Layne
THE KNOCK AT the door makes my heart jump. Holy shit, he’s here.
I look at myself one last time in the mirror. Mandy came over earlier and helped me pick out an outfit and did my hair. Let’s be honest. I don’t hair or makeup well.
Opening the door, my mouth goes dry at the sight of him. He’s gorgeous. His dark jeans hug his muscular thighs like they were painted on, and the shirt he’s wearing is stretched across his broad chest, making me lick my lips. His chuckle brings me out of my trance, and when my eyes meet his, they’re lit in amusement and he’s got a cocky smile plastered across his face.
“Don’t let me interrupt you,” he says, laughing, before stepping back and opening his arms up and spinning around slowly.
I almost choke on my tongue when I get a look at his ass. Jesus, it should be illegal. Not that I didn’t know it was amazing. I do watch him play ball… in baseball pants. And seriously, baseball pants leave little to the imagination. Baseball pants make me happy.
I start to shut the door, but he barks out a laugh and lunges for it before I can shut it all the way. Pushing gently to open it back up, he’s trying to apologize through his laughter, but the moment he sees the fake pissed look on my face, his laughing comes to a halt quickly.
“I was kidding, Layne. Don’t be mad,” he pleads. I roll my eyes and take a step back so he can come inside. I hadn’t planned on him coming into the house, but I do still have to grab my purse and keys.
Turning my back to him, I walk over to the kitchen island and grab my things. When I turn back toward him, my body collides with his, and he places his hands on my waist to steady me.
“Shit, sorry,” I mumble out, starting to reach forward to pick up my keys I dropped on the floor.
He doesn’t let go of my waist though and pulls my body even closer to his. I can feel his breath on my neck, and it causes goose bumps to break out all over my body.
“You look absolutely stunning,” he says, just above a whisper, right next to my ear, causing my eyes to close briefly. It’s refreshing to hear someone other than my best friend tell me I’m pretty. She’s obligated. He is not. Although this is Slam Nash. Baseball playboy. The thought makes me take a step back from him.
“Thank you,” I mumble. Stepping around him, I grab my keys off the floor and head to the door. Being alone with him is not a good idea. My mind keeps wandering to things it shouldn’t. We need to go.
He proves to be a complete gentleman and allows the moment to slip away without another word. He opens the car door for me and takes my hand to help me in before closing it and going to the driver side.
The minute he puts the car in drive, my nerves start to settle. Although he makes me crazy nervous, his demeanor calms me. He’s nothing like I’d expect a big-time baseball player to be. He’s laid back and not showy at all. This is not the man I saw on TV a few years ago. That guy seemed like a pompous asshole back then.
“I hope you’re hungry,” he comments. “I hear this place has the best pasta dishes in this part of the state.”
“I’m starving actually. My Saturday mornings are usually crazy busy between laundry, errands, paperwork for the bar, and grocery shopping.” I stop the moment I realize I’m babbling.
“So your daughter is at her dad’s for the weekend?”
“Yeah. She spends every other weekend, and every Wednesday and Thursday night at his place. Those are the nights I close at the bar, so it’s easier for him to have her so I don’t have to find a sitter and deal with her being up late on school nights.”
“Sounds like you guys have a good system going,” he says, giving me a genuine smile.
“We do,” I tell him. “Garrett and I get along better as friends than we ever did as a couple. We just happened to get a great kid out of the not-so-great relationship.”
He doesn’t respond, but his face is relaxed and he seems okay with this information. I’ve actually gone on dates with men who did not like the fact that I get along with my ex. That was an instant “peace out” for me. I have never understood people who have children together, split up, and then use their children against each other. They’re not hurting anybody but the kids. I don’t want that for Gracie. I want her to know her parents love her unconditionally and will always do what’s best for her. Does Garrett drive me crazy sometimes? Absolutely. But he’s a great father.
The rest of the ride to the restaurant is comfortably quiet, and when he pulls into the parking space and puts the car in park, I reach my hand for the door handle, only to feel his hand on my knee. My leg jumps, causing him to chuckle. “I’ll get your door. Hang tight,” he says in a low, sexy voice. I really need to calm down. Every time he touches me, my body jumps. It’s been a really long time since a man has put his hands on me in any way, much less intimately. Just him touching my leg made me almost jump out of my skin.
Calm your shit, Layne.
He opens the door and reaches for my hand, which I give him. Stepping out of the car, I’m surprised when he doesn’t let go of my hand and tucks it under and through his arm before leading me to the entrance to Saint. This place is beautiful, and it makes me a tad bit nervous. The décor is old-world Italian, with gorgeous rustic colors on the walls and dark wood furniture with deep red and Tuscan accents throughout. I think the thing that catches my eye the most are the paintings on the walls. Every single one of them is a different landscape of what I can only assume is Italy.
“Reservation for Bryant Nash,” he tells the hostess, who immediately jerks her head up and pastes on a huge smile.
“Welcome to Saint, Mr. Nash,” she says in a professional tone. She keeps her eyes on his, and although she obviously knows who he is, she isn’t trying to flirt with him.
She shows us to our table and hands us menus before taking our drink order and walking away.
“This place is amazing,” he remarks.
“It really is. I hope the food is as good as the décor. Whoever designed this place is a genius.”
It doesn’t take me long to pick out what I want. I’m an eggplant parm fanatic.
A waitress arrives with our wine and sets the glasses in front of us, along with two glasses of lemon water. Another waitress arrives, setting a plate down with different types of cheese, olives, and a small bowl of olive oil on it, followed by a basket of rustic looking bread. Even the smell of this place makes my mouth water.
“Have you had a chance to peek at the menu, or would you like a few more minutes?” the waitress asks me with a kind smile.
“I’m ready. Bryant?”
“Could you give us a minute more?” he asks, not looking up from the menu he seems to be very interested in.
“Yes, sir. I’ll be back soon,” she replies, before turning and walking toward what I assume is the kitchen. There are several wait staff members standing by the kitchen door, staring at the table, and when I look up at them, they scatter quickly, causing me to chuckle.
“What’s so funny?” he asks with a smirk.
“You have an audience,” I retort, grabbing an olive and popping it into my mouth.
I watch as he looks up from the menu and his eyes scan the room. He smiles brightly and waves at several people who are making eye contact. The room’s conversations seem to grow a bit louder, and when I look around, I see a little boy heading for our table, his eyes wide with excitement.
“Mr. N-n-n-nash?” the boy stutters out in question. He can’t be more than Gracie’s age, and he’s wearing a Nash jersey.
“Hey, man,” he replies. “How you doing?”
“G-g… g-good,” the kid stumbles out. “Will you sign my shirt?”
“Sure,” Bryant responds with a huge smile on his face. “What’s your name, buddy?”
“Cody. C-O-D-Y,” he replies quickly. “You’re my favorite player ever.”
I watch Bryant pull a sharpie out of his pocket and tell Cody to turn around. I hear a commotion across the restaurant, and when I look up, a man and woman are rushing to our table, whisper-shouting Cody’s name.
Swinging my focus back to Cody and Bryant, I watch as he finishes up signing Cody’s jersey.
Cody—
Always follow your dreams!—Bryant Nash
As he pulls away, a woman—I assume is Cody’s mom—grabs his arm and pulls him to her, concern written all over her face.
“Mr. Nash, I apologize for my son’s interruption,” Cody’s dad tells us, his eyes not leaving Cody’s.
“It is no problem at all. I love meeting my young fans,” he replies, waving his hand out toward Cody.
“Do you play baseball, Cody?” he asks.
“Yes! I play third base like you,” Cody beams.
“That’s great! But remember, as much fun and hard work as baseball is, your school work should always come first,” he tells him with an honest smile, and my heart melts a little.
He’s doing the kid a great service by telling him to focus on school. Both Cody’s parents smile brightly, and the dad reaches his hand out for Bryant to shake, which he does.
“Thank you, Mr. Nash,” he chokes out. “You are his idol. This means the world to him.”
“Please, call me Bryant,” he replies quickly, “and it’s my pleasure. Cody seems like a good kid. I’m honored he likes to watch me play ball.”
Cody’s eyes are the size of saucers as his parents once again thank him and turn to walk away, pulling a dazed Cody with them.
The waitress reappears as they walk away.
“Are you ready to order now, Mr. Nash?” she asks, her voice shaking a little bit.
“I think so. Go ahead, Layne.”
“I’ll have the eggplant parmesan and a side salad with ranch dressing please,” I say in response. She writes my order on her notepad before returning her attention to Bryant.
“I think I’ll have the lasagna with a Caesar salad please.”
She jots it down and walks away quickly.
“So, Ms. Scott,” he starts, “tell me about yourself.”
“What else do you want to know? We’ve covered the basics I think. I own a sports bar, which I work too many hours at, and I’m a single mom of an amazing little girl. That’s basically my life in a nutshell.”
“What do you like to do for fun?”
“Let’s see… both Gracie and I are sports fanatics, so they take up a lot of our time. Right now, she is on the swim team and has her final meet soon. She starts baseball back up in two weeks when swim is over. It’s her favorite sport right now, but she informed me a few weeks ago she wants to play football, so we’ll see how that goes.”
He chuckles lightly before replying, “What’s her dad think of her wanting to play football?”
“He’s not a fan. It’s actually the first argument we’ve had in a long time. I told her she could play, and he is completely against it. Says she’ll get hurt.”
He nods like he understands before retorting, “I can only imagine. Football is a tough sport, and I’d be concerned she’d get hurt too.”
“Wait, are you agreeing with him?”
“All I’m saying is, if I had a daughter, I’d be concerned with her playing football with boys. I’m a guy. I know how boys think. I’ve also met some serious assholes in my time. Even at a young age, there was always the one guy who was mean to girls and would hurt them if they tried to play a sport with us.”
I feel my defenses kicking in, and my stubbornness makes me want to argue with him, but I stop myself. I know what he’s saying is true, but I don’t ever want Gracie to think she can’t do something because she’s a girl. I want her to be tough and strong and to stand on her own two feet. I want her to know she can accomplish anything she puts her mind to.
“Time for a subject change,” I state, giving him no opportunity to respond before I turn the questions on him. “What do you like to do for fun?”
He regards me for a moment, gauging whether I’m upset or not. “Well, I don’t have much time during the season for anything except baseball. I like to read. I enjoy running when I don’t have to. I’m a total foodie, so I like to try new places to eat as often as possible,” he states honestly. “I also like to travel, although I don’t do it as much as I used to.”
"I've always wanted to travel,” I chat back. “I’d love to see Ireland. Have you been?”
“Ireland is one of the countries I haven’t been to. Although, my best friend is Irish, so that’d be cool. He goes back once a year to see his parents.”
“I’m not sure where my fascination with Ireland came from, but it is on my bucket list.”
“Conor has shown me pictures. It’s a beautiful country for sure,” he raves.
I tear a piece of the bread off and dip it in the olive oil, suppressing the moan that wants free after I take my first bite. Man, that is good bread.
"So, what about your family? They must be so proud of your accomplishments.”
His face remains unaffected, but I can hear in his voice that this is a tough subject. “Well, they were very proud.”
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked,” I rush out.
“No, it’s okay. My parents were in their forties when they decided they finally wanted to have a kid. They got me out of the deal.” He chuckles lightheartedly. “My dad passed when I was in my early twenties, and my mom passed a few years ago. They were my biggest fans.”
“I understand that,” I reply before taking a large gulp of water.
“What about your mom? I know you said your dad passed, but what about your mom.”
“I never knew her. She passed away the day I was born.”
“I’m sorry,” he retorts.
“Seems like we have another thing in common,” I comment, picking up an olive and popping it into my mouth.
Our food arrives just in time to break the awkwardness settling in.
One of the things that has always driven me crazy about guys is the way they eat. I know, it’s weird, but I can’t help it. Slurping, chewing loudly, chewing with an open mouth… all drive me insane.
I take a moment to watch him eat, all while trying to continue to eat my own food and not be creepy.
To say I’m impressed by his table manners is an understatement. I am fully aware of how weird it makes me sound, but I don’t care. The sound of people eating makes me feel stabby.
As we finish up our meal, it dawns on me I haven’t asked about his season. It seems like a redundant question. I’ve watched every game, but the idea of discussing baseball with him makes my heart flutter a little.
Such a fucking sap.
“So, tell me how you feel about this season so far.” I watch his face because I’m a pretty good judge of emotion, and what I see written all over his face makes my heart drop a little.
“Well, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I’m terrified.” He chuckles, not meeting my eyes.
“What do you mean?”
“Can you keep a secret?” he asks me, seriousness now written all over his face.
The fact he’s even asking makes me understand the gravity of what he’s about to say. He doesn’t know me from the next person. We’re strangers having dinner together. The idea he would even consider sharing something super personal with me is huge.
“Absolutely,” I reply without further thought.
“Well, considering this is my last year of playing, my heart is set on winning the whole thing. Do I think we can do it? Absolutely. We’re stronger this year than I think we’ve ever been. But even though there has been some speculation, we haven’t officially announced my retirement yet, and I don’t want to let the cat out of the bag, officially, until the end of the season. Conor, and now you, are the only people who know other than the owner and GM.”
Holy shit. He is really retiring!
I stare at him for more time than is probably acceptable, but I’m so overwhelmed with emotion. I’ve watched almost every televised game he has ever played in. My dad and I spent so many hours, days really, watching this man play the game. The idea of him retiring not only makes me sad for the league but makes me sad because watching him play helps me still feel connected to Dad.
I’m not sure how to respond, and I can tell he’s becoming uncomfortable the longer I go without saying anything.
“Wow. I don’t really know what to say. You retiring is a huge deal,” I choke out. “Like huge, huge!”
He chuckles, shaking his head at my lack of couth.
“Yeah. It’s huge for me.”
“How do you feel about this? I mean, you’re only thirty-six. Why now?” I ask, almost cringing visibly.
“Truthfully, and here’s the big secret part, I don’t have a choice. It’s either get cut or retire. If I'm honest, I’d be retiring even if they hadn’t given me the ultimatum. My shoulder is jacked up. My knees ache constantly. I’ve put my body through too much, and it’s had enough.”
His honesty surprises me, but I appreciate he trusts me enough to tell me these things. It can’t be easy for a professional ball player to admit his body has had enough, especially a thirty-six-year-old. He’s not old. But he has had some serious injuries over the past few years that I can tell are not easy for him to deal with.
The only way I know how to deal with emotional things is with humor, so I go with it.
“Well, thirty-six is pretty geriatric. You’re going to need a cane soon. I can’t imagine the league will let you run the bases with it, and you certainly don’t want to overstay your welcome,” I reply, but give him a smug smile when his eyes narrow.
His response is a full belly laugh with sparkling eyes, which is what I was going for. The conversation had gotten too serious, and as much as I appreciate his trust, our first date, maybe only date, shouldn’t be wrapped up in drama and life choices.
The rest of the date is filled with lighthearted conversation about things that make us both smile and not worry about the seriousness of life. We talk about Gracie’s love of baseball and how we have season tickets. We talk about where our seats are and how my dad used to say they were the best seats in the stadium. They aren’t, but they’re pretty damn good. By the end of the night, I know one thing for sure, Bryant Nash has the ability to tear down the walls I’ve built around my heart, and I’m not sure I’m ready.