The Dugout(34)

“I’m so, so sorry,” she says, looking like she’s on the verge of tears. “I overslept. Your text woke me up, and I rushed down here as quickly as possible.” Her lip quivers. “I’m really, really . . . so-sorry.”

I’ve never seen her like this, so distraught, so close to losing it. Yes, I’ve seen her nervous, I’ve seen her angry, I’ve seen pure joy shine through her addicting smile, but I’ve never seen her so distraught. Nor this disheveled. Her hair is piled messily on top of her head, she has a sleep line cutting across her cheek, and she’s wearing baggy Nike shorts with a tight-fitting tank and black sports bra that’s showing off a decent amount of cleavage. Why the hell does she hide that incredible body? For some reason, the entire outfit is working for me.

“I stayed up late last night, reworking your lace and I . . . I . . .” She bites her bottom lip. “Anyway. There you go. I’m sorry.” She turns and attempts to rush back to her car, but I grab her arm before she can move.

“Hey, Milly. It’s okay.”

And those four little words seem to break her. Tears fall over her cheeks that she quickly wipes away, as if she believes that if she gets rid of them quickly enough, I might not see them.

But I saw them, and they’re just about breaking me in half.

“You must have been panicking. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

“Milly.” Before I can stop myself, I pull her into my chest and wrap my arms around her. “It’s okay. I knew you’d get here.” I don’t mention how I was about to pee my pants from stress, because I was scared shitless I was going to Indiana without my glove. “Everything’s okay.”

Cautiously, her arms wrap around my waist. “I’m really sorry.”

I pull away and tip her chin so she’s forced to look at me. Tears pool at the rim of her glasses and her eyes are bloodshot. How late was she up last night? “Please stop apologizing. You did me a huge favor, so how about you give me a chance to say thank you?”

She tries to force out a smile, but it barely reaches the edges of her lips.

I bring the glove between us and give it a good once-over. The stitching is pristine, the leather feels smoother than when I first got it, and the pocket almost looks deeper, if that’s possible. I’m fucking impressed.

“I could have done a better job if I had more time, I would have—”

“Milly. This is perfect.” I wrap an arm around her and give her another hug. “Thank you so much. This means a lot to me.”

“Oh . . . you’re welcome.” She pushes her glasses up on her nose once we part. Her demeanor lightening. “So . . . you’re not mad?”

“Come on, Coach. How could I be mad at you? You have single-handedly switched my season around. I’m not mad, I’m fucking grateful.”

That beautiful smile appears, her dimples deepening. “Okay, good.” She lets out a pent-up breath. “Well, I’ll uh, let you get to—”

“I was telling Gunner about your wicked spin.” I don’t want her to leave just yet. “He said he wants to book a lesson.”

Her face softens as she looks at the ground and chuckles. “It’s pure luck whatever comes off my hand.”

“Pish, you and I both know that’s not the truth.”

“Well, maybe not entirely true, but my spin is a secret.”

“I think Gunner would pay heavily in tacos if you let him.”

Her face falls for a second and I wonder what I said that caused such a reaction, but I don’t have much time to think about it as she takes a step backward.

She points at my glove and says, “Have a good weekend. Remember, drive your hands forward, not down.”

With a half-happy smile, she goes to take off again. “Hey.” She pauses and I try to think of something to say to her, anything that will get her to smile at me one more time before I leave. “Uh, would it be okay if I text you this weekend?”

Her smile is gentle, but it’s still there, a small glimpse of what I crave. “Yeah, you can text me, Carson.”

Clutching my glove to my chest, I say, “Thanks, Coach.” I wave and watch her get in her car, wondering why I really wish I’d snagged one more hug from her before she took off.





Carson: Any wise words before the game today?

Milly: Hit the ball.

Carson: Wow . . . I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything so profound before.

Milly: A regular old Hemingway over here.

Carson: With such inspirational words, they might slap your quote up on a wall with your name beside it, something players pat before every game.

Milly: I could see it happening.

Carson: Are you going to watch online today?

Milly: I have a game with my little league team, or else I’d consider it. Watching the animated play-by-play is torturous. I don’t know why they can’t livestream the games.

Carson: The boys have a game today? That’s cool. Wish them luck for me.

Milly: Sure, I’ll let them know Carson Stone wishes them luck. They’ll all probably drop dead right before the game.

Carson: I wish my schedule didn’t conflict with theirs, or else I’d be there practicing with them. We do have the same coach after all.