It’d be hard to hate something you love so much. “If you want to leave at any time, we’re gone.”
With a nod, he leads the way.
At the cages, Damon blows out a loud breath and runs his hand over the row of bats lined up outside the cage.
“Is this a ‘If you build it, he will come’ type thing?” I ask. “You waiting for a bat to speak to you?”
“Nope. The bats who speak to you are shit, because they won’t stop talking to keep their eye on the ball.”
“Funny guy.”
“You started it.” Damon picks up a bat and closes himself in the cage.
If smashing out ball after ball is his definition of rusty, I would’ve been in awe when Damon was in the peak of his career.
My gaze—surprisingly—isn’t stuck on his firm ass the whole time as he takes swing after swing. From his long arms to his powerful muscles, he’s amazing with a bat. And now I’m thinking about his bat and wondering how much longer it’ll be before he gets over it and we can go home.
I never thought baseball could be a turn-on.
He comes out of the cage sweaty but happy. His entire face glows, and his posture is somehow proud and relaxed at the same time.
I hope he’ll look at me like that one day, because I’m coming to realize I really fucking care about the guy standing in front of me.
“I thought pitchers were easy outs?” I ask. “You kicked ass in there.”
“I was decent at hitting. Not the best on the team, but I held my own. God, I’ve missed this.” His nostalgic tone and flushed glow makes my heart break for him.
Baseball was his life and now he has to live without it. He can go to games and watch from the sidelines, but the way he talks about it, it’s as if part of his soul died when he was injured and couldn’t play anymore. He speaks of the game as if it’s a living, breathing thing.
“When was the last time you played?”
Damon’s shoes apparently become fascinating to him. “Since the injury. I went through all that rehab, hoping, but when the doctor said I’d never regain full movement, it hurt too much to even try to recondition myself. Both physically and mentally.”
“How is the shoulder holding up?” I ask.
“Not too bad. How about we hit the night field at the back where I can pitch to you. Let’s see if you can hit my fastball.” His face morphs into that of a child on Christmas morning, and I realize we won’t be going home any time soon. I think in the world of priorities for Damon, it goes baseball, sex, food. But if this makes him smile like that? I’ll gladly stay here all night if he wants to.
“Pretty sure I won’t even be able to hit your slow ball,” I say.
“That’s not a thing,” he says and tries not to laugh.
“All right, but go easy on me.”
He doesn’t go easy on me.
Bastard.
The first ball flies past me before I can even blink.
“Come on,” Damon taunts, “that was only eight-five.” He points to the display, lighting up his speed.
“I’m so glad I’m wearing a helmet for this.”
“You have nothing to worry about. My precision has always been on point.”
“And you’re so modest about it.”
Damon sighs. “You think I’m bad now. Can you imagine how I was four years ago?” He looks at the baseball in his hand and squeezes it tight. Even from here the deep concentration line on his forehead is prominent.
Slowly, I walk toward him. “What’s up?”
“Nothing,” he murmurs, still looking at the ball. “Just … this was my whole life. I’ve spent so long being angry at myself, at the world, at my coaches—even though I never told them I was in pain. I kept trying to rationalize that they were the professionals, they should’ve seen the signs. I know it was my fault. My cockiness and the pressure became too much, and I thought I was invincible. And it’s true I miss it. Standing here, holding this ball, I really fucking miss it. But, you know what?”
“What?”
“It doesn’t feel like home anymore.”
I smile. “That’s a good thing, right?”
“A really good thing.” He sniffs and lifts his head, and I pretend I don’t see the glimmer in his eyes. “You ready for more?”
“Bring it. But, uh, not too hard.”
He grins.
This time, I’m ready. I’m going to hit—
Bam, the ball flies into the net behind me.
He continues to throw bullets at me, but toward the end, I manage to get a few hits, and I’m proud to even accomplish that. Damon’s either too tired, sore, or he’s going easy on me.
“I think I better call it,” Damon says after a while. “My shoulder’s starting to pinch.”
“Thank God. I don’t know how much longer I could keep embarrassing myself.”