“Be sure to let us know when you need another break from East,” Tino calls from the locker room as I make my way out.
“We had a great time.” JP snickers.
“I don’t want to know,” I say, hands up in mock surrender. I’ve been in enough clubhouses not to be shocked by whatever it was they were talking about. Besides, ignorance is bliss.
And yet as I push through the door, I can’t help the automatic smile remembering how that night ended. With Easton in bed with me for the first time in two weeks. Sure he was propped up on all kinds of pillows to alleviate any strain on his muscles and the healing tendons, but he was still in bed beside me, fingers linked with mine.
“Privilege doesn’t guarantee you can handle the sport.” I hear Cal’s voice before I see him. And when I clear the corner, I’m startled to see Santiago opposite him. Both men startle back when they see me standing there, but there is no erasing the tension snapping in the air between them.
“Everything okay?” I ask when I know damn well their conversation is none of my business.
“Yes. Fine,” Cal says, taking a step toward me. “Just discussing a team matter.”
“Oh.” My eyes flit from Cal to Santiago and then back to Cal, uncertain if I believe what he’s said. “Okay.”
What the hell was that all about?
The exchange is still on my mind as I head home but I’m probably making more of it than there really was. Maybe Cal was defending Easton. Maybe he was telling Santiago he’ll never be able to fill his son’s shoes. And maybe pigs can fly.
I chuckle at the thought as I wait politely for sorority girl to exit the elevator, nodding to her in a brief hello, before getting on, turning my key in the panel to give me access to the penthouse.
It’s not until I enter the condo that I realize how exhausted I am. When I find Easton reading some papers on the couch, I drop my purse on the counter and move toward him. He tosses his papers on the table the minute he sees me and smiles.
“Hi.”
“Hi.” He looks so damn inviting that I sit down and curl up next to him as best as I can without hurting his shoulder.
“Watcha reading?” I ask.
“It’s, uh . . . nothing. I’m just looking over some of the examples and new pamphlets for the upcoming projects for the Literacy Project.” He presses a kiss to the top of my head. “I figure I might as well do something while I’m injured.”
“That’s very honorable of you, Mr. Wylder. And very sexy.”
He chuckles. “Sexy, huh?”
“Incredibly.”
“How sexy?”
“Brownie points kind of sexy.”
“I’ll have to keep that in mind and use it to my advantage in the future.” He chuckles and pulls me in tighter against him, and as the comfortable silence settles around us, all I can think of is that he smells like home. It sounds strange but after traveling so much in my life, never having anything of permanence, it’s a welcome thought. “I talked to Finn today.”
Proceed with caution. That’s my first thought considering the last few times he’s talked to Finn about the offer to be a guest commentator for a game on Fox Sports has ended in a fight.
“You did?” I ask innocently enough.
“Yeah.” He falls silent as he fidgets with a lock of my hair. “I still haven’t decided what to do. I kinda feel like it’ll look like I’m giving up. Public perception is always harsh . . . one minute they’re gossiping I took the gig because I’m washed-up and the next thing you know, the Wranglers believe it and let me go . . . And then I am washed-up.”
“You’re being absurd,” I huff, knowing how fragile a man’s ego is, but also thinking these kid gloves need to come off so he can face reality. “People will think just the opposite. You’re not washed-up and never coming back. Instead they’ll think you’re smart for hooking a second gig while you’re recovering for next season.”
“I think you’re underestimating how vicious the press can be.”
“Who cares what the press thinks? You sure as hell never have, so why start now?”
“It’s not that easy, Scout. You look at the world through these rose-colored glasses.”
“And what of it? Maybe I like pink.” I shrug, not offended in the least of my positive outlook. “And it is easy. You’ve talked baseball your whole life. You go on camera, talk about the one thing you know inside and out. Give some color commentary and insight during the game and that’s it. I’ve watched you do it numerous times with the local Aces broadcaster, and you’re a natural.”
“That’s not the only thing I know inside and out,” he chuckles, voice full of suggestion, as his hand finds the curve of my ass and squeezes.
“True,” I murmur, those warm fluttery feelings returning with a vengeance because he definitely does know me inside and out. “But there will be no cameras or color commentary in our bedroom.”
“You’re such a spoilsport,” he says playfully.
“And you’re changing the subject.”
“You noticed?”
I roll my eyes. “You’re afraid it’s going to make you look like a has-been . . . how about you look at it from the glass half-full perspective? It’s visibility. It’s keeping your name relevant in the game when you can’t be on the field. Who knows? Maybe it will lead to something you can do off the field when baseball is over some day.”
“After baseball is death.”
“Stop being so dramatic. You know that’s not true. There will come a day when you can’t play anymore. Why not start trying to figure out a way to stay in the game, but not be the game?”
He falls silent and I know I’ve piqued his interest. “Baseball is all I’ve ever known.” His anxiety is palpable and for the life of me, I don’t know how he can’t see what I’m trying to say to him.
“That’s my whole point. If it’s what you know, then try to capitalize on it and plan for the future.”
“It’s scary to think about then. About what happens when my arm gives out for good or my knees can’t take the abuse anymore. About when this game is over, you know?” His voice is raw with a vulnerability I never expected.
“I know,” I say and press a kiss to the center of his chest before shifting so I can see his face. There are lines there, concern marring his handsome features that I wish I could take away. “Easton, there is no other sport on the planet where you play one hundred and eighty-six games in a season. None. That’s a lot of wear and tear on your body. At some point in the distant future, it won’t be worth it anymore. You have to realize there is life after baseball. The question is, whether you want that life to be free and clear so you’re not reminded of what you’re missing daily, or if you want to be a part of it somehow because it’ll always be in your blood.”
I hate to see the tears glisten in his eyes. I hate knowing he’s this upset by the mere mention of when he can no longer play. Then again, he’s been living in this state for the past year with a cruel glimpse of his greatness between injuries . . . so maybe he knows all too well the hurt leaving the game will cause him. The void that will remain.
“You think I can do it?” I hate that for a man always so confident in himself he sounds like a little boy right now.
“I know you can.”