In high school, I was on the baseball team for all of two games before the coach kicked me out for fighting. I didn’t really mind, having only joined to make my father happy. He wanted an athlete in the house, and I wanted his approval. We both learned to live with our disappointments.

The kid I punched during practice asked if my stepmom killed my real mom. When I said no, he replied, “So your mom really did OD like a common crackwhore?” I hit him only once but watched him cry for nearly five minutes before the coach forced me to leave the field. Man, did those kid’s tears make me fucking happy.

Clove’s tears, though, gut me. Once I realize she’s crying, I can’t reach her fast enough. Who caused her tears? Where are they now? How long should I hurt the fuckers before ending them?

“I drank too much,” Clove mumbles through her tears. “I shouldn’t drink like a fucking lush.”

The expression on her gorgeous face is like nothing I’ve seen before. The rawness in her eyes leaves me speechless, but words won’t help anyway.

I tug Clove off the picnic table and into my arms. Caressing her hair, I keep my mouth shut and my embrace tight. Clove doesn’t push me away, instead sighing and leaning into the embrace. For the first time since we met, Clove lets me be a man taking care of his woman.

Shay and Bebe sneak away at some point. My mind remains on the woman with her arms wrapped around my waist. Clove no longer cries, and her breathing slows until she relaxes against me.

I don’t know how long we stand in the cold evening. The sound of bats against balls falls silent, and Ford eventually asks if we’re cool. I nod but remain silent.

Words feel cheap. Just like they did when my mom died, and people talked about her as if she were a fucking saint. Words mean so little when the pain is so real.

Clove wiggles her face free from where it’s pinned against my chest and looks up at me.

“I know you were having fun but can we go back to the hotel, please?”

I don’t think Clove has ever used the word “please” with me. In fact, two months ago, right after Thanksgiving, I became convinced she didn’t believe in using the word with anyone. Then at Ginger’s Christmas party, I heard Clove say “please” twenty-six times to other people. Apparently, her problem was with me, not the word.

Until tonight.

Sure, it’s a small damn thing. My relationship with Clove is always about cherishing the crumbs of her attention.

After saying goodbye to Ford, Pax, and their women, I drive back to the hotel with Clove holding on tightly. I don’t know if she’s just uncomfortable riding bitch or if she worries she’s so drunk she’ll fall. I just know she likely leaves bruises around my waist by the time we park at the Holiday Inn.

Arriving in the room, Clove immediately turns up the heater. Then she strips out of her clothes and turns on the shower. I expect her to shut the door on me, but she leaves it open.

My shoulders hurt from the pushups and then hitting so many balls. Needing to work out more, I force my brain to focus on my gym routine rather than a crying Clove.

I can’t stop thinking of her expression when I ditched the batting cages to make her happy. If she ever knew how much power such a look has on me, I’ll be her fucking slave for life.

Appearing from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, Clove dries her long, dark hair with a towel until finding me on the bed. She stares at me for a minute, leaving me to feel like a bug she’s considering whether to squash.

She drops the towel and crawls onto the bed. Wearing floral sleep shorts and a sleeveless top, she maintains an exotic, untouchable beauty. Clove sits against the headboard with her knees pressed to her stomach. She watches me and sighs.

“Do you see your parents much?” she asks.

“I stop by their place a few times a month. Nothing planned. I just visit when I’m in the mood.”

“So you’re not that close?” she asks, studying me with her bloodshot eyes.

“I’m not what my dad wanted in a son.”

Fighting a little smile, she asks, “He’s jealous of your hair, isn’t he?”

“Who isn’t?”

“I haven’t met anyone yet,” she says and smiles in a soft, relaxed way that I rarely see. “Is it the biker thing that your dad has a problem with?”

“He wanted me to be one of those all-American athletic types that he couldn’t be. I never had any interest. I was decent with sports, and I might have gotten good enough to do Triple-A, but I didn’t want that. He lost interest in me around that time. Since then, we’ve been going through the motions.”

“And your mom?”

“She died when I was a teenager.”

“Then who’s the chick I saw with your dad that time?”

“My stepmom. She helped raise me, but she was eighteen when I met her so I couldn’t think of her as my mom. She was more like a sister.”

“Is she at least nice to you?”

“Yeah. She’s a good cook too. Better than my mom.”

“How did your mom die?” Clove asks, clearly unsure if she wants to know the answer.

“Got hooked on Oxy after back surgery and OD’d when she mixed it with booze.”

“Alcohol is the devil’s spit.”

Sitting on the edge of the bed, I say, “I like it fine.”

“I did too, but alcohol only dulls the pain. How can you fight a problem if you’re too drunk to see it?”

“Some people don’t want to fight the problem. Or they just want to relax for a few hours.”

Clove frowns at my answer before finally nodding. “My mom was a drunk. The booze helped her cope, but it didn’t save her. Only a sound mind can save a person. That’s why I’m not drinking anymore.”

“Not even during the crew’s weekly card games?”

“Oh, yeah, I’ll drink then,” she says, shrugging, “but booze is a competition during the games. I guess liquor isn’t always about dulling the pain or hiding from problems. It can be about seeing who drinks the most without puking or passing out.”

“See what I mean? Sometimes, booze is just a tool for a good time or to win a competition. It depends on the person.”

“If my mom had friends like I have with the crew, she wouldn’t need to drink at all. They have my back, but she was all alone.”

“I hope you know I have your back too.”

Clove gives me a heart-twisting smile. “I do know. Tonight, you could have made me feel bad for acting like a wimp, but you didn’t.”

“I don’t give a shit if you’re a wimp. Strong people feel like shit sometimes.”

Studying me, Clove slowly nods. “Did you like hanging out with those guys tonight?”

“Sure.”

“Do you think they looked down at you?”

Stretching out on the couch, I tap her feet. “Not after I held my own with the pushups.”

“Are you mocking me?”

“No, I’m not. Men bond through competition too.”

“So I didn’t embarrass you too much at Suede?”

“I liked when you threatened the waitress. I want you to want me enough to cut someone.”

Clove reaches out and caresses my lips. “I do want you. During my wimpy crying tonight, I hoped you’d come over and hug me. Shay and Bebe were nice, but I wanted you.”

I probably smile too fucking big because soon Clove inches away from me. She hates giving up power, and I know she has a good reason to worry. Life hasn’t been easy for her, but I’m not a threat. The sooner she realizes I’m her future, the quicker I can make her happy.