Page 15

FRANCESCA

The bar is somehow exactly what I imagined: reflecting the city we’re in, an odd mismatch of what Montana used to be and what it is now. Like a layer of old west nostalgia slapped on top of an attempt at industrial chic.

Even in just dark jeans and a black wrap top, a black leather jacket and black pumps, I feel wildly out of place. The dress code matches the décor: urban cowboy or cowgirl, as it were. I very much look like I just hopped off a plane from the East Coast.

Charlie blends a bit better, his jeans well broken in, his heather-blue t-shirt just on the other side of washed enough to hug his large frame just right.

“Fake-ass cowboy shit,” Charlie mutters from my side.

I laugh. “Exactly! I was trying to figure out what felt so wrong. It’s trying too hard.”

The bar is as packed as the rest of the town – overflow fans who don’t have tickets to the game but who want to watch it with a crowd.

“C’mon, let’s find a table,” he says, shouldering through groups of people scattered through the room, reaching for my hand.

I hesitate for a second, flashing back to the hotel, the feeling of connection so unexpected and intense that it feels like I shouldn’t want to feel it again. Like it’s dangerous.

It is dangerous.

But I’ve never played it safe in my entire life.

So I take his hand and let that feeling wash over me again.

There’s a freedom here that I wouldn’t feel if we were back in New York, an anonymity that makes it okay when the bodies surge around us and I have to step even closer, our arms entwined as I press into his side.

And there’s something about that contact, the solid muscle of his bicep, the warmth of his body, the way he maneuvers me through the space, anticipating collisions and avoiding them, putting himself between me and the rest of the room.

That doesn’t keep me from nearly getting decapitated by a guy throwing his arm out wide to gesture the size of something as we pass, though. I brace for impact, but Charlie must have seen it coming because he yanks me closer and I fall into him, so the guy’s hand only hits air.

“You good?” he murmurs into my ear, his breath ghosting across my skin and making me shiver despite the heat created by the crowd.

It’s so easy to imagine him asking that in a different context, his body wrapped around mine, his hands everywhere, pushing inside of me, his mouth at my ear, trailing down to my neck, his teeth sinking into the curve where it meets my shoulder just firmly enough to leave a mark.

“Yeah,” I manage to breathe out, despite the images whirling around in my mind, disappearing as quickly as they arrived.

I half want to spin around and tell the guy off, but that would require pushing away and breaking this odd little bubble we’ve created as we make our way to the one open table at the far end of the room.

Instead I lean in closer and, while Charlie doesn’t pull away, I can feel the surprise as he looks down at me as he gives me a slight squeeze.

What am I doing?

It’s just been so long since I’ve felt this way.

Protected. Sheltered. And, if the way he’s looking at me is any indication, wanted.

Is he feeling this too?

There’s always been tension between us, but it was easy enough to explain away. Our jobs are pressurized, the stakes were high and both of us are incredibly competitive. But this? It was never like this, not until that last night at Dodger Stadium.

And now, apparently.

No.

This cannot happen.

When we get to the table, I slide away from him, planting myself firmly in the center of one side of the booth while he takes the seat opposite mine.

“Are you hungry?” I ask, knowing my tone is too bright, too high pitched, too everything.

And he’s not an idiot. He knows what I’m doing. I’m sure of it, but he allows it, easily, and as if nothing just happened between us.

What am I saying?

Nothing happened.

And nothing is going to happen.

So, it’s fine. I’m fine. He’s fine. We’re both just fine.

“Yeah, I can eat,” he says, but then he cringes, the double entendre too much for the both of us.

I bet he can, is the only response that pops into my head, and even though I don’t say it out loud, I know my face absolutely gives me away.

He sends me a withering look, but he breaks almost immediately, his grin slow, but growing wide.

And I can’t help it, despite biting my lip to hold it back.

I let out a slightly hysterical giggle and, once it escapes, there’s nothing I can do to stop myself.

I dissolve into laughter so hard and so long that my eyes start tearing. And he’s laughing too, a pleasant gravely sound that comes from his chest. Somehow, that’s also incredibly hot.

God, this is just a vicious cycle. Is there anything he can do right now that won’t turn me on?

I try to take a deep breath, reaching for a napkin from the holder at the edge of our table to dab the tears away from my eyes, grateful that a bunch of mascara doesn’t come away as I do.

This is good. Laughing is good. Laughing together is even better.

We can just move on now, talk about the plan for the off season and how we’re going to win a championship.

A waitress comes over to the table, a timely distraction.

“What can I get you?” she asks.

“Beer for me,” he says, and I just shake my head. I cannot drink alcohol when I’m like this. Alcohol and this feeling? That’s a terrible combination.

“Just a Diet Coke, thanks,” I order. “We should get food.”

I deliberately phrase it that way and he sends me a knowing look, but nods.

“Burgers?”

Perfect. Burgers are maybe the least sexy thing in the world to eat.

“That sounds good. Cheddar on mine, medium rare,” I say.

“The same for me, with bacon too. Fries to split?”

I nod and the waitress jots it all down and scampers away through the ever-growing sea of people.

“Okay, lay it out for me,” he says, leaning forward in his seat, resting his forearms on the table. “Nakamura is the main target, but this team needs more than just an A1 guy behind him.”

“You’re right. The original plan wasn’t to have Quicke in the rotation, but here we are,” I say, sending him one final short glare before moving on. “But he’ll be a decent contributor.”

“What about behind the plate?”

“You noticed that, huh?”

“That Gibbons had elbow surgery and will be out for a year, maybe more, maybe forever, depending upon his recovery? Yeah. I noticed.”

“We’ve got a kid in the minors, young, a little bit raw.”

“What does Stew think about him?”

“He thinks he’s got the makings of an All Star.”

“What do you think about him?”

“I think, with the right coaching, he’s got the makings of a Hall of Famer.”

“Sullivan, is the reason you didn’t give Stew a harder time about hiring me because you think I can help this kid – what’s his name?”

“Cole Davis.”

“Okay, and who else will Cole Davis be catching this season?”

“We’ve got Huff for the third spot and Verdasco in the four.”

“And your fifth starter?”

“Another kid, Archie Esposito. He’s been lights out at every level.”

“What’s the catch?”

“We kept him down at Double A last year. Player development thought he needed more time. He’s a little bit off center.

You know, typical lefty, but they wanted him to have a couple more starts down there.

He didn’t get any time at Triple A let alone with us at the big club, but I think he’s ready and I think he’ll start the season as our five and be our two or three by the September. ”

His eyes widen. “Really?”

“Really. He’s got great stuff. Fastball tops out at 103, but he’s more effective at 98 or 99. He can spot his changeup and he’s got a knuckler.”

“You mean a knuckle curve?”

“No, I mean a knuckleball. He’ll throw it in any count, totally unafraid. But he confuses people.”

“Why would you throw a knuckleball if you can throw 103?”

“Exactly, but I think he’s special.”

“When we get down to Florida, I’ll catch some of his sessions myself. I’d like to see that.”

“I think you’ll like him, once you get used to him.”

“An acquired taste?”

“For sure. Harmless, sweet, even, but like I said, a little bit odd.”

Our drinks and food come out at the same time, a testament to the bar’s service given the absolute crush of a rivalry football crowd. And I didn’t realize just how hungry I was until I took a massive bite of my cheeseburger.

I close my eyes and groan a little bit around the first bite. “God, that’s good,” I mumble, as I swallow down some perfectly cooked greasy, cheesy mess.

When I open my eyes he’s staring at me from across the table a little slack jawed, his own burger only halfway to his mouth.

“What?”

“Nothing, I just . . .”

“What?”

“I can’t remember the last time I sat down with a woman and had a meal.”

“Seriously?”

“Is that so hard to believe?”

“I mean kind of. I guess I always assumed you’d retire and get remarried, have a couple of kids. That’s usually what guys who skipped out on that during their careers do.”

“Nah, I think I always knew I’d be back. Unfinished business, plus I never really thought you could have both and do both right.”

“You don’t wish you had a kid who’d remember you playing?”

“No sense in wishing for things that can’t happen.”

It must be nice to really feel that way, to look back and truly feel content with the choices you made.

I don’t have regrets per se, but I do wonder what my life would look like now if I hadn’t wasted so much time with Shane.

If instead I’d walked away before he had a chance to hurt me as much as he did.

But then I wouldn’t be here right now and, at this moment, there’s no place I’d rather be.

“No regrets,” I say, with a grin. “That’s rare.”

“We don’t have time for regrets. We have a championship to win, right?” Charlie says, and then refocuses. “Okay, last but not least: centerfield.”

Right, back to work.

“There’s another kid. Xander Greene. Lanky, gap-to-gap hitter, can run like the wind.”

“Three rookies?”