The Dugout(54)

Becoming restless, I bounce back and forth on my heels just as headlights shine on the parking lot and she pulls into the spot next to my car.

A wave of nerves and butterflies hit me, making me feel excited and nauseous. Thanks to a Brentwood baseball fan, I was given the code to turn on the lights on the field. Not wanting a giant spotlight on the both of us, I left it to one light so we can see each other.

I have a backpack full of picnic items if she says yes and an escape plan to tamp down the humiliation if she says no. Either way, I’m going to find out soon what the answer is.

Eyes trained on her, I watch her hop out of the car in a pair of leggings and a Bobbies for Life shirt. I smile to myself, loving that she’s a hometown girl. Chicago Bobcats fans are known as Bobbies, and even though her brother plays for the Storm, she still has a love for Chicago.

Keys in hand, she jogs down the hill to the field and slips past the chain link fence and into the dugout, looking frantic. She takes me in, my jeans and perfectly styled hair. Not what she was expecting, I’m sure.

“What’s . . . what’s going on?” she asks, sounding out of breath.

I stand from the bench, leaving my backpack on the ground but close enough that I can retrieve and sprint away. I rock on the back of my heels. “Why weren’t you at the party?”

“What?” Her brow pulls into an affronted frown. “That’s why you called me out here? To ask about the party?”

I nod, not caring that she might be mad about it. “Yeah, why didn’t you come?”

She exhales sharply and slips her hand up to her ponytail holder, letting her hair loose. My eyes immediately watch the wave of brown that floats down her back, swishing back and forth as she expels a breath of anger.

“Carson, I thought something was seriously wrong. You said it was an emergency.”

“It is an emergency. I need to know why you weren’t at the party.”

“This could have been done through text.”

I shake my head. “No, it couldn’t. I need to hear the reason, not read it. Why weren’t you there?”

“What does it matter?” she says, avoiding the answer.

“It matters to me. Why, Milly?”

She glances to the side. She’s about to tell me a lie. I know her well enough to understand her cues, and she’s on the verge of letting a lie fall from her lips.

“Just not my scene,” she answers, now looking at the ground.

Not her scene. That’s what I was hoping she’d say, that it was just an uncomfortable situation for her to be in. But her answer was also a lie, a flat-out lie. She looked away while saying it, unable to actually tell me face to face.

That only leads to one thing . . . it was me. She didn’t come to the party because of me.

My pride deflates into hurt and my ego is completely shot as I reach for my backpack. I need to get the hell out of here so I can go back to the loft and lick my wounds . . . and get massively drunk. I’m sure my boys will have no problem helping me with that.

“Okay,” I answer, slipping my backpack over my shoulders. “Good to know.” I step past her. “I’ll catch you later, Milly.”

I start for my car when she calls out, “That’s why you called me here? For that?”

I ignore her, my heart about to crack from embarrassment. I want to murder Jason for even convincing me to come all the way out here and make a grand statement. He’s getting a punch to his dick the minute I see him.

“Carson.” Milly pulls on my shoulder, halting me. Strong for such a little thing. “Why are you leaving?”

“Because I got my answer.”

“There has to be more,” she says, her teeth chattering. It’s not very cold out, so is that nerves? “You didn’t just ask me out here to inquire about the party.”

“I did.”

“Then tell me why it matters. Why did it matter if I went to the party? I didn’t think it was a big deal, just an open invitation.”

“It was a big deal,” I roar, losing my ability to keep it together. When I glance at her, she’s startled, but she doesn’t move.

“Wh-why was it a big d-deal?”

Great, now I made her stutter. Could this night get any worse?

Realizing she’s not going to let me leave without an explanation, I say, “Because, I wanted you there, okay?”

“Why?” she asks softly.

Succumbing to defeat, I say, “Don’t you see, Milly? Don’t you see the way I am whenever I see you? Don’t you see the way I itch to touch you? Don’t you see how desperate I am to spend more time with you?” Her eyes widen in surprise. “Fuck . . . you don’t, do you?”

Her head shakes. “No, I . . . no, I had no clue. I’m”—she bites her bottom lip—“I’m n-not your type.”

“How the fuck do you know what my type is?” I ask, offended. How the fuck can she not know?

“I . . . I don’t, b-but, Carson. Come on.”

“Come on, what?”

“I’m . . . me.”

“Yeah, I know exactly who you are,” I say, growing angrier and more passionate by the second. “I know that you’re Milly Potter with the devastating dimples and ocean-blue eyes. I know you’re Milly Potter with the perfect laugh and beautiful sense of humor. I know that you’re Milly Potter with more knowledge about the game I love than any person I can even comprehend, and I know you’re the Milly Potter who continues to invade my mind every second of every goddamn day.” I take a step forward and pull her hand into mine, linking our fingers together. God, how long have I wanted to do this?