Page 63 of Playing Dirty

There’s something undeniably sexy about his swing; the way he makes the collision between metal and leather look effortlessly elegant. My eyes track his movements every time a new ball hurls toward him, greedily taking in the way his sinewy muscles ripple and flex beneath his skin.

It’s not common for a short stop to be a power hitter; middle infielders are usually the quicker and more agile players on the field, which doesn’t always translate offensively. Most of the time, they’re the prime candidate for leading off the batting order. But not Theo. He’s been placed in the coveted three-hole spot since the first game I ever played against him, and standing here, watching him in action, I understand why.

Theo Greyson is an anomaly; the perfect combination of power,speed, and grace.

“You’re staring, you know.”

Blinking a few times, I find Theo’s standing only a foot away, his fingers linked through the fence separating us. I hadn’t even realized the machine ran out of balls, having zoned out while appreciating the sight of him in his element. From the small smirk resting on his lips and the knowing look in his eyes, he’s more than aware of it.

“I waswatchingyou, actually.” I pause and shake my head, my mind instantly going to that creepy song by The Police.“Nope. Just kidding, that sounded so much better before I said it out loud.”

“I’m sure it did,” he muses. “But if you’re done being a low-level stalker, I was gonna see if you wanted a turn.”

“As if I’m gonna let you have all the fun?” I ask, already stepping in the cage to collect the balls with him.

We take turns, swapping places in the cage a few times, before I finally call it a night for us. Not out of desire to go home, but because if we don’t stop, there’s a good chance I’ll be pitching a tent if I watch him go another round against the machine.

Theo takes a long, deep breath as he hands over my gear after exiting the cage.

“I didn’t realize how much I needed this.”

“That could almost be mistaken for athank you,you know.”

He rolls his eyes. “That part was coming, but you decided to be too impatient to let me get there.”

“Right,” I reply dubiously.

The two of us head out to my car, and I’m quick to toss my equipment in the trunk before closing it. I’m fully prepared to jump in the driver’s seat and take him back to his place, but when I glance over at him, he’s leaninghis hip against the back of my car, watching me.

“What’s up?”

“Thank you. For this…” He gestures with his chin toward the building. “And for letting me bitch about my dad earlier.”

“Anytime. For either option.”

He nods, but when he makes no move to leave, I join him in leaning on the trunk beside him.

“You never talk about yours,” he observes.

It doesn’t take more than a moment to realize he’s talking about my father. It’s not exactly a sensitive subject for me anymore; it’s just hard to know what to say when he was only around for half my life—and half of that time, I hardly remember because I was so young.

But I know it took a lot for Theo to open up to me earlier, so I don’t even hesitate to do the same for him now.

“Baseball was the thing we bonded over when I was little. He signed me up for t-ball when I could barely hold a glove on my hand, and he took me to my first major league game when I was…five, maybe? He’d come to all my games, even coached my team one year, which I loved. But as I got older, right around second grade, all of that became less and less frequent. He’d fallen into addiction and would disappear for days at a time, only to show up halfway through a game, higher than a kite, and make some sort of scene.”

My shoulder lifts in a helpless little shrug. “Eventually, his love for the needle ended up killing him. Almost killed my mom with grief too, though the reality is, she should’ve left him long before he ever got to that point. But she thought she could save him.”

From the way Theo’s face falls, all of this information is news to him. But even in his shock, he’s still able to put some puzzle pieces together.

“He’s the reason you don’t drink.”

It’s a statement, not a question, but I sink my teeth into my tongue and nod anyway.

“There’s not enough studies on addiction to know how much genetics plays a role. And I’d rather not even risk it.”

His features soften, and he nods too before asking, “How old were you?”

“Eleven. I was the one who found him.”