Hard Luck (Trophy Boyfriends 4)

“Then why do you keep asking?”

This makes me wonder… “Are you not telling me on purpose because you know it’s driving me nuts?”

“I’m not saying a word because I’m not saying a word.”

I smack him in the arm then plop back down at the nearby table.

One week later

This is the first time I’ve seen Mateo play.

Sure, he’s been on the field when my brother is playing—obviously—but I’ve never…noticed him. He’s always just been in the background.

Today I notice him.

And he is amazing.

Seeing him doing what he does best is amazing.

Gone are the days of tight baseball pants and sexy uniforms, but man does he look good even in the baggy ones.

Good?

That’s an understatement.

I’m down in the stands behind home plate with Hollis, munching on a hot dog and nachos, finally at a point where I’m eating for two.

Me and baby, not me and my inner bitch.

Hollis? Not so much.

I glance over at her and have to admit she’s looking a tad bit…

Nauseous.

I know that look because it’s the same look I saw when I gazed into the mirror after discovering I was pregnant, except she must be further along at this stage. But then again, I’m just guessing—what do I know about anything anymore?

I shield my eyes so I can get a better view of the field.

Better view of Mateo and my brother.

Working together to win the preseason game.

I sigh, content.

The sun is high in the sky and in our eyes, even with the overhang of the stadium behind us providing a bit of shade.

Anyway, back to Mateo.

My eyes are glued to him as if we are two magnets being pulled together.

We’ve gotten closer in the time I’ve been in Arizona. We’re even sharing a bed even though he said I could have the second bedroom to myself. Somehow, once I arrived, it just didn’t feel right.

I want to be close to him emotionally and physically.

It’s better than I could have imagined.

I offer a nacho to Hollis, who’s been sipping on Sprite during the game and nibbling on crackers she had in her bag—clearly, she didn’t get the memo that no carry-ins are allowed!

Honestly, though, not a soul on earth is going to tell Hollis Westbrooke Wallace she cannot bring her own food into the stadium.

Hollis declines my offer with a weak smile, and I drape an arm over her shoulder, squeezing.

Girl, I know what you’re feeling right now, I silently tell her without saying the words.

The sun feels fantastic, this beautiful summer-like weather doing me a world of good, both for my morale and my body.

I’ve been soaking it up since I got here.

The game goes on, the Chicago Steam up by two runs, and it’s looking like they’re going to win the game now that we’re in the home stretch, top of the ninth inning.

I prop my legs up on the seat in front of me since it’s unoccupied and lean back, the players before me already familiar faces. There’s something cool about watching men you know personally, men whose wives and girlfriends are sitting around you. Their kids too.

It’s one thing to see a game played on television, another completely to watch it live. I know what all the fuss is about, why fans get so ramped up and excited when they score tickets.

There is just no beating it.

When the game is over, our team with another preseason victory, I stand to collect my things, letting everyone around us file out first to avoid the rush.

But then the loud speaker clicks on and the announcer’s voice booms loudly, and I glance around to figure out what’s going on.

“Ladies and gentlemen, can you please turn your attention back to the pitcher’s mound? Please welcome Mateo José Espinoza—all-star second baseman and the pride of Chicago—back to the field.”

The crowd that was on its feet to depart the stadium is now cheering, eventually sitting back down when Mateo ambles toward the middle of the field. No glove on his hand, just a hat on his head.

He waves. Tips his hat in greeting before accepting a microphone and clearing his throat.

“Hola, Arizona. Cómo estás?” How are you doing?

This much Spanish I know, and the fans get loud again.

“Aren’t you relieved we won today?” More enthusiastic cheering. “I know I am.”

There’s some laughter drifting my way as I take my seat again, behind home plate, beaming down at the father of my child.

“I am feeling very lucky today, ladies and gentlemen—I have someone visiting that is with you in the stands today who is very special to me.”

Oh god.

He is not.

I lift my head to meet his eyes, for he has sought me out from his spot on the pitcher’s mound, giant grin spread across his handsome face still shiny with perspiration from the beating sun and the game he just played.

What on earth is he about to say?