Page 28 of Playing Dirty (Leighton U #4)

It’s obvious from the arch of his brow, he’s not buying it.

Rather than trying to sell him on it, I hold out my bat and helmet for him to take the first round inside the cage.

There’s a glint in his eyes when he takes them both from me; paired with his hellish smirk and teasing tone, I can tell his mood has improved already.

“Mhmm, okay. You can talk about releasing tension all you want, but I can see right through you, Hastings.”

“Oh, really?” I laugh, leaning back against the fence. “So we’re back to reading minds, are we?”

His smirk turns into a full-blown grin as he pulls the helmet on his head. “Look, I’m just saying, it’s okay if you need the extra practice. I won’t tell anyone.”

Oh, this shithead.

I roll my eyes at his attempt to goad me, shooting back, “What good is showing off on a date if you’re not gonna tell anyone about how impressive I am?”

I don’t notice my Freudian slip right away. It’s only when I catch Theo’s cheeks tinting the slightest shade of pink as he adjusts the helmet that I rewind to realize exactly what was said.

Date.

He doesn’t make any attempt to correct me, though, so I don’t see the point in making things awkward by amending my word choice.

Instead, I just watch as he enters the cage, my gaze lingering on the Blackmore logo emblazoned on the front of the helmet before dipping to the orange batting gloves covering his hands. He must feel my attention on him, because he glances up and cocks his head a little.

“What?”

I shake my head, a small smirk tugging at my lips. “Nothing. You look good in Blackmore colors, that’s all.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he says, rolling his eyes. But I don’t miss the pink still lingering in his cheeks darkening all over again.

Once he’s in the batter’s box, he nods to let me know he’s ready for me to start the machine. The first ball comes flying toward him only moments later, and with a sharp, precise swing, he connects, sending it flying up into the back left corner of the cage.

He glances over at me, a cocky grin on his lips. “Did you catch that or do you need me to do it in slow motion next time?”

“Just shut up and hit the damn ball.”

His laughter rings out, quickly being cut off by the sharp, metallic crack as another ball sails off his bat.

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 was watching you, 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 a thank 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 leaning his 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.”

There’s an unbearable amount of sympathy in his eyes for the eleven-year-old Madden, and, part of me thinks, for the version of me in front of him too.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, causing me to shake my head.

“Don’t be. I’ve had a lot of time to come to terms with it, you know?” A rueful smile pulls at my lips before tacking on, “A lot of therapy too.”

He glances over at me, gaze drawing over my exposed arms before meeting my eyes again. “I don’t think tattoo appointments count as therapy.”

Laughing, I shove his shoulder playfully with my own. “I meant actual therapy, dick. The ink therapy was a bonus.”

“Based on all these tattoos, I think you have that backward.”

“Maybe you should give it a try. See for yourself.”

“First you want me to talk about my feelings with my father, now you’re telling me I should spill them to a complete stranger?” he says, his tone teasing as he turns to stand directly in front of me.

“Who says I wasn’t talking about the ink therapy?” I ask while arching a brow.

“Well, either way, I think you’re asking for a bit much, MadDog.”

I snort and roll my eyes. “Call me that again, I dare you.”

Theo hums softly, a glimmer of playful defiance dancing in his eyes as he takes another step toward me .

“Or what, MadDog ? What’re you gonna do about it?”

This fucker.

“I swear, you get off on pushing my buttons,” I murmur with a scoff.

His head tilts in secession before he shrugs. “Or maybe it’s fun seeing your composure slip every once in a while.”

I wrap my palm around the side of his neck, letting my thumb skate up and down over his Adam’s apple in long, slow strokes. My eyes track the movement before slowly lifting to meet his gaze.

“Is that really what you want?”

“You know what I want,” comes back without hesitation.

God, what am I doing?

I wasn’t planning to touch him today, let alone anything else. Partly because I have no idea if him asking to hang out is meant to be platonic or not, but more so because I don’t want to put any pressure on him.

Unfortunately for me, the way his gaze keeps dancing between my eyes and mouth makes it impossible to do anything but press my lips to his.

It’s a gentle, sweeping kiss—a far cry from the way we’ve devoured and dismantled each other previously—but it by no means lacks in intensity.

It’s just a different kind; driven by something other than pure lust. It’s understanding and respect.

And as my tongue sweeps gently along his lower lip, it feels eerily like…

new beginnings and fresh starts. Like something fragile needing to be protected, shielded from the harsh realities of the world around us.

I’m the first to break away, not looking for things to get too heated. I don’t go far, though, keeping my eyes closed and resting my forehead against his. My thumb traces along his jaw, committing the sharp line and slight scrape of stubble against my skin to memory.

“Do you want to come over sometime?” he whispers, his breath hot against my lips.

He pulls back, the loss of contact causing my lids to lift and find him already looking at me with those eyes that…fuck. I’ve never seen anything like them.

I should be embarrassed by the way my stomach churns or how quickly my mind begs me to agree. It should be enough for me to rethink my answer entirely.

Yet, instead, I find myself whispering, “When were you thinking?”

Truth be told, he could ask me to go home with him right now, and I don’t think I’d have the strength to refuse. The want I have for him is too great.

“Friday?” he says after a moment. “Most of my roommates will be gone for the hockey game.”

Friday.

Three days is plenty of time for me to get my damn head on straight, right?

Though, from the way his smile sends my pulse into overdrive once I agree, I have a sneaking suspicion that will be easier said than done.