The Dugout(41)

“Wow.” Carson is silent for a second. “That’s one of the best stories I’ve ever heard. Damn, Milly, you’re pulling at my heartstrings.”

“You have those?” I joke.

“Oh, I have a lot. Sometimes, late at night, I clutch my teddy bear and just cry for the hell of it. A good cry can be cathartic.”

“How come I don’t believe a word of that?”

He chuckles. “Probably because I’m a manly man. Testosterone oozes from me.”

“Yeah, I don’t believe that either. I’ve seen you whimper when I accidentally peg you.”

“Accidentally?” He balks. “Puh-lease, you hit me on purpose when I’m not doing what you want.”

It’s true.

“Well, it teaches you to pay attention, doesn’t it?”

“My thigh is black and blue because of you.”

“Okay, that’s being a little dramatic, but also, not my fault that you don’t want to listen to me. Do as I say and you won’t get hurt.”

“You’re cold, Mills.”

I chuckle, not feeling the slightest remorse about my teaching techniques. And for the record, I don’t use the same style when teaching my eight-year-olds, apparently only my brothers and Carson. They’re old enough to realize when they’re being idiots, so a little knock to the thigh isn’t going to hurt them, just remind them to pay attention.

“You talk a lot about your brothers playing baseball; did any of them make it to the big leagues?”

I’ve been waiting for him to ask me that question and for some weird reason, I really don’t want to tell him. Whenever people find out that my brother is Cory Potter, they get weird and dreamy-eyed. Not that Carson would have hearts in his eyes at the mention of my brother’s name, I just . . . I don’t know, I like not being associated with his fame. I like people knowing me for me, and not as the Storm’s famous first baseman’s sister.

But I also can’t lie, so I decide to tell him a partial truth. “Yeah, but I don’t like to talk about it much.”

“Oh . . . sure. I can understand that. You probably get asked a million questions about him.”

“Something like that,” I say, sounding completely elusive.

“Well, what do you want to talk about then?”

Confused, I say, “What do you mean? You’re the one who called me.”

“Because I needed to make sure you were sane. I was really concerned that I was saddling myself to a crazy person.”

“You still might be, you don’t know too much about me.”

“You don’t think so?” he asks, a hint of challenge in his voice.

Curious, I say, “No, you don’t.”

“Okay, fine.” I can hear him crack his knuckles—gross—and then he says, “I know that you like M&M’s but only the caramel ones. You don’t think they’re comparable to Rolos, because of the hard shell, but you do think Rolos are better in ice cream. I know that when you pitch and your arm starts to tire, the ball drifts to the left because you’re overshooting.”

“Hey, that’s not—”

“I know you’re really brave and confident in your knowledge, but when voicing it to someone new, you cower, but you have no problem sassing your brothers. I know when you’re nervous, you have a tick—”

“What? No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do,” he continues. “You push your glasses up on your nose. It’s like a safety blanket, an invisibility cloak you rely on.”

Maybe that’s a little true. But with every little revelation, my heart grows, knowing how much Carson actually understands me. And honestly? I’m shocked. I’m so used to being the observer in nearly all relationships I’m a part of, that this is kind of strange.

“I know you would never leave practice without wrapping a ball in your glove to maintain the pocket, and I know that even though it’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen, you still enjoy wearing that stupid fisherman’s hat whenever you get a chance.”

Shyly, I say, “I like my ears being covered.”

“And I bet you ten bucks that if I could actually see you, your cheeks would be red.”

I press my hand against my flaming cheeks that seem to be turning hotter by the second.

“I’m right, aren’t I?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny.”

He lets out a long laugh, the sound filtering through my ears and straight into my veins. I love that sound, hearty and real. He never holds back his joy.

“Okay, smart-ass.” Oddly we both yawn, causing us to laugh. “I think we’re tired.”

“Yeah, long nights and early mornings are catching up to me.”

He’s quiet for a second and then asks, “Am I running you ragged?”

“No, not at all.”

He continues, as if he didn’t hear me. “Because if you want to slow down on our sessions, we can.”

“Oh . . .” I pause, biting my bottom lip. “Well, if you want to cut out some sessions, that’s up to you. But I . . . I don’t mind.”

“You don’t mind spending time with me?”

I smile in the dark. If only he knew. “No. You smell nice, you’re a good listener—for the most part—and you show great potential.”