Page 14

“I. Didn’t. Want. Him. I wanted him to think we wanted him.

I wanted him to turn us down and then I wanted to leak to the press that he turned down a fantastic offer.

It would send a sign to Nakamura that we have the money, we need to sign him and that we’re committed to winning.

Ethan Quicke is an asshole prima donna whose best years are behind him.

We’d get one, maybe two more good years out of him before that contract will be an absolute bust.”

“What? Then why the hell didn’t you tell me that?”

“Because it’s not your job. It’s mine. You were here to do one thing and one thing only: make everyone believe that we pushed as hard we could to get Quicke, but that he was being unreasonable. He is being unreasonable. Or at least he was. How did you get him to agree?”

“I gave him an extra year without the vesting option. Lower AAV .”

“You gave him an extra year. He’ll be nearly forty at the end of the contract. He doesn’t need a no-trade clause, because no one is going to want him. This is a nightmare. I’m in a nightmare.”

“If you had just told me what you were doing this wouldn’t be a problem. Jesus, why don’t you trust me?”

“Why the hell would I trust you? The only thing you’ve ever done is fight me. Every game analysis. Every scouting report. Every damn day back in LA , it’s all you ever did.”

“It’s because I respect you.”

That stops her.

“You fought with me because you respect me?”

“I don’t know if you realize this, Sullivan, but despite fighting you every damn day, I pretty much followed your gameplans to the letter.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Unless game conditions changed, which even you have to admit happens once in a while. It’s why we play them and don’t just let the computer run simulations every day.

I fought you because I needed to make sure the person giving us those plans, the person doing the analysis, really believed in them. ”

“Are you saying you made me literally want to tear my hair out every day we worked together because of some sort of test?”

“No, yes . . . not, not a test. I’ve been in baseball long enough to have worked with enough guys who think they know their shit, but didn’t. The only thing I ever cared about was winning and I had to be sure that I was doing everything possible to make that happen. Lot of good it did me.”

Something flickers in her eyes, an understanding even if that fury is still there. It’s in the rapid rise and fall of her chest that is barely being contained by that tank top and I lift my gaze up and away from it as quickly as I can, but probably too late for her not to have noticed.

“Listen, I’m sorry if I made you feel like I didn’t respect you, but you gotta know that, if I didn’t respect you, I wouldn’t have talked to you at all. That’s why they hired you, you know, because the guy before you was actually a hack and I told them I wouldn’t work with him anymore.”

“Then they hired me.”

“They did.”

“And how much say did you have in that?”

“None. They told me that they were going to promote the best analyst they had in the minors and, if I had a problem with that one . . . how did they put it, an aging catcher with a bad knee doesn’t dictate how the organization runs .”

Most of her ire seems to slip away at that.

“ Ouch.”

“Yeah, but they were right, you know.”

“You played for five years after that and your last year was actually the best of them. You had another year or two left in you.”

It’s nice of her to say, but it’s not true.

“You saw my medicals, didn’t you?”

“You could have moved to DH , got out from behind the plate, just focused on hitting.”

“Nah, I’d done my twenty. I would have driven everyone crazy only playing half the game, hanging out in the dugout, not being able to control what was going on out on the field, and they had that kid Díaz coming up behind me. It wouldn’t have been fair to him.”

She tilts her head in silent agreement, but then she levels me with a serious stare. “We got interrupted back on the plane and you never answered my question. Why are you back?”

“To get the one thing I never had as a player.”

“A ring,” she answers for me.

“A ring. You told me once that’s what you wanted too.”

“I did. I do.”

“And here we are on the same team, again, and we both want the same thing.”

“So what are you saying?”

“What if we call a truce on . . .” I wave vaguely at the space between us, “this and focus on that. What if we trusted each other, like Stew wants, and build this team together.”

“If I agree to this, I need a clear chain of command. Stew named me his interim. I’m ultimately the one responsible for making a call.

I had to deal with you ignoring my analysis when – what did you say?

– conditions changed on the field, but now you’re going to have to deal with me telling you no. This is my world, not yours.”

“You’ll listen to me? You’ll hear me out?”

“I will,” she says, firmly, her eyes blue steel. She means it.

“Okay, Sullivan,” I say, extending my hand to her. “Let’s do this.” Her hand slides into mine, cool to the touch, her handshake firm, strong even, stronger than I expected, but soft too.

“For the ring?”

“For the ring.”

Then she tugs on my hand, using it as leverage to pull herself almost entirely against me.

“But if you ever pull another stunt like you did today again, you’re done, understood?”

I hum a yes as my eyes are drawn down toward her mouth and, just as I make up my mind to lean in and fuck the consequences, she nods firmly and drops back a step.

My hand doesn’t release hers, though, and I can’t quite convince myself to let go. But she’s not letting go either and her eyes lift to mine, a question in them.

Is she remembering too?

Because every one of my senses is on high alert, instant recall back to a parking lot in LA where I was emotionally wrecked and physically exhausted and didn’t have the energy to fight against the rising need to pull her in and find out if that mouth of hers wasn’t just talented with verbal slings that always hit their mark.

It would be so easy, just a quick tug and she’d be back in my arms. I wouldn’t even have to bend that far down, as she’s tall enough that I could kiss her all day long and avoid an aching neck.

Shit like that matters when you’re pushing forty.

But I shouldn’t and, to be perfectly honest, I’m not sure if she’d kiss me back or haul my ass to HR for sexual harassment. I’d say it’s a coin flip.

Finally, she’s the one that pulls away and I let her go as she steps back and then worries her bottom lip with her teeth.

Fuck, I didn’t need to add that expression to the catalog of things I can fantasize about.

Distraction. I need one. Badly.

“Quicke invited us to the game.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Do you want to go?”

“Nothing else to do. Everyone’s in town for it and rivalries are always fun.”

“Are you a football fan?” she asks.

“It’s fine. Not my favorite.”

“Me neither. Except maybe basketball. There’s enough scoring in basketball that a clock feels necessary. The other clock sports, football especially, just feel . . . empty, like there’s a false momentum to them without enough scoring to make up for it.”

“I never thought about it that way. I don’t know if anyone has ever thought about it that way.”

She shrugs. “It’s just how my brain works. Always has. It’s why baseball appealed to me as a kid. You have to earn it. If you don’t, the game just never ends.”

Now that I’ve thought about before and suddenly I don’t want to go hang out in a suite with Ethan Quicke and his high-school and college buddy entourage and eat cold appetizers while we watch two teams I couldn’t give two shits about.

I don’t care what we do, I just want to do it with her.

“Fuck the game.”

“Really? Didn’t you just say there’s nothing else to do,” she asks. “You okay, Avery?”

“I’m great. C’mon, let’s go.”

“Go where?”

“We haven’t eaten anything all day aside from airplane peanuts. Let’s get some food, a couple of drinks, and I want you to walk me through your plan for the forty-man roster one spot at a time.”

“Seriously?”

“Why? You got anything better to do?”

“Absolutely not. Let’s go.”

She spins away from me and I have to lean back to avoid getting whipped in the face by a rogue lock of blonde hair. That scent trails behind her. I’m momentarily swept away by it again, by her again. By the rage and the righteous indignation that melted away at my confession.

I only manage to regain my focus in time to catch sight of her robe falling from her shoulders to the floor of the bedroom and her lifting that tank top up and over her head, just as the door closes.

And I collapse down onto the couch, letting out a shaky breath.

A truce.

An agreement to work together.

This is what I wanted.

So why do I feel like she just owned me entirely?

And why do I like it so fucking much?