THE BELLS RING AS I push open the door of the Smitten Kitten. Scents of freshly baked bread, cinnamon, and hints of mint greet me in a fashion equivalent to a puppy licking your face. It’s warm and welcoming, and some of the day’s stress melts away.

“Hey,” Pepper chirps from behind the counter. “Your usual?”

“Please.” I settle into my spot, a little booth tucked in the corner.

The bench seat against the wall is lined with with pink and white pillows to nestle against. A light fixture dripping with fake crystals hangs just above the table.

Tossing my bag on the bench, I shrug off my yellow pea coat and collapse into the seat.

Massaging my temples, I try to release the work day and welcome in the evening with deep breathing. It’s a trick I learned when I was younger from the music teacher at my private school—not because I was some kind of vocalist. I can’t carry a tune. Mrs. Stevenson picked up on the anxiety I carried around like a weight around my neck, something no one else ever noticed or cared enough to help me with, and taught me the steadiness of controlling the air in my body.

Within a few breaths, a steaming mug of cappuccino is in front of me, a bowl of soup next to it, and Pepper across from me. She removes her blue and white checkered apron and tosses it on the booth beside her.

“How was your day?”

“Good,” I say, sprinkling some salt in my soup.

“You didn’t even taste it.”

“I like salt.”

“It’s a knock on the cook to season your food without tasting it first.”

Shaker in hand, paused midair, I look at her through the steam.

“Go ahead and salt the shit out of it,” she sighs, flipping her long, dark locks behind her. “I just spent two hours concocting that dish to perfection. Go on and fuck it up.”

“Pepper!” I laugh, sitting the shaker down. “Geez, settle down. What has you all fired up today?”

Her dark eyes roll around in one of the most dramatic displays I’ve seen from her since I started coming to this little bakery near the hospital.

“My husband, if you must know,” she snorts. “He wants me to take on an extra pair of hands so I can spend more time with him at home. I mean, I love the man. I do. I’d love to see him more. But I can’t afford another person on payroll! We’d be in the red within two months.”

“Yikes,” I say, lifting a spoonful of the creamy soup to my lips. “Sounds like trouble.”

“It is.” She watches me like a hawk as I sample the latest Smitten Kitten creation. “So?”

“So what?”

“Is it good?” she laughs. “Damn it. I need feedback, you know that. Don’t hold out on me. You’re the first person to try it.”

“What are we calling it?” I ask, dabbing my mouth with a napkin.

“Kitten Cup.”

“Sounds like cat food,” I giggle.

“But is it good?’

“No,” I say, keeping my face as blank as possible. She holds her breath and it’s all I can do not to burst out laughing. “It’s probably, um,” I say, tilting my head back and forth, prolonging her anguish, “probably my favorite soup yet.”

“Score!” she says, standing and pumping a fist. “I knew it! I knew this would be the one! I’m going to enter it in the city cook-off next month. It’s a winner, right? I mean, if it’s not, tell me. I have time to tweak it.”

“It’s an absolute winner,” I grin, knowing she’ll create something else in a few days and will forget all about the Kitten Cup. This is a process that’s never ending, and it certainly won’t end with this dish.

She starts to reply, but stops. Narrowing her eyes, she wags a finger in my face. “What are you not telling me?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You. You’re hiding something from me.”

Rolling my eyes, I start to lie to her, but know it’s useless. “I had a visitor today.” I proceed to give her all the details about my afternoon and find myself getting wrapped up in the dropping of her jaw, the way she hangs on every word. When I finish, she falls back like she’s run a mile.

“Did you at least give him your number?” she asks.

“No.” I shrug, like it’s a silly question, but my shoulders don’t fall before she’s squawking at me.

“Why? Why would you not give him your card or something? Danielle, sometimes I feel like I don’t even know you. You refused Weston Brinkmann—”

My hand flies up, silencing her. “Stop. You know why I turned Weston down.”

“I do. You’re right. Because you’re ignorant!”

I can’t help but laugh. “I’m in my late twenties, Pepper,” I remind her. “I need to start thinking long-term.”

“Yeah,” she nods enthusiastically. “I bet Lincoln has excellent long term power. I bet that guy can get you off—”

“Stop!” I giggle. “That’s not what I mean.”

Pepper doesn’t bother to respond. She just looks at me, totally unconvinced. “Weston was gorgeous,” she says finally.

I nod. “And he loved baseball far more than he’ll ever love a human being.”

This sobers my friend. She knows where I’m coming from. “I get what you’re saying.”

“Yeah.” Swirling my cappuccino around, I watch the foam twist and turn. “Besides,” I say, “Lincoln is way better looking than Weston. And funny and charming and . . .”

The door chimes and she fastens her apron. “Hold that thought,” she says before jogging to the counter.

Watching Pepper and her customer, an old friend of hers that comes in here a lot. I can’t help the pang of jealousy in my stomach. I don’t know what it’s like to have that kind of friendship with someone, a deep connection to another person that spans time and locations. The closest thing I have is Macie. We met during Freshman Orientation in college and hit it off over our mutual love for kids, although our reasons for it are completely different. Macie does it because she feels like she’s giving back to the world. I find that working with them helps heal a part of my soul.

“I don’t know what I did to be cursed with a daughter. For the love of God, Ryan Danielle, do not embarrass me.”

I shiver as my father’s voice booms through my memory, the coolness of his eyes only adding to the pain in my heart. I used to think the hurt would ease, that the longer I was out of his house, away from the mother that could have loved me but loved his wealth more, it would alleviate. Years on my own and the sting is still there.

My father always wanted a son. It’s no secret that he feels cheated by the universe for getting a daughter, so much so that he named me Ryan Danielle. A boy’s name. A constant reminder of the failure I was from birth. Since I failed him, I also failed my mother, a woman that’s probably capable of love, but is so poisoned by her obsession with my father that her capacity has diminished. There’s no room for me in her life in any measurable quantity—just for the occasional photo or to make sure I’m not doing something that would blow back on my father and taint his prestigious image somehow.

Wrapping my hands around the mug so they’re pressed against the clay, I feel the warmth radiate into my skin and focus on that. The here. The now.

My gaze lands on my bag, a file from work poking out. Instantly, I’m out of the here and now and am mentally in my office. With the door closed. With the centerfielder.

A warmth erupts in the pit of my stomach and starts to fan out until it begins to toast my cheeks.

Why does God have to love athletes most?

He does. There are no two ways about it. They’re the hottest, most fit, most calculating and passionate people. They’re delicious . . . and dangerous if you aren’t careful.

Despite the heat roaring through my blood, I shiver. I can only image what it’s like to be on the receiving end of Lincoln’s passion. Feeling his eyes on me today was enough to make me crazy. Feeling his breath hot against my cheek? His fingers caressing my body? The weight of his cock as it sits on top of my ass, waiting to glide into me?

Because I’m cursed, both with loving athletes and having them love me, reality douses the fire as quickly as it starts. The passion, while white-hot and intoxicating, turns steel-cold and suffocating.

It’s why I’ll continue to remind myself just how bad it hurts when they prove, as they always do, that their first passion is, and always will be, the game.