Bryant
I'M NOT SURE if I'll ever understand how someone can work their way so far under your skin you feel like you can’t focus on anything but them. It’s almost like the more I try to convince myself I need to focus and not let her distract me, the more I think about her. I’ve talked myself out of calling her no less than ten times in the past week, because I’m supposed to be focusing on my playing and not on her. That was the main point of me putting a halt to whatever was happening between us. I need to focus.
Making my way down the steps of my condo to my car, I regret slamming the door the moment I hear her voice.
“Hey, Bryant,” Sarina’s high-pitched voice carries through the air.
“Hi,” I shout, continuing my way to my car. Do not make eye contact. Do not make eye contact.
I pull the car door open and am almost into the car when I hear her call out my name again, but I act like I don’t hear her, shutting the door quickly and starting the car.
I don’t have time to wait for it to warm up. I have to get out of here before she throws herself on the hood of my car. Okay, maybe that’s a little dramatic, but the woman doesn’t take a hint. The night before last, she came outside to “get her mail” in lingerie.
As I pull away from the curb, I glance her way to see her standing on her front steps, arms crossed in anger, a glaring pout of her face. With nothing more than a bra, panties, and sheer robe on for everyone in the neighborhood’s viewing pleasure.
I look away quickly and head to the field. One more day of practice before we head out for the pennant race.
It will be my first and last chance at this title.
Focus.
Not on Layne.
On my game.
As soon as I step out onto the field, I take a deep breath. This is my zen. The smell of the grass and dirt. The serenity that comes over me as my body accepts the familiarity of the field is my safe place. It calms me and helps me focus.
Maybe I should move into the locker room temporarily until this is over. I can’t keep her out of my head, and she is not what I need to think about.
The amount of testosterone pulsing through this place is out of control.
Making my way into the locker room, I change for practice. When Conor sits down next to me and stares at me, my irritation grows.
I shouldn’t be irritated with him. I’m not really. It’s not his fault I can’t stop thinking about her, but the fact that he knows me well enough to know I’m off my game aggravates me.
“Why are you staring at me while I change?” I grumble. “You’re suddenly into dudes?”
“You talk to her lately?” He ignores my jab and gets straight to the point.
“Not in a couple days, and I’m probably not going to.”
“And why not? Are you still on the ‘she deserves better’ kick?”
“I’m on the ‘I need to focus on my game and she’s a distraction’ kick.”
“You know you’re fucking this up, right?”
I slam my cleats down on the bench he’s sitting on and get in his face.
“There’s nothing to fuck up. Layne and I can’t be anything more than friends,” I rant. When he clenches his jaw and his eyes narrow, I take a step back because I see the storm brewing in his eyes. Conor and I don’t fight. Ever. He is always the playful jokester. It’s the reason we are best friends. I put up with his shenanigans, and he brings humor into my life.
He stands and takes several steps toward the door, his back stiff. He’s pissed, and I don’t blame him. I shouldn’t have yelled but, Jesus, I’m having a hard enough time making myself accept it’s best to walk away from her, I don’t need his constant reminder.
When he stops and turns to me, I know he’s going to rip me a new one by the look on his face.
“Goddammit, Bryant! Will you listen to yourself!” he bellows. He puts his hands behind his neck and looks at the ceiling before taking a deep breath. “It doesn’t take a genius to see the connection you two have. In the small amount of time I’ve spent with you two, even I can see you’re different with her. We’ve known each other a lot of years, and I’ve seen you with other women. I’ve never seen you like you are when you’re with her.”
I start to retort, but he knows it’s coming and continues over the top of me.
“She’s different and you know it!”
“I can’t do this right now,” I grind out. “She is a distraction I don’t need, Conor! This is it for me! My last chance at that ring.”
He drops his head and shakes it slowly.
“Yep, and in exchange for that ‘last chance,’ you very well could be throwing away your person,” he replies, his voice monotone. “I’ve spent years looking for what I see when I watch you two together. She’s right in front of you, and you’re letting her walk away.”
I know he’s right. In my heart, I know I’m fucking it up bad, but my brain is screaming at me this is just another woman. That I’ve worked my ass off my entire life to have this opportunity and I can’t throw it away. I won’t.
“I’m not giving up what I worked my entire career for because of a woman I barely know,” I roar.
“Dude! You’re acting like getting into a relationship with her will end your career,” he barks out. “She loves baseball. She understands the sacrifices we make. And for shit sake, she’s already a distraction, Bryant! You do nothing but think about her and you aren’t even together.” He pauses for a moment, his chest rising and falling rapidly with his frustration. “And don’t try to give me the ‘she deserves better than a traveling boyfriend’ bullshit either. You’re making excuses because you’re scared of what you feel for her. Stop lying to yourself.”
With that, my best friend throws his hands in the air, turns, and storms away.