Page 46 of Playing Dirty (Leighton U #4)

Madden

“You’re putting too much weight on your back leg when you switch to hit lefty.”

I step away from the plate and shift my attention to Theo, who’s watching me intently from outside the batting cage. We’ve been coming back here at least once a week to take batting practice together, sometimes more than that if we can swing it—literally and figuratively.

It’s been a nice way to remove ourselves from campus and the rivalry, allowing us to simply enjoy the game we’ve both grown up loving—and to get some one-on-one time with him outside the bedroom too.

Though, I’d be lying if I said he isn’t driving me up a wall with his back-seat coaching right now.

“I’ve been hitting left-handed since I was thirteen,” I remind him. “You really think—”

“I think you’re putting too much weight on your back foot when you load to stride.” He cuts me off with an antagonistic smile. “And I think that’s why you struggle to make any worthwhile connection with the ball, which ends up tanking your batting average every game you switch.”

He did not just—

“It doesn’t tank ,” I insist, albeit rather defensively.

“Your stats don’t lie.” He walks up to the edge of the cage and flips his phone screen to face me. On it is a spreadsheet, listing out my various stats over the past couple years I’ve played for Blackmore, and after a few seconds of scanning the information…

Shit, he’s right. Why the hell have my coaches never noticed this before?

His lips twitch when he pockets his phone, having more than proven his point. “Are you ready to listen to me now?”

“You’re getting way too much enjoyment out of this,” I mutter while taking a couple steps back toward the plate. “And where the hell did you find that anyway?”

“I made it.”

I blink at him, not sure I heard him right. “You made a spreadsheet of all my stats while I’ve been playing for Blackmore.”

“Yeah, it wasn’t hard,” he says with a shrug. “I made one for all my teammates too.”

The comment gives me pause because I’m not his teammate. In fact, I’m the furthest thing from it. Yet he sat and combed through hours of game statistics to create something for me to better understand my game. And in doing so, made a realization none of my coaches did.

“You’re gonna make a damn good sports reporter one day,” I find myself saying, and it draws an amused laugh from him.

“I hardly think making an Excel file is proof of that, but I appreciate the vote of confidence.” He links his fingers into the fence, the corner of his lips lifting. “Just remember me when you end up hitting a walk-off homer as a lefty in the World Series one day, okay?”

As if I could even try to forget him.

But I ignore the way my chest feels too tight and how my heart wants to burst out from behind my ribs, and instead, point my bat at him menacingly.

“Is that your way of telling me you won’t be in the stands cheering for me?” I ask, my brow arched.

There’s a beat of hesitation before he asks, “Would you want me to be?”

Absolutely. Without a doubt in my mind, it’s a yes. I’d have him there for every single game if I could, even now.

I aim a wicked grin at him. “Well, it would be the brotherly thing to do.”

A burst of laughter leaves him before he lets out a disgusted little groan. “I hate when you say that. Yeah, our parents are married, but you’re making it sound way more ’cestuous than it really is.”

“But why would I stop when it’s so much fun riling you up?” I ask with a wink.

He laughs some more, and the sound fills me with a ridiculous amount of serotonin. But God, that smile…it causes devastation to my heart anytime it’s aimed at me.

It eviscerates my soul.

“Speaking of riling people up…” he muses, a hellish glint in his gaze. “Wyatt is not happy with you right now.”

“Oh, no. How will I ever survive?” I mutter sarcastically as I approach him again. “I’m sure whatever the hell I did, he’ll get over it.”

“You think this is funny, but because of your little trip around our campus, I’m gonna have to go on another raid when we get back from our series in Nashville. ”

“I think that’s actually your fault for being a little tattletale.”

He rolls his eyes. “Well, now we’re both going to be suffering the consequences since I was planning to spend that time naked in bed with you.”

“Yeah, not happening. I’ll chain you to the damn bed if I have to.”

From the way his gaze heats, the threat holds far more appeal than I thought it would. But he’s quick to school the lusty gleam and circle back to the actual conversation at hand.

“I’m a team lead. They’ll be pissed if I don’t show up. You realize that, right?”

I shrug and rest my bat over my shoulder. “Let them be pissed. They’re not gonna find it anyway.”

“You hope.”

“I know they won’t.”

“You can’t know that,” he reasons, and I shoot him a dubious look.

“If you want to look at it statistically, sure, there’s a margin of error to account for.

But the reality is I did a damn good job at hiding that thing where no one will ever find it, and I have a defensive strategy to boot.

” Shrugging again, I nod toward him. “Though, from the sounds of it, your captain can’t say the same.

Especially if he’s having this much of a freak-out. ”

“I wouldn’t know.”

Our gazes lock, and I can tell both of us are searching for answers to unspoken questions in each other’s eyes. Questions neither of us give voice to. Though, to his credit, he tries to pry it out of me a little more discreetly.

“What’s the look for?”

“I don’t have a look.”

“This” —he makes a circling motion over my face— “is definitely a look.”

My lips twitch, knowing damn well I won’t be giving anything up that easily. So I simply deflect by dropping the bat from my shoulder and stepping away from the fence separating us.

“It’s just me wondering if you’re ever gonna switch the machine back on so I can take the rest of my turn,” I tease.

He studies me for a brief moment, sage eyes scraping over my face before he mutters, “Fine.”

Shooting him a wink, I jump back into the batter’s box. I take a few practice swings, testing out his theory about my weight distribution, and wait for the whir of the pitching machine to start up again. Only it never does, and I glance at him with annoyance.

“Are you too busy staring at my ass again to turn the damn thing on?”

He rolls his eyes and flips open the latch on the cage, walking over to where I’m standing. Motioning in a circle with his finger, he orders, “Turn around. Take your stance.”

I pin him with a dubious look. “You can’t be serious.”

“You wanna pick a fight or you want my help?”

Releasing a huff, I do as he asks. He steps up behind me, his hands landing on my hips and gently pulling them forward. It’s fractional. I mean, to the point where I have no clue how he even noticed unless he’s been analyzing my stance whenever we come here together.

Or maybe he’s become so attuned to my body now, he can just…tell.

My throat feels thick regardless of which it is, and the sensation only gets worse when his chest brushes against my back from him leaning toward me.

“You’re not starting balanced, so you’re already too far back when your weight shifts to load,” he whispers in my ear, squeezing my hips before releasing me. “Try not to be too pissed when it makes a difference.”

The goading taunt snaps me out of whatever strange reaction I was just having, and I shake my head .

“So damn sure of yourself,” I mutter under my breath.

“Only when I know I’m right.”

He kisses the back of my neck and taps me on the ass a couple times before stepping away, heading back out of the cage.

I don’t know how the hell I’m supposed to hit the damn ball at all now.

After all, there’s a reason we usually stay on opposite sides of the fence when we’re here. Too much touching always leads to a distraction—usually in the form of a much too heated kiss for public. But at least this place is abandoned ninety-nine percent of the time.

I do my best to focus on what he said through the next few swings, though, only to quickly realize…

he’s right. With my weight shifted up, my swing feels more level, and the contact with the ball is solid, causing it to sail to the back of the cage.

And I don’t even have to look over at Theo to know he’s grinning like a know-it-all little jackass.

Which is exactly why, once all the balls have been fed through the machine, I flip him off before even looking in his direction.

“Aw, don’t be like that,” he teases, right as a loud, shrilling ring fills the air. It startles him, and he whips his head behind him toward the source. “What the hell is that?”

“My phone,” I say with a laugh. I’ve never met anyone who jump-scares so easily. “It’s in my bag, if you wanna silence it.”

He looks back at me, annoyance lining his features, before going to turn off the ringer.

“Because you couldn’t be normal and put your phone on silent like everyone else?” he asks, though from the tilt of his lips when I glance up, it’s more teasing than anything.

“You should know by now, I’m not one to conform to societal expectations. ”

There’s a brief flicker in his expression, something I can’t quite put my finger on, as he reaches into my bag to find my phone. Meanwhile, I grab one of the buckets and start collecting the balls for Theo’s turn, but I’ve barely started when he calls out to me.

“Uh, Madden.”

When I glance up, I expect him to have my phone in his hand. But instead, I find him holding up the walkie-talkie I’d stashed in my bag this morning.

Shit.

We’ve been taking shifts with it, passing it between the team to keep an ear out for any Timberwolf activity on campus. But I must’ve forgotten to hand it off to Dillon after practice, having been in too much of a hurry to meet up with Theo instead.

He looks from it to me before turning it over in his palm, and I can see his mind working overtime to throw all the pieces together.