Be My Game Changer: A Sports Romance(27)

Something is off with him, but I’m not sure if I’m imagining it or if it’s simply the fact that’s we’re both adjusting to whatever is happening between us. After a few minutes, he shifts closer, so I tuck my feet up under me, enjoying when he drapes his arm around my shoulders. I lean against him, failing to focus on the movie. Instead, I study the shelves beside the TV, noting they’re filled with only décor, no pictures. It’s not Carter Barlowe, star pitcher of the Coyotes, represented within these walls. It’s the kid who probably grew up in a home just as grand and uninviting as this one. Money sure didn’t buy the Barlowe family happiness, and though I don’t pity Carter, that fact does make my heart sad for the kid he used to be and the man he is today. He deserved to grow up in a home full of laughter and happy memories; a home where there wasn’t enough wall space to display all the favorite family photos.

Nuzzling closer to him, I let out a contented sigh. Being in Carter’s embrace is cozy; I fit into the nook he’s created for me perfectly. He still smells fresh from the shower he’d taken earlier at my parents’ house, and a little thrill shoots through me when I inhale that familiar scent on him. I’m still enjoying his warmth and being nestled against him when my alarm sounds on my cell phone.

The one that wakes me up for work.

My hands press against a solid chest as I look down. I realize that I must have fallen asleep on Carter’s couch … or rather on Carter. He stirs a bit, and the arm he’s had snaked around my lower back pulls me to him. He’s sleeping too—snuggling closer in his sleep, no less—but my palms press against this chest, and I quickly jump off him, shutting off my alarm.

“I have to go. I’m gonna be late for work.” How did this happen? I just closed my eyes for a few seconds, and … Isn’t that how every story that ends in calamity starts? I don’t know what happened, but … blah, blah, blah. Ugh.

“I’ll drive you.” Carter stretches and yawns, calmly rising off the couch. Apparently, he’s not sharing in my panic.

“I can’t be late.” Translation: Move your ass. “My truck is still at my parents’ store.” Oh no. They’ll realize I didn’t pick it up last night after leaving with Carter. It’s not like it’s a big deal, but some people (named Rhett) will make a big deal about it. “Great.”

“Avery, it’s okay, I don’t need to drive you, just take my truck. We can get yours later. That way you won’t be late.”

“Take your truck?”

“Yeah. I’ll use one of my other vehicles today.”

“Other vehicles?” He says it like we’re discussing me borrowing a spare pair of socks or something. “How many vehicles do you have?”

The grogginess is gone from his face as he flatly replies, “Four.”

“Okay.” Wow. Four vehicles for one person.

“I’ll swing by during your free period with some coffee.”

“You don’t have to.” I turn away from him as I hunt for my shoes.

“Avery.” His soft tone causes me to hesitate before looking to him. He extends his hand, dropping his key fob into my palm, and gives me a quick kiss on my cheek. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”

I clutch the key fob in my hand, grab my purse, and bolt from the media room. Once in the garage, I click a few buttons before I finally open the correct garage bay and back the truck out. Only now noting one other vehicle, and guessing he probably has some secret Batcave with the other two.

Damn it. Why can’t I act normal around him? What is normal anymore? There’re times when I’m with him that I forget all the other bullshit of who he is and what he does. But then there are other times where, whether he wants to accept it or not, he is the Carter Barlowe. And I’m not sure how to wrap my head around the entire situation. It’s even more evident as I drive his fancy truck across town to my place, get dressed in record time, then hightail it to school, arriving just in time.

I’m flustered (obviously) and attempting to get settled at my desk when I hear a familiar whoop and slap on the doorframe. I don’t look up until I hear E.J. say, “Nice, Ms. W.”

“What?” Surely Carter didn’t message my student about our date last night. And my question is quickly answered, although I’m not sure how much better I feel about the picture that E.J. flashes me from his phone. Taking the device, I look at the shot of me smiling at Carter from across the table at the steak house. Cute. But then I register the caption on the photo, and let the fact sink in that this is a published article that I had no control over. Uh-oh. “Number One Fan really is a fan of Carter Barlowe’s after all. Looks like he’s officially off the market.”

He’s news. I knew this. But it’s supposed to be about his pitching. I even understood the stupid fan-at-the-game-who-brings-a-book coverage. But I hadn’t expected a picture of our date would have my student trying to give me a congratulatory fist bump. “Sit down, Ernest. Now.”

His demeanor changes at the realization that I don’t share in his excitement. My dating life will not be a hot topic of conversation in this classroom.

I mindlessly go through the motions during the class period as the picture flashes through my mind several times. It had been a fabulous date. But I’d been naive to not consider who was sitting across the table from me.