The Dugout(111)

“This is really stupid,” I whisper to Knox over the phone. “I need to turn around and leave. Tell me to turn around.”

“Don’t be a goddamn pussy; walk yourself up to her door and get the job done. We planned this out, it’s been a year in the making . . . if you don’t close I’m going to have the biggest case of emotional blue balls.”

“I don’t like how invested you are in this.”

“You gave me no fucking choice. You owe this to me, after being a bastard to live with for so long. You are one step away, just fucking do it already. Christ.”

“Your encouragement is award worthy.”

“Some might say I could be a motivational speaker.”

“Stick to baseball,” I deadpan, staring at her apartment door from the end of the hallway. “You should have seen her face today, dude. She was destroyed. I did that to her.”

“Yeah, and you’re putting everything back together now. Trust me, she’s not over you, Jason told me she’s not. Trust your instincts and finish what you started.”

“You know, instead of focusing on me so much, maybe you should probably try to work things out with Emory?”

He sarcastically laughs. “Okay, completely different. It’s hard to go after someone who doesn’t want you. Milly wants you, so you need to show her you’re not going to be a dumbass anymore. I’m hanging up. Don’t call me until the deed is done.”

The phone goes dead.

The ass really hung up on me. I consider calling him back, but he’ll just yell at me some more and honestly, I’m not in the mood. Instead, I pocket my phone, rub my sweaty hands on my shorts, and close the distance between Milly’s apartment and me.

This is it, everything I’ve been working toward the past year.

One question is all I have to ask, and her answer will speak volumes.

On a deep breath, I knock. The TV is muted before her feet pad across the floor. I prepare myself to set my eyes on her countless freckles and endearing eyes, but when she opens the door, I’m not ready for what I see on the other end.

She’s . . . fuck, she’s so goddamn beautiful.

In the years we’ve been a part, she hasn’t changed much. Her glasses are different, black-rimmed instead of tortoiseshell and a little smaller, but not by much. They frame her eyes more, making them seem almost brighter . . . more defined. And her hair, it barely kisses her shoulders and is parted to the side, silky and beautiful. I want to pass my fingers through it, absorb the texture into my memory.

Her body, defined and gorgeous as it was before but instead of her baggy clothing, she seems to have tightened everything up, outlining her body for the world to see.

There’s no denying she’s just as irresistible as she was in college, but now more mature—which makes my heart ache and guilt consume me—because it’s a stark reminder that my idiocy kept us apart.

“Carson,” she says on a gasp. “What are you doing here?”

Keep it short and sweet.

This is the invite. If she accepts, that’s when I lay it all out on the line.

I grip the doorframe and lean in, carefully taking in the way her eyes widen as they roam my chest. She’s not the only one who’s changed and from every small perusal, I know she’s thinking the same thing.

Mustering every ounce of courage inside me, I say, “Back at the training facility, you asked me what I wanted from you and I told you I didn’t know.” I pause and connect my eyes with hers. “I was lying.”

“What do you mean, you lied?” she asks, clutching her Bobbies tank at the collar, her eyes wavering between mine.

Here it goes. The invite. The end to this journey.

Swallowing hard, I say, “Tomorrow night, meet me in the dugout. Our dugout.”

“What?” she asks, caught off guard.

“Eight.” I smile. “Don’t be late.”

I begin to walk away but she steps out into the hallway halting me while holding the door open with her foot. “What if I don’t show up?”

Nerves churn in my stomach as she directly calls out my worst fear. What if she doesn’t show up? Then I try to swallow the biggest mistake I ever made.

“Then I’ll take that as my cue to get a hint . . . and leave you alone,” I say softly, recycling the same words I told her over a year ago.

Without turning back around, I leave, not physically able to take in her reaction. I don’t have it in me to see what she’s truly thinking. Even though the wait will be torturous and undeniably long, I will prolong hearing her answer—learning what my fate is—because at least right now, I know there’s at least a chance.





Knox: Is she there? Are you holding hands? Kissing? What’s happening?

Jason: I know, I can’t take the anticipation. I’m going to throw up in my shoes. I need to know what’s happening.

Romeo: I don’t know why you dipshits are nervous. He has this in the bag. Have you seen the guy’s forearms lately? #deadly

Knox: Thanks to me. I taught him everything he knows in the weight room.

Scoffing, I type back, trying to keep myself distracted from the fact that Milly is five minutes late.

Carson: You taught me jack shit.

Knox: Noooo. You answered. Does that mean she’s late?