The Player

  “I live my life under the lights, baby,” he teases as he grabs the hand I’ve refused him. “You think these dim bar lights are going to intimidate me?”

  “People are going to stare.”

  He pulls me to my feet.

  “Good.”

  “Good? We’re so out of place in here.”

  “I’ve never cared what people think of me, and I sure as hell am not going to start now. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with getting a little attention now and again.”

  He tugs on my arm for me to follow.

  “Ah, you can’t handle being out of the limelight now, can you?” I tease.

  “I can handle it just fine. And it’s not me people are going to be looking at, it’s you.”

  “Me?” I say, but the word comes out in a whoosh of air when he stops and turns without warning, causing me to bump solidly against his chest.

  “Yes. You.” His smile is a juxtaposition of shy and suggestive, and it tugs on so many things inside of me. Want. Need. Denial. Desire.

  We’re standing in the middle of the empty dance floor, and all I can think about when he looks down at me is that I need to remember to breathe.

  Because chatting at a table is fine. Stretching his shoulder on the field, I can handle. But this, face-to-face on a dance floor with nothing between us, only serves to reinforce my epiphany in the truck earlier—I really like him.

  And as if the universe is trying to cheer this mistake on, the music suddenly becomes louder and the lights become dimmer, prompting Easton to slide one hand against my lower back and lift my hand with his other.

  Breathe, Scout.

  And then he begins to move.

  “Relax,” he murmurs against my ear as he guides us in a mismatched array of steps that make no sense and perfect sense all at the same time. But it’s not like I can concentrate on the movement with the heat of his body against mine, familiar and so very different.

  It’s his tutelage I’m under now. It’s not me working him or stretching him. It’s him guiding me. Commanding me. And the ripple of his muscles beneath his shirt is not for me to study this time around, but rather to feel. To react to. To want.

  I’m normally one to avoid the spotlight, but Easton has just thrust me right into it. Attention shifts. Eyes observe. And there’s something about knowing we’re being watched that magnifies everything about the moment.

  More specifically, everything about Easton.

  The scent of his shampoo. The strength in his hand as it holds mine and the heat of his other splayed across my lower back. The vibration of his voice against my hair as he hums along with the Luke Bryan tune. The rhythm of his hips as they move against mine.

  “You lied to me, Scout.”

  The heat of his breath against the side of my face.

  “About what?”

  The sensitivity of my nipples as they rub ever so gently against the firmness of his chest.

  “You damn well do know how to dance.”

  I chuckle in response but don’t look up to meet his eyes because I don’t want him to stop whatever it is we’re doing. There’s something intimate about the moment that has me wanting to breathe him in a little more before it’s lost.

  His reaction to my laughter is to press his hand against my back and pull me closer. “I was always taught lying comes with punishment.” His voice has a sing-song quality to it that only serves to draw me deeper under whatever spell he seems to be casting on my impenetrable shell.

  “Punishment?” Somewhere deep down, the word awakens the parts of me curious about but inexperienced in anything of the nature, and I’m suddenly nervous.

  And excited.

  “Mm-hmm.” His voice sounds as seductive as his body feels against mine. “Something that causes you pain.”

  I gulp over thoughts as my insides begin to heat up, and I’m well aware of the attention still turned our way.

  And before I can take my next breath, Easton spins me out with a laugh until our arms are fully extended, fingertips barely still grasping each other, before pulling me back so I land solidly with a thud against his chest.

  “See?” he says, prompting me to look up at him, the one thing I was telling myself not to do. And now that I have, I’m fully aware that our lips are only inches apart.

  “See?” I laugh, trying to comprehend what I’m supposed to see when my body is still reeling from the feeling of our bodies colliding into each other and the mortification of being twirled in a public display.

  “Being the center of attention.” His voice is barely a whisper, but I hear every word. “Dancing with me isn’t too painful of a punishment now, is it?”

  Normally I would laugh at him—at his version of a punishment—but all I can think of is how much I want him to kiss me right now. With his lips right there. And our bodies like this.

  Breathe, Scout.

  “You’ve got a heavy hand there, Mr. Wylder.” My head is so scrambled I’m not even sure how I manage to sound so witty.

  And breathless.

  It’s in that moment that I realize we’ve stopped moving completely. Our feet. Our bodies. We’re standing alone in the middle of the dance floor in a crowded bar, staring at each other.

  “Excuse me?” At a woman’s voice to our left, we shock apart like two kids getting caught for the second time today. “May I cut in?”

  I look over at the attractive—and much older—bottled redhead beside us, whose smile is as evocative as the clothes she’s wearing, and then back to Easton, a man no stranger to women hitting on him, I’m sure. His smile is fixed and eyes wide as he tries to figure out what to do.

  “Of course. He’s all yours,” I say as I step back, despite every part of my body wanting to move closer. He sputters a protest, but his manners get the best of him when the woman, who must be at least thirty years his senior, has absolutely no qualms about stepping into where my shoes just were.

  I twist my lips to fight my smile as he sends me a visual SOS when the woman begins to lead him around the dance floor. He’s all smiles to her while shooting playful I’m-gonna-kill-you daggers across the room at me.

  And as I sip my fresh drink, sent compliments of Easton’s dance partner, for the first time in forever, I realize what jealousy over a man feels like.

  “She so wanted you.” My laugh is louder than normal, a bit giggly, and I don’t care because I’m a little tipsy and a lot relaxed, and I can’t remember what it feels like to be relaxed.

  “Some wingman you are. Throwing me to the wolves so you can go drink all the alcohol, which could have helped to put me out of my misery.”

  “She was sweet, though,” I explain.

  “Of course you thought that. You were getting buzzed on the drinks she sent your way, while I was busy moving her hands off my ass. And I won’t even get into her thoughts about the team’s chances this year, or how much she kept asking if it’s true that son is like father.”

  “If it’s true that son is like father?” I look at him, wide-eyed, and cover my mouth with my hand.

  “Yeah. Exactly.”

  “Are you telling me she’s slept with your dad?”

  “I have no clue, and I don’t want to know,” he says dryly, mock shivering.

  I stifle a laugh. “And to think you were so generous with your time for her.”

  “What was I supposed to do? Cause a scene? I tried to escape, tried to explain I was on a date with you, but she wouldn’t let me go.”

  “She just wanted to see if the apple fell far from the tree,” I snicker, earning me a stern glare.

  “Funny.”

  “Well, it was nice of you to stick it out.” His glare is back, and I try to smother my laughter. He just walks ahead of me and shakes his head. “Look, I’m sorry. You were being very kind to her. She is probably lonely, and you just made her night.”

  “And that’s why I wasn’t rude. She just wanted to feel important.”

  And so you let her have that moment
.

  It’s one surprise after another with him, and the revelation only makes me want to get to know him further. “You better watch out, or I might change my opinion of you.”

  “You have opinions of me? What might those be?” he asks, voice playful but eyes serious as he takes my hand to stop me. We’re standing on a sidewalk in the middle of downtown Austin, his truck left in the bar’s parking lot and mine a few blocks ahead in the stadium’s parking lot. We decided to walk off the alcohol, but we’re not walking now.

  We’re standing with my back to the brick wall of the building and this surprise of a man standing in front of me.

  “I’ve been around ball players my whole life, Easton.”

  “And?” He says the word as if I’ve insulted him.

  “They’re players. They come and go on a whim. They typically need the high of the attention they get on the field to thrive. And if they can’t find it, then they’ll seek it out somewhere else . . . and that’s never good for a relationship.”

  “So you’ve had a relationship with a ballplayer, then?” His eyes narrow.

  “No. Never. It’s my personal rule.” And even though I said it myself, I know I’m already justifying in my head why I might make an exception for him.

  “It’s arrogant to brush your opinion in broad strokes across all of us players.” The dark night prevents me from seeing what else his eyes are saying.

  “True,” I muse, “but I’ve heard enough locker room talk to know the truth.”

  “So you think that’s how I am, too, then?”

  “No. Yes.” I tighten my ponytail and tuck the loosened strands behind my ears. “It’s just . . . they leave. Night after night. Day after day. Game after game. And when the season is over and the limelight is gone, they seek the attention of someone new, someone who gives them that adrenaline rush. That thrill of finding someone new, or the high that comes with the risk of being caught cheating.”

  “Scout—”

  “I’ve had enough people in my life leave me, Easton. I’m not walking willingly into a situation that sets me up for that hurt.” And I hate that I just gave him that part of me. That glimpse into my past. I blame the alcohol for lowering my guard, but I fear it’s so much more than that.

  I fear it’s because of him and how he makes me feel.

  “You’re wrong.” He steps into me and out of the street’s light. The shadows on his face give him an edge that’s sexy, reckless, and daring. “I’ve played on grass my whole life, Scout. There’s no need for me to see what’s out there when it’s green beneath my feet.”

  “There’s turf nowadays. Everything is green,” I fight back.

  “If there’s turf, then there’s no point to your argument. No one’s going to be looking for greener pastures when they’re all the same color.” He lowers his head so our eyes are on the same level, to reinforce what he’s said.

  They’re just words, Scout. Declarations that have no basis. He’s just a man trying to defend his own gender. His own ego.

  Yet, I want to believe him.

  I want to think he’s not like those guys.

  And God, how I want him to kiss me. Call my bluff. Because with the alcohol in my blood and the memory of his body against mine in my brain, it’s all I can think about.

  I spring off the wall and away from the slowly closing gap between us. “Is there a bathroom around here?” I ask the first thing that comes to mind to give me an escape, hands gesticulating animatedly, and nerves humming recklessly. “All of those drinks are catching up to me.”

  He steps forward under the light of the building and just stares at me. He can see through me right now—my nerves, my fear, my confused desire—and so I hold his gaze, pretend to be unaffected by him, and wait to see if he’s going to let me off the hook or push the issue.

  “My place is just around the corner,” he says, giving me a pass, but with a look telling me we’ll be revisiting this discussion where I called his character into question. “I’ll take you there.”

  I should say no.

  I should reject the offer and walk away from everything that he represents for me.

  But I don’t speak. Instead I fall into step next to him.

  We walk through the newly revamped downtown area, past couples holding hands and hordes of college kids making their way from one bar to the next, the night still young. Our silence only feeds my insecurity and the knowledge that he’s mad at me because I insulted his character. I know I should apologize, tell him that based on his actions today I can tell he doesn’t fit my generalization, but I don’t say a word. I can’t. Because, deep down, I have a feeling that it’s probably best if he stays mad at me.

  It’s safer.

  By the time we enter the lobby of a glossy high-rise, I really do have to use the restroom. Easton laughs at me as I dance from foot to foot during the long elevator ride to the penthouse. The doors open to the foyer of his home, where a lone lamp lights the space as he ushers me to a door to my immediate left.

  I take a few minutes after I use the facilities to check my mess of a reflection—hair falling from my ponytail, lipstick long gone, and eye shadow all collected in the crease of my lid. There’s no way I can fix this. Not here. But I try.

  I pull my ponytail out, let my dark brown hair fall, and fluff it with my fingers. And now I look like I just woke up. Shit. Is it so bad to want to look like I didn’t just wake up?

  I spend a few more minutes trying to look a bit more presentable, but when I check my reflection one last time—hair fluffed and cheeks pinched pink—I immediately grab my hair tie and pull my hair back up into a messy bun. This is how Easton knows me—in work mode—with my basic makeup and my hair thrown back. Anything else comes off like I’m trying too hard.

  And I’m not trying too hard.

  Keep telling yourself that, Scout, and maybe you’ll start believing it.

  When I exit the bathroom, Easton is nowhere to be found. Hesitant to overstep, but wondering where he is, I walk past the foyer and start making my way through the vast and still darkened condo. It’s all hardwood floors and slate grays and blues. Or I think it is from what I can see as I move through its spacious layout. I only see that much because there is a wall of windows straight ahead of me, where I’m met with Easton’s silhouette, highlighted by bright lights beyond.

  Both pull at me. Tempt me to look closer. Dare me to want what they are showing me.

  It’s a sight—his darkness against the light—and I can’t help but stare at him for a moment. Study his lines. The broad shoulders and trim waist. The wide stance and arms relaxed at his sides.

  I fool myself as I take the first step toward him, past the gourmet kitchen on the left, with its white cabinets and granite slab, that I’m just here to use the restroom.

  I lie to myself as I walk past the huge living room, with its oversize couches and state of the art electronics, that wanting him to kiss me was only a passing fancy that has come and gone.

  I push away the notion as I pad past the massive dining table, that I’ll be leaving here in a few minutes to head home and get a good night’s sleep. Alone.

  The worst part about telling yourself lies is you know the real truth.

  And the truth is I want everything I just tried to convince myself I didn’t.

  The realization echoes in my head as I prepare myself for his irrevocable pull, because it’s pointless to pretend he doesn’t affect me when my body is already humming at the sight of his silhouette.

  “Your place is gorgeous. The only thing missing is a scruffy . . .” My words trail off before I can say mutt to snuggle up with, because when I step beside him, I’m rendered speechless by the sight before us—the source of the bright lights beyond.

  “Wow.” It’s all I can say, and I sound like a little kid seeing Santa Claus for the first time—astonished. Mesmerized. Staggered. “You’re forgiven for not having a mutt,” I murmur, my words barely audible as I stare.

&nbsp
; “A mutt?”

  “Shush and let me enjoy the view.” I swat at him to reinforce my words, transfixed by a sight that’s as beautiful to my eye as the man standing beside me.

  Like mouth-dropping, chill-inducing incredible.

  Beyond this wall of windows high above the city, the buildings dotting the darkened skyline paint a uniquely beautiful picture, but they’re nothing compared to what lies directly below us: the home of the Austin Aces.

  The lights are on, bringing the ballpark to life despite the fifty thousand vacant seats. They highlight the brilliant green of the outfield grass and its mesmerizing mowed crisscross pattern. They brighten the brown of the infield’s dirt, the white of the chalk lines, and the blue uniforms of the grounds crew who seem to be working on the pitcher’s mound.

  He chuckles and pulls me from my trance. “I’m glad I’m forgiven when I wasn’t even aware you liked dogs.”

  “Mutts. I prefer mutts. Preferably the no-one-else-wants-them kind of mutts. And I want one desperately, but with traveling for work and . . . just wow . . .” I’m rambling because my attention is engrossed elsewhere.

  And for the first time tonight, it’s not on him.

  “I know.”

  I appreciate the fact that he doesn’t say anything else. That he just allows me to appreciate the view before us—the only diamond this girl has ever dreamt of. And right now I’d challenge anyone who told me this diamond doesn’t sparkle as brightly as the rock you wear on your finger. With empty seats or with a sold-out crowd, this one outshines jewelry any day.

  “It’s your church,” I whisper, not even certain I say it out loud until I glance over to Easton and find him watching me. There’s a look on his face. His expression is part awe, part disbelief, and a whole lot of little boy mixed together, and it steals my heart when I had it firmly protected under lock and key.

  But he’s stolen it nonetheless.

  “This is the place, isn’t it?” I murmur like he should know what I’m referring to—the fabled house I’ve heard some players talk about, with its sparkling views and the private field in its depths, twenty-something floors below. And because I’ve never heard them say who owns the place, I thought it was a legend of sorts, a fantasy home some players aspire to have, and yet here it is.