The Dugout(47)

I don’t necessarily agree with what I just said, but she turns toward me on the bed, a pinch to her brow and a fearsome fire simmering beneath. Yup, she’s a superfan all right.

“His play isn’t steady? Are you serious? He’s the second-best first baseman in the American league, only falling short to Trevor Alpine, who is a phenom with a glove in his hand. Cory leads his team in batting average, slugging percentage, RBIs, and he even has a few stolen bases despite his larger stature. He’s been a starter in the All-Star Game for the past three years, and is easily a fan favorite. He has a baller contract because he’s amazing on and off the field.”

Yup, the fire is raging.

“Not to mention,” she continues, barely getting a breath in, “he does so much outside of the stadium. He volunteers, helps run clinics for the youth—boys and girls because he’s a huge proponent for equal opportunity—and he constantly donates large sums of his paycheck to those in need. He’s what every baseball player should strive to be.”

A sly smile falls over my lips. “Looks like someone has a bit of a crush on Cory Potter.”

A look of disgust immediately crosses her face.

Did she just sneer and snort at the same time?

Okay, wasn’t expecting that. I’m secure enough in my manhood to admit when a guy is good-looking, and Cory Potter has an amazing jawline that catches all angles of the camera. I’ve never met a girl to have this look on their face when Potter is mentioned.

“I think you’re the first person to balk at the idea of crushing on Cory Potter. Is his impeccable jawline and manly muscles not your type?”

“He’s not my type because he’s my brother.”

Eh . . . what?

Did I just hear that right?

I blink a few times, realizing that my mouth is hanging open.

“Did you just say Cory Potter is your brother?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Wait . . . are you serious?” Everything she’s told me starts clicking in my head. “So . . . the Potter brothers who run the D1 facility, those are your brothers too?” She nods. “Holy shit,” I breathe out. Milly isn’t just incredibly intelligent when it comes to baseball. She comes from a baseball dynasty. The Potters are well-known in the baseball circuit and Illinois in general. All three brothers excelled at baseball, Rian and Sean opting to open a business when Cory went all the way. And I know why . . . because of the girl sitting next to me.

“So, before you go trashing Cory, I want you—”

“Mills, I was only kidding.” I place my hand on her leg and her eyes immediately fall to the connection. “I was trying to get a reaction out of you, loosen you up to talk to me. I saw you had Cory Potter things all over your room so I thought that was an easy target. Honestly, your brother is one of the guys I idolize.” I pause and think about it. “And that’s why you don’t tell people who he is, huh? Because he’s so loved.”

She picks at a piece of lint on the bed and nods. “Yeah, I don’t want fake people around me, you know? It’s why I never told you my last name, and it’s why I keep people at a distance.”

“Like me,” I say, taking the moment to grow serious with her. “You keep me at a far distance.”

“That’s not true.”

“Milly.” I give her a get real look. “It took me a whole lot of convincing you to hop into this bed. And there have been many times where you’ve just taken off without another word. Getting to know you hasn’t been easy.”

Her head turns to the side as she chews on her bottom lip. Hell, what I wouldn’t give to nibble on that lip, to take off those glasses, unleash her hair, and roll her onto the cushiness of her mattress and play around with her mouth, explore it in every way I’ve thought of since I’ve met her.

“Milly, look at me.”

Her beautifully confused eyes meet mine, and I swear my breath escapes me as I take in the vulnerability in her expression. She’s scared and nervous, but there are goose bumps prickling her skin, and in this moment, Friends playing in the background, I have a second of clarity. Of understanding.

Her talkative moments.

Her smiles and laughs.

Her goose bumps when I’m near.

Her stuttering when she’s nervous.

Her need to flee when I get too close.

Her hesitation . . .

Holy shit.

She fucking likes me but has no idea what to do with her feelings. She’s not repulsed by me. Honestly, if she was, she wouldn’t be sharing her bed with me right now. She would have asked me to leave an hour ago. But she didn’t. Instead, she kept talking, we kept watching Friends, and now she’s sitting a foot away from me, slowly but surely growing more comfortable with the possibility of opening up the door to her attraction.

Holy fuck, I think Milly Potter, baseball queen, and sexy-as-shit girl likes me.

The realization spreads a giant smile across my face that I don’t bother hiding.

She likes me.

She really fucking likes me, and now there’s only one thing left to do: make her admit it.

“It’s hard—”

“Don’t worry about it, Mills.” I hop off her bed, put my shoes back on, and grab my backpack. I need to make an action plan to win this girl over and make it impossible for her to run away from me again . . . or shove an unexpected cookie in my mouth.