Moonshot(20)

I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror, trying to find a reason he’d stared. Spinach in my teeth? Nope. Giant zit on my face? None. I flipped the handle, was washing my hands under hot water, when my cell buzzed. I grabbed for a paper towel and reached for my phone, a moment of confusion at the text.

Grant’s son? Didn’t realize your Yankee loyalty went that far. Oh. And Happy Birthday.

I leaned against the counter and sent back my best attempt at coyness. Who’s this?

Guess.

I didn’t need a guess. I hesitated, then had a moment of evil inspiration. Holding back a smile, I replied. Please stop. We were a one-time thing. Get over it. It wasn’t even that great.

I sent the red herring into cyberspace and waited, smiling. Let my new ‘friend’ stew over that. I watched dots of activity appear, and then stop.

Ty?

I waited an appropriate length of time, leaving him hanging, then set the hook. Who’s this?

Chase.

Oh. Nevermind. I thought you were someone else.

I didn’t wait for a response, my high note hit. I stuffed the phone in my purse and tried to compose myself, to hide my smile, before I stepped back out. The man needed to be taught a lesson, needed to learn to mind his own business. It’d do him some good to stew over my mythical team boyfriend.





36



What the…? Chase looked down at his phone, rereading the lines of text, the conversation taking an entirely different direction than he had anticipated. When he’d gotten Ty’s number from one of the ball boys, he’d planned to have it for emergency purposes only. Then … after overhearing that attempt to push her toward Grant’s silver spoon of a son, he couldn’t help himself. He had planned to rib her a little, poke out a little fire. He hadn’t expected to uncover this bomb. He texted back, his fingers fighting against common sense, the words out and sent before he could bring them back.

Who did you think it was?

There was a flash of blonde, and he locked the phone, sliding it into his pocket, watching her as she reentered the private room, her dress navy and short—too short for a place like this, one filled with men—her smile the only feminine thing in the room. She was a blur of tan legs and tight material, her long hair swinging as she settled back into her chair, her smile easy as she responded to something her dad said, her phone elsewhere, along with her concern. His text would be unread, would sit out there, insecure and abandoned, for who knew how long.

He shouldn’t have sent it. It was pathetic. He shouldn’t have messaged her at all.

He picked up his knife, his cut into the steak rough and hard, his irritation mounting as he stabbed the piece with his fork. Chewing, he glanced down the long table and wondered who, of the men present there, she had mistaken him for.





37



Cincinatti

Maybe it was because I’d skipped lunch. Or maybe it was because Forte had left his gold chain at the hotel and I had to get a driver to take me there, then back, missing batting practice, all so he could put that nasty thing around his neck and still error. It hadn’t been ‘right on the dresser’ like he’d said. It’d been in the shower, coiled up next to a used bar of soap with various old man hairs stuck in it.

Whether it was due to hunger, or Forte’s errand, I was grouchy. We were also down by two, which made me jittery, my palms sweating as I hung off the dugout and watched Fernandez whiff.

“Ty.”

His voice was low, but I heard it, pushing off the fence and turning to Chase. He sat on the metal bench, his hat pushed back on his head, one hand rubbing at his mouth.

I said nothing, just raised an eyebrow.

He lifted his chin, nodding his head back. “A few rows up, the brunette in the tight red shirt.”

I fought to keep my expression level. “Yeah?”

“Get her number.”

I glanced back, Fernandez still at bat. An oh-and-two count, two outs on the board. I could tell you, without even seeing the pitcher’s curl, what was about to happen.

There was the smack of a ball against leather, and Chase leaned forward, coming to a stand, his hand working into his glove. “You got a problem with that, Little League?”

It wasn’t the first time I’d been asked to scout girls from the stands. It was practically part of the job description. A player saw a girl they wanted, they sent one of us over. It had never bothered me before. But now, after his kiss, after our talks, it burned. It burned hot and red and made me want to launch myself at him, fists swinging. I shouldn’t have sent that text. I’d thought it was cute. Witty. I’d thought it would make him more interested. Instead, he’d just moved on.

“She’s a Reds fan.” I spat out the response that I should have kept to myself.

“So?” he shrugged. “I like the forbidden.” He grinned at me, and I looked away, the dugout suddenly crowded, traffic moving both ways as we took the field.

“Brunette. Red shirt,” he reminded me, his smile wide, grabbing a ball from the stack and tossing it my way, my catch of it automatic.

“He bothering you, Ty?” The hand that clapped on my shoulder was big and strong, and I turned to meet our catcher’s eyes, ones filled with protective concern.

“No,” I managed. “I’m fine.”