Chapter Three

Grace

What is wrong with me?

Half an hour had passed since the strange encounter with Justin and I was still replaying it through my mind, trying to figure out what in the world any of it meant. The day before, when I’d left the stadium, I’d seen first-hand the crowd of scantily-clad women who were waiting for the players to stream out. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that the neighboring bars, clubs, and restaurants were packed all night with players, fans, and of course, the women who were chasing fame like their lives depended on it. Spring training was one of the biggest tourist booms for the area. Justin and the rest of the pitchers were traditionally the first group to arrive, and as such, had the pick of the litter.

So why was he so interested in talking to me?

And, an even better question, why did it secretly thrill me so much?

It wasn’t just that he was out of my league. No, in baseball terms, Justin Calloway was so far out of bounds that he’d bypass the parking lot and land in some random backyard one town over. I had no business thinking about him in that way. And yet, I’d tossed and turned most of the night before, thinking of the way he’d looked at me when he offered to buy me a real drink.

Would that have been a date? Did I turn down a date with Justin Calloway?

Farrah would murder me.

Not that I had any intention on telling her. Hell, for all I knew, I was suffering some sort of psychotic break and had imagined the whole thing. I mean really, who asks someone on a date in front of a sticky Coke machine?

I shook my head and forced myself to get my head together. Practice was winding down for the day. I had to get back home and keep studying. Last night’s cram session had been severely hampered. Again, Justin’s fault. Or my own…if it was all imagined anyway…right?

I dragged in a deep sigh. Losing my mind at the tender young age of twenty-one. Fantastic.

Enough was enough. It was time to focus. Justin was on the field with his trainer but I shifted my attention to the half a dozen other pitchers. Another hour passed and I managed to keep up with my stats. The session was winding down when my phone buzzed in my front pocket. I tugged it out and rolled my eyes at Farrah’s message: You’re falling down on the job, bitch. I need pictures! Send me one of Justin Calloway!

I scoffed and quickly replied with a firm no.

Seconds later my phone chirped again. Come on! Even better, one with you and him together!

No! Staaaph!

You know you’d give him your v-card. What girl wouldn’t?

Any girl with self-respect. :) I didn’t even like tattoos.

Except on him…but I wasn’t going to tell her that.

God, why is this happening? I hated when girls fawned over unattainable men and made them the center of the universe. Ya know, like Brad Pitt or Chris Pine. The odds of even meeting a movie star in real life were slim to none. Getting their attention and falling madly in love was another level of illusion entirely. What was the point?

Somewhere in the back of my mind a small voice started to argue, pointing out that I’d already jumped over the first and half of the second hurdle. I met Justin Calloway, and for whatever inexplicable reason, had captured his attention.

I typed out a message to Farrah. He left the stadium with some blonde bimbo yesterday.

There. That should shut her up.

Farrah replied moments later. I doubt they’re at the this-feels-like-forever stage yet. You just need to get his attention!

I sighed. She was relentless.

Surrendering, I put the phone away and leaned back in my seat. The sun was beating down on my legs and I stretched them out to make sure the rays could reach as much of my winter skin as possible. I hadn’t had much time to get outside over the last few months and my skin tone showed it. In Florida, it was relatively easy to keep a golden tan year-round, even without the help of a fake n’ bake machine. But I’d been spending too much time inside, buried in textbooks, as I hurtled through my senior year. When I wasn’t studying, I was polishing my resume and pulling together a list of potential employers.

It had been a break-neck pace for the last three and a half years and something told me it was only going to get faster. In the next six months, I’d graduate, hopefully accept a job in my chosen field, and move to whatever city I ended up landing in. I’d have to find a place to live, move everything from Florida and my parent’s home back in Oklahoma. Definitely a grind.

My thoughts kept stirring through my mind as I glanced back up at the field. Justin was watching me and when our eyes met, my stomach lurched. He turned away and wound up. My eyes raked over the muscles in his back and shoulders, evident through his tight, sweat-soaked t-shirt. The way he moved was athletic and graceful. Then, an explosion of brute force and power as he hurtled the ball. Bam! The perfect fastball. It hit his trainer’s glove with a satisfying thump and then he looked over his shoulder, grinning at me.

Well, damn.

***

An hour after I clocked out of my shift, I was still lingering at the stadium. It wasn’t a conscious decision. At least not at first. I was on my way to my car when I caught a whiff of something delicious cooking at one of the high-end food carts parked in the far corner of the stadium lot where the media vans were parked. It was also where lowly employees, such as myself, were allowed to park. I followed my nose and ended up on a picnic table with a portabella mushroom burger in my hands with a side of sweet potato fries and an iced tea.

Across the way, a voice carried toward me and every muscle fiber cinched tight. My stomach swooped and I followed the sound to see the same backside I’d been trying to avoid staring at all afternoon at the window of the same truck I’d ordered my late lunch from.

I tugged my ball cap down over my eyes and tried to hurry through my burger—which was a real shame because it was mouth-watering and deserved savoring.

The picnic table rocked slightly and I didn’t have to look up to know who’d joined me without an invitation.

“Come here often?”

I rolled my eyes and peeked up. Sure enough, Justin was sitting there, his long fingers wrapped around his own burger, wearing a wide grin. “How did you know I was out here?”

He hitched one shoulder. “I didn’t.” He took a big bite, offering no further explanation.

I dragged a fry through the siracha laced ketchup and popped it into my mouth. “Somehow I doubt they make the players park way out here in the boondocks with us lowly commoners.”

Justin laughed and for a moment I was paralyzed. His eyes sparked with amusement, making them all the more mesmerizing. There wasn’t one thing about the man that was halfway. He was full-blown perfection, down to every fleck of gold in his hazel eyes.

“I wanted something to eat besides congealed cheese nachos or a slice of greasy pizza,” he explained and I believed him. “One of the guys told me this was out here so I figured I’d give it a shot. Finding a drop-dead sexy companion is just a perk.”

My eyes widened at his unabashed words. No one had ever called me sexy before. Certainly not drop-dead sexy.

Justin grinned and leaned in closer. “Grace.”

My name rolled off his tongue like it was some kind of secret musical note. No one had ever said my name that way before. It wrapped around me and squeezed. Looking into his eyes, I wondered what other firsts he could give me.

No. That is so not an option.

I shook my head and Justin leaned back and took another bite as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened. “This your first year running stats?” he asked casually.

“Um, no. Third actually.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Really? How old are you?”

I frowned. “Old enough.”

He raised an eyebrow. Smolder much? “I’ll bet.”

My stomach churned. No, no, no. That wasn’t what I meant!

“I’m twenty-one and I’m a statistician major over at Eastern. I’ve been running baseball stats for a long time, mostly for college games starting back when I was in high school and the last three spring training’s I’ve been here.”

Justin nodded. “I’m impressed.”

I hated to admit it, but warmth bloomed in my chest at his words. Something told me Justin Calloway wasn’t impressed easily.

“Are you doing this gig full time once you graduate?” he asked after swallowing another bite of his burger.

“No.”

He tilted his head. “No? What’s the plan?”

“Why do you wanna know?” I asked, reaching for another fry. “You’ve sure got a lot of questions.”

He propped his elbows on the table and leaned in as though he was ready to share a deep secret. “The truth?”

“Always preferable in my book.”

“Noted.” He grinned. “Truth is I spend all day with a bunch of sweat-stained dudes who want to talk about craft beer and chasing pussy all fucking day. I’m dying for some intelligent conversation.”

A surprised laugh burst from my lips. “Really?”

“Would I lie to you?”

I smiled. “I don’t really know.”

His face shifted, suddenly serious. “I wouldn’t.”

“Okay…” My heart beat faster at the charged intensity infused between us, as though we were sitting on a sofa somewhere instead of at a flimsy picnic table in the outer skirts of a baseball stadium parking lot. I nodded. “What do you like to talk about?”

“Books, movies, current events. Take your pick.”

“Books?” I tilted my head.

He reared back, feigning shock. “Are you implying that a baseball player couldn’t possibly be interested in discussing books?”

Heat scorched my cheeks. “I didn’t mean it—”

Justin interrupted my excuse with a good-natured chuckle. “It’s all right, Grace. I get it. It’s the tattoos. Makes everyone assume my IQ is twenty points lower or something.”

I shook my head. “No-not at all. I just—” I stopped, cringing. “I’m sorry.”

“No sweat, baby.”

He sat back and went back to work on his meal. We ate in silence for a few moments. I considered him from over the rim of my glass as I washed down the last bite with a swig of iced tea. He was different than I expected. Softer and yet, somehow, harder. Blunt and direct but he remained a mystery. It was a perplexing mix that had me questioning all of my preconceptions.

And then there was the root of the questions: if he was different, then maybe what he wanted was different too.

It was a dangerous thought. But no matter how hard I tried to push it aside, it rebounded right back again.

Eventually I got the courage to ask. “You’re not really just talking to me for the sake of a conversation that doesn’t involve…” I faltered, unwilling to say the word.

“Pussy?” Justin offered without batting an eye.

I wilted as warmth flooded my cheeks.

Justin smiled but something dark sparked in his eyes. “Say it…”

My eyes rounded. “What?”

“Say pussy.” He grinned wider. “Come on, I’ll bet it sounds sexy as fuck coming from those perfect lips.”

I ignored the thrill of sensations that danced through me and shook my head. “No. No, I don’t think so. I don’t really talk like that.”

“How’s that?”

I glanced around. “Dirty talk.”

Justin followed my eyes as I scanned the picnic area. No one was paying much attention to us. But I still felt like I was in a fishbowl.

I swiveled my attention back to Justin. “I was raised differently, I guess.”

“Fair enough.” Justin shrugged it off. “To answer your question”—he balled up his last napkin and tossed it into his empty basket— “you’re right. I’d like a lot more than simply a conversation with you. But, I’m not sure you could handle all that.”

I bristled.

He smiled and pushed up from the table. He swung his powerful legs over the bench and then leaned back to grab his basket. “’Cause baby, I assure you, if you even knew half of the thoughts running through my mind right now, you’d run for your life.”

My mouth dropped open.