Page 43 of Bad Ball Hitter
She looks affronted. “Yes, but he came back today. When I called, he told me not to come over.”
“I don’t know. Maybe he’s hurting from the hit he took at the plate. Or wants to rest his knees. He is a catcher, after all.”
“You know an awful lot about him for not following sports.”
“Of course, I know a lot about him. We went to the same school. You know that.”
“You said you were just friends.” She arches an eyebrow, skepticism painting her flawless features. Her arms cross over her chest, a barrier as much as a challenge.
“Exactly that,” I insist, keeping my tone even. I force my gaze to meet hers, hoping my eyes don’t give away the memories flickering like old film reels. “Kid stuff. You realize we came from a small town. There were only one hundred and thirty-five in our high school graduating class. It’d be weird not to have known him. He was a friend. Nothing more.”
Miranda narrows her eyes, searching mine for something more, but I remain stoic.
“Just make sure it stays that way,” she says, each word pointed, aimed directly at my resolve. “Don’t mess this up for me.”
My head dips in a nod, and a silent breath escapes me. It’s a concession, a white flag raised before any battle begins. But inside, my mind races through scenes of bleachers, the crack of a bat, and a younger Drake rounding third base with a triumphant grin. Those memories feel a world away now, yet the newer ones sit right there. The way he stepped in and took care of Jake. How he helped me when I was sick—just as he had in the past. It’s all too confusing.
“Don’t worry. I won’t.”
“Good.” Miranda’s lips curve in a tight smile, not one that reaches her eyes. “Because I’d hate to see you have to move out.”
With those parting words, she turns on her heel, confidence building in every click-click of her heels against the concrete. I watch her disappear around the corner, the tension between us lingering like the thick summer humidity. Swallowing hard, I lean back against the cool brick wall of the grooming salon, allowing myself a moment to collect my scattered thoughts.
“Kid stuff,” I repeat, the words tasting hollow with Miranda’s ultimatum hanging heavy in the air. A shiver traces down my spine. The threat looms over me like a dark cloud; her kicking me out means more than just losing a permanent residence—it’s a financial disaster, a cascade of problems I can’t afford right now.
Not with this loan hanging over my head.
I push away from the wall, needing to return to the salon before Jett thinks I’ve abandoned him and rethinks his proposal. I need this loan more than anything right now.
But why is Drake Gunner the only thing I can think about—my more than friend acquaintance from the past with whom I’ve done more than kid’s stuff?
Jesus, this day just keeps getting better and better—not. I fear finding out what will come next.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Drake
“Well, Les, splitting this road trip isn’t the worst outcome. On the bright side, Rick Bosley’s bat is still on fire, though Drake Gunner seems to have cooled off a bit.”
“Yeah, Joe, and about Gunner—word just came in that our star catcher is scratched for the next game. Let’s hope it’s unrelated to that rough collision at the plate.”
“No updates from the locker room yet, so we’ll just have to keep our fingers crossed and wait for more news.”
“Looking ahead, Kaplan will take the mound when we return to Boston. This is Les...”
“And Joe.”
“And we’ll see you in Boston.”
That went over well.
I fling my phone aside and collapse onto my couch. Pissing off women seems to be my specialty. And boy, did I anger Miranda.
What am I even doing?
I have a perfectly hot girlfriend who checks all the boxes: beautiful, successful in her own right, driven, and sweet. Sweetness may be a stretch, but she started that way. Yet, with all of her attributes, she isn’t who I want. Not by a long shot.
Which is why I told her not to come over.