Page 26 of Bad Ball Hitter
Never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d have to compete with my roommate. I went out of my way to get someone plain and boring. She has no life, for fuck’s sake.
I uncross my arms, reaching out to touch his hand. He flinches, barely noticeable, but enough to send a bolt of panic through me. I pull my hand back, clenching it into a fist by my side.
We need to get away from here. Go back to his place and let me work my magic. I can make him forget all about Miss Hometown Girl.
I lean forward, letting my fingers brush against Drake’s arm, feeling the warmth of his skin under my touch. The tension in his muscles is palpable, a stark contrast to the easy laughter we shared earlier. I slide closer, my leg pressing against his, and tilt my head so my hair falls over one shoulder, exposing my neck.
“Drake,” I whisper. “Why don’t we go to your place? I can give you a massage.”
His eyes dart to mine, then away, landing on the path where Lila disappeared with Jake. He shifts uncomfortably, the distance between us suddenly feeling like miles instead of inches. His hesitation hangs heavy in the air, an invisible barrier I can’t seem to break through.
“I can’t,” he finally says, his voice tight. “I’ve got an early flight tomorrow for the away games. I need to prepare for it.”
My heart sinks, a lead weight settling in my chest. Desperation claws at me, urging me to push harder, but I bite it back, forcing a smile that feels more like a grimace. I reach out again, my fingers trembling as they trace his jawline, his whiskers scratching my fingertips.
“Just for a little while,” I insist, trying to keep my tone light and playful. “You deserve a break before the road trip.”
He pulls away, the movement swift and final. My hand drops to my side, cold and empty. The wall between us solidifies, thicker and higher than before. He stands, running a hand through his tousled hair, avoiding my gaze.
“Miranda, I really can’t. I need to be at my best.”
The finality in his words stings, a sharp reminder of the chasm between us. I step away, wrapping my arms around myself to ward off the chill creeping into my bones. The sound of birds chirping filters through the silence, a mocking soundtrack that only deepens the ache in my chest.
“Alright,” I manage to say, my voice barely holding steady. “I understand.”
But I don’t. Not really. And as Drake straightens and looks at me for a moment longer, his eyes are full of regret and something else—something raw and vulnerable that tugs at my heart despite everything. Then he turns away, heading for the car with long, quick strides.
I watch his retreating back, his broad shoulders tense under the last daylight. Each step he takes feels like a physical blow, widening the distance between us.
“I’ll call you later,” he says when he opens the car door. I nod a curt acknowledgment and watch him slip inside.
I’m left standing alone in the parking lot, staring at the spot where his car was just moments ago. The cold seeping into my skin is nothing compared to the ice settling in my heart. I wasn’t enough. No matter what I did or how hard I tried, it was never enough for Drake Gunner.
A realization dawns on me then. I’ll need to do more than just fight for him; I’ll need to strategize, plan, and outwit Lila Hayes at her own game. It won’t be easy, but nothing worthwhile ever is.
“He’s mine,” I whisper to myself, my fists clenching until my nails bite into my palms. “I’m not letting him go.”
With newfound determination, I turn and stride back into the apartment building. It doesn’t matter how early Drake’s flight is or where his away games might be. There are many ways to ensure that a man’s thoughts are filled with only one woman.
And if making Drake forget Lila meant playing dirty, well, the game of love was never meant to be played fair.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Drake
“Well, Les, I don’t know what happened this week, but we need to regroup and come back stronger.”
“Talk about a head scratcher. All isn’t lost, Joe, but we certainly don’t need more series like those.”
“There’s still a couple of months left to play, so we’ll shake off this series and get ’em at home.”
“Sounds like a plan. Well, folks, that’s a wrap. This is Les…”
“And Joe.”
“Signing off for now. We’ll catch you at Fenway.”
“Let that shit go.” Rappel raises his beer to his mouth and eyes the bottles of liquor lining the shelves behind the bartender. The hotel bar isn’t overly crowded, which is good. I’m in no mood to socialize.