Page 33

Another term for a fastball. “This pitcher is throwing heat.” “That pitch was a heater.”
SYDNEY
At the bar, I spot Remi again. She’s dancing with one of the baseball players that are loud and obnoxious.
Curious about her, I watch them dance and quickly come to the conclusion that though Remi is dancing with him, she’s drowning her sorrows in the distraction of the one holding her ass in his hands. I imagine being young, she probably didn’t know any better, and when an older man started treating her good, she fell for him.
I also wonder what the fuck did she see in Collin? Did she get the charming side of him I hadn’t seen since before Tatum was born?
Did he love her?
Did she love him?
Had he planned on telling me?
Ugh. Just, fucking ugh!
Turning around, I face the bar and order three shots of tequila, a Jägerbomb, and two dirty martinis. I might drink all of that myself before I return to the table.
While I wait, I notice the pitcher everyone has been gathered around tonight. He’s constantly had someone in his face since we came in.
College baseball players are treated like royalty on campus, which also explains why they’re so big-headed. College is their first taste of the big leagues where everyone worships them. Though a small percentage make it into the majors, it doesn’t stop women from trying to score with them. Like Sadie said: it’s just another run in their scorebook. For both players involved. Usually. There are exceptions, I’m sure, but I’ve yet to meet one.
The pitcher for ASU, I can’t get a clear view of him in the dim lighting, but from what I can make out, he’d rather be anywhere else tonight. I’ve watched him turn down at least ten women so far.
Waiting for my drink, I become strangely focused on him. He looks… familiar? I’ve seen his face before, but I can’t remember where.
Leaning against the other end of the bar, he slides his hat around backward, his attention shifting to mine, and we make eye contact.
Shit. He caught me staring.
To prove my point that he caught me, he winks and smiles.
Again, I stare at him as if I’m trying to figure out how I know him. Grocery store? Is that the kid that bags my groceries and tries to take them to my car every time? No, he’s a blond. This kid has brown hair. Hmm. What about the boy who mowed our lawn a few times? No, no. He was something like fourteen. This guy’s clearly in his twenties by the scruff. Wait, no, some fourteen-year-olds have facial hair.
Oh, what the shit. Why does it even matter? Where the hell are my drinks?
Still, I can’t shake it. Something about this guy jogs my memory. I’ve seen him before.
Trying to distract myself from him, I rock my hips to the beat of the music pulsing through me. He’s probably young enough he doesn’t even know who the Dropkick Murphys are. And that in itself should tell me to stop checking him out. But I don’t because I’m stuck. Literally. There are so many people waiting at the bar that I’m pinned to it as he makes his way over to me. Yep. He starts moving.
He’s coming over here? No way. Quick, act not interested. Or annoyed. That’s what I’m supposed to do, right?
I swear on all things holy, or baby Jesus, that if he tells me that he too was in a relationship with Collin, if that’s what’s up, I’m fucking out of here. I’m taking Tatum to Seattle, and we’re starting a new life as gypsies. Because I’ve always imagined that’s where gypsies might live.
It’s slow-motion until he gets to me, and if it wasn’t for the pounding in my chest, I’d think it was some kind of dream where I’m stuck on an island with one of the guys fromMagic Mike. I don’t care which one—any of them.
Two more steps.
One.
I don’t have to look over, but a smile tugs at my lips, and my cheeks turn the color of my red panties.
College boy sets his glass down on the bar and bumps his shoulder into me. At first, he doesn’t say anything, and I’m caught up in the hum of electricity between us. Our elbows touch and the hairs on my forearm spring to life. I bet they’re even swaying toward him, like those funky sea serpents when the water moves and they’re arms flow with it. Okay, I know they’re not its arms, but I’m too drunk to remember what the actual word is. My point is, they move with the current. That’s what this guy does. He moves your arm hairs toward his.
Swallowing over the confusion and the amount of wine and marijuana in my system, I hope that my brain stops working before I actually speak to this kid. Thankfully, he’s the first to say something.
Leaning in, he whispers in my ear, “How was your coffee?”