The Dugout(43)

“Did you walk?” he asks, walking backward to look at me.

“Yeah,” I answer, my composure slipping, and because he’s one of the most observant people I know, he notices.

“You okay?”

No, you just rubbed my head like I’m your favorite dog.

“Yeah.” I tack on a smile. “Just hungry. My blood sugar is probably getting low.”

“Then get your ass in gear, Mills.” He smiles at me and takes off down the hall.

It’s safe to say that I need to shake these feelings blooming inside me and distract myself with something else. Maybe I’ll pick up a paint-by-number at the craft store. That should do it, really keep me occupied . . .

At least, that’s my pathetic attempt to keep myself busy.





“This is Milly.”

Jason Orson and Brock “Romeo” Romero both give me a curt wave before they take a seat at our table in the dining hall.

“So you’re the miracle worker,” Jason says, taking a napkin from the center of the table and folding it across his lap. I hold back the snicker that threatens to fall past my lips. It’s a paper napkin that he folded across his lap; impeccable manners, but super ridiculous.

“I wouldn’t say miracle worker,” I answer, feeling shy sitting with these three large men, who seem to consume the entire space of the four-person table. This shouldn’t feel any different to being crowded around the table with my brothers. You can do this, Potter. You can do this.

Once we sat at the table, Carson asked me if it was okay if Romeo and Jason joined us. They were just leaving study hall and looking to get some food. Clearly, I didn’t object, but a little piece of me—and I mean small—thought it would have been nice if it was just Carson and me. Then again, this is probably for the best given my current predicament when it comes to Carson Stone.

You know, the whole I think you’re really dreamy and I can’t stop thinking about you predicament.

“The man is swinging the bat better than last year; you’ve done something,” Romeo says right before shoving a forkful of spaghetti into his mouth.

“It’s like you spread his ass cheeks with both hands and blew talent right up his ass,” Jason says, as if that wasn’t the most appalling visual ever.

“She definitely didn’t spread my ass cheeks. What the fuck is wrong with you?” Carson asks, voicing probably everyone’s thoughts at the table besides Jason’s.

“What?” he asks, ham sandwich halfway to his mouth. “That’s not accurate?”

I shake my head, mortified as Carson steps in. “No, jackass. And if anyone needs something blown up their ass, it’s you. It takes you about twenty seconds to get down to first.”

“Bullshit,” Jason shouts, as Romeo and I both laugh.

It’s not a secret that Jason Orson, Brentwood’s number-one catcher, is the slowest guy on the team. With his meaty thighs and bubble butt, he’s not the quickest when sprinting to first, but he sure does have some of the best reflexes I’ve ever seen, and his throw down to second is absolutely breathtaking.

Talking with his mouth full, Romeo says, “Our freshman year, Jason cost us extra sprints because he couldn’t get his fat ass in shape for timed suicides.”

“Listen.” Jason grows serious, dabbing at his mouth with the napkin that once was on his lap. “You don’t have to sprint in goddamn catcher’s gear, okay? It’s fucking clunky as shit.”

“He makes you sprint in your gear?”

“Yup,” Carson cuts in. “Whatever you use on the field, you’re sprinting in.”

“Yeah, so while these pansies are prancing around with just their gloves in their hands”—Jason motions to Carson and Romeo, making me giggle—“I’m over here, practically running through mud with fifty pounds of gear strapped to me.”

“Jesus,” Carson mutters. “Exaggerate much?”

“Just making a point.”

“No need.” Carson leans back and drapes his arm over the back of my chair casually. Both Romeo and Jason’s eyes narrow in on the move as the hairs on the back of my neck stand tall. It’s a small gesture, maybe he’s stretching, but it still drives my mind mad with wonder and sends my breath into erratic spurts as I try not to move an inch.

I don’t want to bump into his hand, assuming the worst, nor do I want the two pair of watchful eyes observing my reaction to Carson’s closeness. One look at my face and I know they’d be able to read me . . . easily.

And just like that, I feel so uncomfortable that my body heats up and I have an itch to squirm away. I wish I could be confident and collected when it comes to a crush—yes, a crush—but I have very limited romantic experience. Yeah, I’ve had a few one-night stands, but nothing that’s ever formed into a relationship, or anything even close to being touchy-feely, hand-holding, arm-draping, cute-kissing-against-the-wall behavior.

From behind, Carson reaches up and tugs on one of my braids. “What are you studying tonight?”

The tug on my hair, the position of his arm, the smell of his deodorant, him? It’s everything I’ve always wanted, everything I’ve searched for in a relationship, but I know he’s being kind, that his actions aren’t romantic, but instead fall in the friend zone. My face flushes as my body starts screaming at me to abort, abort.