Be My Game Changer: A Sports Romance(12)

“I have a feeling he and I will both be disappointed if I don’t heed his advice,” I say as she halts, slowly turning to face me. “So, can I get your number or maybe meet you sometime for coffee?”

The horror on her face isn’t exactly what I’d expected. The look does nothing but kick up a churning in my gut. It intensifies when she shakes her head and responds, “No. I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Shit. I did. I still do. “And what makes you think that?”

“History. That’s what,” she responds, ushering me into the main office, making her way to the secretary’s desk. “Principal Newman wanted to see Mr. Barlowe before he left, but I really need to get back to my classroom. Can you show him to his office?”

The secretary hurriedly jumps up, as eager to help as Avery is to escape me. “Avery.” When I say her name, she stops, quickly glancing over her shoulder with a mixture of uncertainty and something else I can’t quite read on her face.

“It was really nice to meet you, Carter, but I have to get back to my students.” With that, she walks away, and I stand there, watching her once again hurry away. Only this time, I feel like she’s running from me in particular and not just some baseball player she assumed the worst about.

“Right this way, Mr. Barlowe.” The giddy lady speaks with such sweetness that I have to return her smile, but I’m defeated inside. My shot didn’t get anywhere near the desired goal. I told E.J. I didn’t think it’d go well, but that was before I felt like there was a real connection between me and Avery. Or maybe that feeling was some kind of release from blubbering about my family issues. One thing is for sure though, the great Wayne Gretzky had it right: “You miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take.” And Avery Whitlock is worth taking a few more cracks at even if I know I’ll strike out a few times. And I’m sure I will.

The tantalizing temptress has me so twisted up in her trance, I’m quoting hockey players and have given up control of the game to her. She’s the one on the mound, determined to strike me out and send my ass back to the dugout. But she hasn’t done her research, her stats on me are zip. Which means she doesn’t know what she’s up against. Which gives me a chance. I’m smart and damn well determined when my head is in the game. And right now, it’s consumed with scoring an opportunity to discover more about the beauty hiding behind those hazel eyes. So, I’ve got a few more swings left. My time in the batter’s box isn’t up yet. Make it count, Barlowe.





9





AVERY





I pull the front door of my apartment open. “You’re late.”

Bodie holds up several bags. “That’s because I went to every place that I could remember you liked within a thirty-mile radius.”

“You didn’t have to,” I say, feeling guilty and exhausted after fussing at him on the phone earlier. “It was just a long day.”

“Yeah. Of touring the school with a famous baseball player.”

I glare at him as he sets the bags on the counter and holds his hands out in defeat. “Really though, Avery. Is it such a bad thing that Carter Barlowe wants to hang out with you?”

“Yes. Because anyone you refer to by their full name isn’t someone who hangs out with people like me. I’m a challenge. That’s all. The one who dared not be entertained by watching him play catch for three hours.” That has to be why. It’s the only thing I can think of that would make Carter pursue me. And I’m guessing my lack of interest and the media making a joke of it, memes included, isn’t helping Mr. Big Shot’s ego. Although, there were a few minutes where I saw something different in him. And as much as I wanted to cling to that, at the end of the day, we’re worlds apart. “He’s a professional athlete. And I’m just … me.”

“Avery, stop. Maybe he wants to get to know you because you’re you.”

Shaking my head, I reach into the to-go sack I recognize from my favorite Italian eatery. “Can we talk about something else, please?”

“So, you’re not going to fuss at me in your teacher-Avery voice for everything?”

“No. I just want to forget.” I plunk down on the sofa, digging my fork into the pasta dish that smells delightful.

“That can be arranged,” Bodie holds up a bottle of liquor, then a beat later, he pulls out a bottle of wine. “But it’s a school night, so I brought this too.”

“Good thinking.”

He moves around my small kitchen, grabbing two glasses, uncorking the bottle before pouring us both a healthy serving. Setting my glass on the coffee table, he sits on the sofa next to me. Grabbing the remote, he clicks the TV on, tuning into the Coyotes game, of all things. When I turn a glare on him, he says, “Your man isn’t even pitching tonight, Avery.”

“Okay. What part of ‘forget’ are you unclear on? Besides, he’s not my man.” He’s nothing to me.

“This is about my brother,” Bodie says. I stop and look to him, hating and loving that I don’t have to explain myself to my best friend. “He’s not the same. Besides, that was like seven years ago. High school, Avery. Carter is in a completely different league than Russell ever was. Literally.” He gently pats my knee.