The Dugout(107)

My mouth falls open and my heart catapults in my chest when my eyes connect with the man standing in my doorway. Handsome as ever with a five o’clock shadow that only highlights his light blue eyes even more is Carson Stone, a blast from the past, the last person I ever expected to be standing at my door.

“Milly, is everything okay?” Cory asks, but I ignore him.

My head starts shaking no as I take a step back, my chest filling with grief, my eyes clouding with tears, my heart breaking all over again from being this close to him, from inhaling his familiar scent, from seeing deep into the same eyes I fell in love with so long ago.

“Wh-what are y-you doing here?” I ask.

“Who’s there? Do I need to call the cops?” Cory shouts.

“I was hoping we could talk,” Carson says, his face somber but with a hint of hope.

But hope for what? He killed whatever was happening between us.

“Talk? Who is that? Is that Stone?” Cory yells.

Finally addressing him, I reach for the phone and say, “I’ll call you back.” He goes to say something but I hang up before I can translate, and then set my phone back on the console and fold my arms across my chest, finally remembering what I look like.

Good Lord.

My short hair is an absolute mess, windblown from my walk earlier. I’m wearing Baltimore Storm sweatpants that have seen better days, and I’m in a loose, feminine-cut black shirt. Not the kind of outfit you want to be wearing when you see an ex for the first time in years.

“Carson, I . . . I don’t think you should be here.”

“I understand.” He stuffs his hands in his jeans pockets that cling to his thighs. That’s when I take a second—and I mean a second—to admire how much stronger he looks, how the last three years under a strong training regimen has transformed him even more into a starting second baseman for a major league baseball team. “But I would like to say something to you before I go. Can I at least do that?”

No.

I want you to leave.

I wish you never came by.

Because now my heart is beating fast, my palms are sweating, and the emotions that I’ve tamped down are resurfacing again.

And that scares me.

I’ve never felt for anyone the way I feel for you . . .

“Fine,” I answer, even though my conscious is screaming obscenities at me.

“Can I come in?” He nods to my small studio apartment, the same apartment we were intimate all over. On the bed, the chairs, the counters, the shower, every part of this apartment has been touched by him, and it’s one of the reasons I desperately wanted to move and the only reason I’ve stayed.

I shake my head. “That’s not a good idea.” I lean against the wall and say, “Just tell me why you’re here.”

“Okay.” He takes a deep breath and connects his gaze with mine. “I came here to tell you I was sorry.”

That’s exactly what I feared.

“Yeah, I was right, this wasn’t a good idea.” I push off the wall and walk toward the door, gripping the edge. “You should go.”

“Milly, please, let me get this off my chest.”

“Why?” I ask, my voice growing strong with anger. “So you can feel better about how you treated me? So you don’t have to walk around with guilt any more about breaking my heart and stomping it on the ground? So you can move forward in life and leave me a mess of a girl once again?”

His face drops, and his shoulders slump as he takes a step forward. “Milly—”

I stop him with a hand to his thick, corded chest. “Don’t.”

He reaches up and grabs my hand, pushing our palms together.

Eyes wide, I try to pull away, but he holds me tight. “Let go. You don’t get to hold my hand anymore.”

But he doesn’t let go, instead, he cuts the distance between us in half.

“Please.” He pleads with his entire body. “Let me apologize.”

I shake my head. “It’s not going to change anything. I’ll still be mad at you, my heart will still be fragile and cracked, and my trust in you will still be gone.” And I’ll be broken again. I can’t do this. Not now. Not ever.

“But at least you’ll know why.”

“Do I really want to know?” I ask, daring a glance at him and chastising my heart for beating faster when I catch the sorrow in his features.

“I want you to know.” He takes in my apartment and then focuses back on me. “Please, Coach, let me explain.”

Using my nickname is my undoing. I bite my bottom lip and step aside, letting him into my apartment, a move I’m certain I’ll regret in the morning.

“Thank you,” he whispers, walking in and taking a seat in one of the wingback chairs in my living room.

With my back to him, I shut the door and silently tell myself to be strong, to not break down in front of him and to erect a wall around my heart, even if it has to be put together with tape and glue, anything to keep him away.

I take a seat across from him but sit cross-legged in the chair, gaining enough distance to put my anxiety at ease.

Once I’m comfortable and situated, I catch him staring at me, intently, with curiosity. I tug on a short strand of my hair and try not to make eye contact with him. His eyes were always my weakness.