Page 16 of Bad Ball Hitter
“Jake’s not…” I trail off, unable to finish that line with him looking at me like that. I don’t owe Drake Gunner any explanation about Jake’s or my life.
Drake slowly nods as if he’s trying to convince himself. I watch the play of emotions over his face, the same face I’d traced with the tips of my fingers, committing every line to memory.
He’s matured. That strong jawline is more pronounced and peppered with a five o’clock shadow. He puts the “s” in sexy because, holy cow, his abs are defined. Hard and lean and every bit delicious. Tattoos sleeve the arm the dog had attacked, and my insides fucking melt. Guess he found his sexy way of hiding the scars like he’d always talk about. It takes all my strength not to reach out and touch what used to be mine.
I divert my gaze to the counter. This image seared into my brain is the last thing I need.
“Do you want coffee?” I ask as a distraction.
“I need about a gazillion gallons of water to rehydrate before tonight’s game.”
“Some things haven’t changed,” I quip, unable to hold back.
His eyes meet mine as a swarm of memories floods my brain. Sneaking his ass past his mother and into his bedroom when he had too much to drink. Stopping him from fighting whatever guy pissed him off. Helping him digest our team losing the regional championship. We shared so much. Too much. Raw and pure and perfect in our imperfection.
Drake was born with a wild streak, but his behavior worsened after his father’s tragic death. When his sister and mother suffered the same fate, it was a downward spiral for him during his senior year. But even at his worst, I could see through his antics. I saw it for what it was—a silent cry for help. Something about him drew me in, a certain charisma that I couldn’t resist. I didn’t pity him, but I always understood why Drake acted out. I had hoped he would have calmed down by now, though.
“Yeah, last night wasn’t…” He lets his voice fall off, thank God. Last night’s moans are hard enough to erase; I don’t need a recap. I already want to bleach my brain. Or maybe that flashy thing from Men in Black to wipe my memory. I fumed while lying in bed, praying Jake wasn’t hearing their sexcapade. Miranda knows not to bring guys back. She clearly didn’t care.
“No explanations needed,” I say a little too harshly, grabbing a glass from the cabinet when my roommate’s stirring floats down the hallway. My hands tremble slightly as I hand him the glass, and water splashes over the side. I take a step back from both the counter and Drake.
“Need a towel?” he offers, and I almost smile. Almost.
“Got it,” I say, reaching for a paper towel instead.
“Drake,” Miranda calls, her footsteps getting louder. “Who are you talking to?”
“Nobody,” he answers, but his eyes don’t leave mine. They hold a message, one I’m afraid to read.
“Nobody” feels like a secret, like a shared past clawing its way into the present. And standing here, with the splash of wetness on my hand and the ache in my chest, I wonder if old feelings aren’t the only things resurfacing.
I press my back against the cool tiles of the kitchen wall, a barrier I wish could shield me from Drake’s piercing gaze. He leans forward, forearms resting on the marble island, his fingers inching toward the edge as if reaching out could bridge the chasm between us. His eyes dip to my chest and snag on the necklace that feels like a weighted anchor around my neck.
There’s a question in his gaze, but he doesn’t voice it. A mutual understanding flows between us, acknowledging the elephant in the room while choosing to dance around it.
“Jake,” he starts, and my heart stutters, “he’s got your smile, Lila.”
My hands go clammy, gripping the edge of the countertop for balance. “Lots of kids have smiles, Drake.”
It’s weak, even to my own ears, but I can’t afford to falter. He doesn’t need to know the entire truth. Not that Jake’s adoption is a secret, but it’d be a lengthy conversation. One that would ultimately lead to the past. That door needs to remain shut.
Miranda comes into the kitchen and halts. Eyes wide, freezing in place like a deer caught in headlights, she stares at Drake and me.
“Drake? You two know each other?” Her words falter, her tone a curious mix of shock and intrigue.
A glance passes between Drake and me, our shared history heavy in the air. His jaw tightens, a subtle nod to me, his eyes pleading for discretion.
“Old friends,” I manage to say, my voice steady despite the storm brewing inside me. The lie tastes bitter on my tongue, but it’s necessary. “We actually went to high school together.”
“What?” Miranda’s voice is nothing short of incredulous. “Why didn’t you mention anything?”
Yeah, why didn’t I? Maybe it’s because Miranda and I aren’t exactly the share-everything type of roommates. Or perhaps it’s because my past with Drake is a Pandora’s box, better left buried deep.
“I didn’t know Drake was playing here, and you never mentioned his name.” That’s sort of the truth. I didn’t know his previous team traded him until my customer told me yesterday.
Miranda seems to sense the tension. Her brows furrow as she looks between us. “Well … that’s a surprise,” she finally says, her tone loaded with curiosity she doesn’t try to hide.
Miranda cocks her head, dark locks tumbling over her shoulder as she eyes us both, searching for something amiss. I lean against the kitchen island, the cool marble grounding me while my insides churn with unrest.