificed for.

But it’s taking longer than we expected. I assumed he would have been called up by now, but he hasn’t, and well, the money is drying up, hence this job.

Also why the vodka I’m drinking is what I used to drink in high school because it was all I could afford.

“Are you going to come back home tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” I mumble. “Since the interview ran late, I didn’t think it would be best to come home tonight. Thanks for the coupon for the free night at the inn. It came in clutch.”

“That’s what I’m here for, saving you money through online surveys.”

Bower is the master at an online survey. She fills them out while watching shows at night and ends up with a whole bunch of free things. I don’t have the patience . . . or the time for that matter.

“Also, you can always pick up some shifts at the Olive Garden. My dad said he’d take you on whenever you need it.”

That’s the last thing I want to do, but it looks like I might not have a choice after today’s pitiful showing.

“Thanks.” I sigh. “Might have to take you up on that.” The bartender hands me another drink, and my mind starts to get that fuzzy feeling, just what I was looking for. I take a large gulp of my drink, and just as I set it down, the door to the bar opens, and a very familiar yet rugged face appears.

I feel every muscle in my body stiffen as a set of mossy-green eyes scan the bar . . . passing right over me.

Ryland Rowley.

“Holy shit,” I say quietly into the phone.

“What?” Bower says as my eyes shamelessly scan Ryland, who seems to be encouraged by his friend behind him to keep walking forward.

He . . . he’s even more attractive than I remember.

Broad shoulders, boulder-like biceps tugging on his shirtsleeves, and pecs perfectly defined by the fabric pulling across them. His height towers over the patrons in the bar, while his dark stare gives the feeling he’s not one to mess with. And his forearms are ripped and defined, all the way to his large hands. Hands that instinctively curl ever so slightly, almost like he’s always gripping something . . . or ready to throw a punch. Well-worn jeans encase his long legs, and his tapered waist, along with the rest of his chest, gives the impression that he might not play baseball anymore, but that hasn’t stopped him from continuing to make some gains in the gym.

I remember the first time I laid eyes on Ryland Rowley. I was . . . I was awestruck. He was fit, attractive, at times . . . mesmerizing, and he was my brother’s coach. All of Bennett’s other coaches have been much older, like they’ve seen their fair share of days out on the field. Ryland was a different breed. He was fresh and innovative but with a dark stare that could make you faint if he locked eyes with you.

And he treated Bennett differently. Not only did he teach him how to improve upon his already established talent but he also taught him how to be an adult. How to take responsibility on and off the field. And he gave Bennett the opportunity he needed to be seen by scouts, which led to him being drafted right out of high school.

Now that he’s standing a few feet away, I’m still experiencing that awestruck feeling, but there’s a mask over it this time.

A mask of indifference because he . . . he didn’t show up.

“What’s going on?” Bower shouts into the phone, pulling me out of my reverie.

“He just walked in.”

“Who just walked in?” Bower asks.

Whispering now, I say, “Ryland.”

“He just walked into the bar? Nooooo. Put me on FaceTime. I have something to say to him.”

“I’m not putting you on—oh shit, he’s coming over here.” I straighten up, and for some reason, look around for something to hide behind.

“Perfect, this is your opportunity.”

Coming up short, I consider putting my hand in front of my face. “My opportunity for what?”

“For telling him off.”

“Have you lost your mind? I’m not telling him off.” I spot my cocktail napkin and consider unfolding it and draping it over my head, but that might draw more attention.

“Why not? He deserves it.”

Unable to deal with Bower as Ryland approaches, I say, “I . . . I have to go.” I hang up the phone and cross one leg over the other just as Ryland approaches the chair next to me.

Be cool.

Act nonchalant.

Don’t embarrass yourself.

Chin held high, I mentally prepare for him to recognize me and to ask me how Bennett is doing, in which my retort will be, great because of my coaching.

Is that telling him off?

Maybe I could be more snappy about it. I could channel my inner Bower.

Tell Ryland that Bennett’s great because of my coaching, something you will never have the privilege of seeing.

That seems more like Bower.

God, why am I even trying to channel her?

Maybe because I’m slightly tipsy and irritated. Not a great combination.

Ryland and his friend move in and stop right in front of me. I lift my glass, and as Ryland makes eye contact with me, I take a sip of my drink.

He clears his throat, and I prepare my onslaught of distaste.

He ruffles his hair and says, “Uh, is anyone sitting here?” He points at the bar seat beside me as his friend sits down.

I swallow the liquid in my mouth and tilt my head to the side. “You’re asking if the seat next to me is taken?”

His brow creases. “Yeah . . .”

I repeat, “You’re asking me”—I point at my chest—“if the seat is taken?”

“Uh . . . yeah . . .” he draws out, looking more confused than ever, and that’s when it hits me.

Oh my God.

He has no idea who I am.

Absolutely zero idea.

Which just makes this entire day . . . feel like it’s coming full circle.

Yup. Like this moment is the cherry on top of the shit cake that is my day.

He not only didn’t show up to the interview, but he doesn’t know who I am, it’s just so . . . insulting.

Turning away from him, I say, “No, it’s all yours.”

“Thanks,” he says as he takes it and then turns toward his friend, where they bicker about what to get to drink.

Wow.

Just wow.

I pick up my phone and text Bower.

Gabby: He has no idea who I am.

Thankfully, she texts me right back.

Bower: Are you sure?

Gabby: Positive. Zero recognition in his eyes. Took the seat next to mine and turned away from me. Completely clueless. Just goes to show how self-involved he is. Can’t show up for an interview and now can’t even recognize the sister to one of his best baseball players ever. Frankly, I’m embarrassed for him.

Bower: Are you? Or are you mad?

Gabby: Embarrassed.

Bower: Liar.

Gabby: Fine, yes, I might be a little mad. Irritated. Like this all has to be some sort of sick joke.

Bower: Maybe it is . . . which means you should probably get in on the joke.

Gabby: What the hell is that supposed to mean?

Bower: I don’t know . . . make a move.

Gabby: What? Have you lost your mind?

Bower: Perhaps. But instead of being all bitter and angry and picking through cashews, maybe . . . maybe just have some fun before you leave.

Gabby: Are you suggesting I hook up with Ryland Rowley?

Bower: Yeah.

Gabby: Yup, you’ve lost your mind.

Bower: No, I haven’t. Listen, you said it yourself, you didn’t get the job. You’re coming back home tomorrow. You’ll probably never return to Almond Bay, so you might as well have some fun before you leave.

Gabby: I’m not doing that.

Bower: Not to mention, I can recall the many times you told me how hot the man was. How many lewd jokes we shared about you playing with his *wiggles eyebrows* baseball bat.

Gabby: I beg you not to repeat that ever again.

Bower: Oh, I forgot the balls too. *clears throat* Remember all the times you told me you wanted to play with HIS bat and balls?

Gabby: I truly dislike you at the moment.

Bower: Come on, just do it. You know you want to.

Gabby: Not happening.

Bower: Chicken.

I grind my teeth together. Bower’s getting on my nerves. She knows me way too damn well to know I hate that term . . . chicken. I hate it with everything in me. Because I am anything but a chicken. I took risks my entire life. I’ve worked tirelessly to keep Bennett and me together— throughout foster care days and beyond. Even if it meant the foster care parents got the government payments without keeping Bennett. I’ve kept us alive. Fed. That took guts.

Strength.

I am not a chicken.

Gabby: Don’t call me that. You know better.

Bower: I know, I’m sorry. But come on, Gabby. You’ve always told me how hot he is. You’ll never see him again . . . ever. Might as well fulfill a fantasy for one night and then leave, head held high. Rock his world and leave him begging for so much more.

I move my lips back and forth. Well, when she puts it like that . . .