Page 28 of Up in Smoke (The Bunkhouse #3)
MESA
“Anything else, Mesa?”
My head jerks up to the laptop screen. “Hmm? Oh, yes. Great suggestion.”
Hazel purses her lips and taps a stack of papers on her desk to straighten them. “You’re distracted again.”
We try to hold a virtual meeting at least once a week to ensure our plans are still running smoothly. I’ve stayed on top of my work since we started in late March two months ago, and I don’t usually mind these quick check-ins. Today though, my mind is elsewhere.
“Sorry,” I admit with a soft huff. “I got a text that I—never mind. Did everything I sent you look okay?”
She lowers her chin and peers at me over her glasses. Sophia taps away with a stylus on her iPad, oblivious.
“I was very impressed with everything in your email,” Hazel answers. “We’re on track so far.”
I smile and uncross my legs under the table to sit up taller. “That’s great. If there’s anything you need from me while I keep at it, just give me a call.”
“Alright. Well, I think that’s everything for today, then. I’m off.”
“Me too. Talk soon!” My fingers can’t maneuver the mouse to end the meeting fast enough.
As soon as the video feed cuts off and I’ve shut my laptop, I scoot my chair back to sprint to the couch. It takes a moment for the TV to turn on and reach the correct streaming app, but once it finally does, I let out a deep exhale.
I missed first pitch, but it’s still early in the game. Good. When it changes to a brief advertisement, I stare at the unopened text notifications on my phone.
Cole
How’s the middle of nowhere been treating you?
Noah
U up?
The nerve. I curl my hand around my phone.
It wasn’t just Cole or Noah who’d strung me along. It was every damn man who gave me the time of day.
I’d foolishly hoped for some sort of magical love dust to fall over me in my sleep so that I’d get the fairytale I so desperately wanted. Desperate being the key misstep in my delusions. Not a single one of them had anything to offer that I couldn’t offer myself. I see that now.
The sex was always bad, too. But that’s beside the point and no longer an issue for me. I’ve long since moved on from the version of me who was beside herself that she couldn’t, god forbid, have an occasional orgasm.
The tables have finally turned, and I’m damn proud of myself. Deleting both texts rather than crying over them feels like a major victory.
When my phone buzzes with a new text, I nearly sprain my wrist rushing to open it.
Tripp
Are you seeing this?
In what world is that a balk?
I smile. Holding the phone close, my eyes flick to the TV. The soft glow of the screen in the darkness of my cottage casts moving shadows in the room.
The game is still in the second inning, so thankfully, I didn’t miss much during my poorly timed meeting. Hazel doesn’t accept game day as a justifiable reason to change our schedule, unfortunately.
The steady pace of baseball after a work-packed week full of dangerously high levels of screen time and stress is the hit of serotonin I need tonight.
Knowing Tripp is still his old self, despite the way our schedules clashed all week, which prevented us from having our talk as planned, is comforting too.
Maybe he’s avoiding it like I have been. I’m worried the conversation won’t go as smoothly as we’d both like it to. Something about that excites me, though, because if it isn’t easy to talk over, that must mean one thing.
Neither of us wants to admit it. But that night wrecked us both, body and soul.
A slow-motion replay fills the TV screen.
Our pitcher attempts a pick-off, then the umpire awards the base runner a pass to second.
Coach throws his hat to the ground and digs his heel into it.
The pitcher, one of the freshmen on the team, extends his arms out with a dumbfounded scowl, while the umpire holds up three definitive fingers in front of him.
Wait, was that a clock violation or something?
Tripp
Nah I don’t think so
Maybe disengagement rule.
Tripp
Huh??
I start to craft a response, but the explanation is a lot to type out. My thumb holds down on the microphone icon as I record a voice message instead, then hit send.
Audio transcription: It’s a stupid rule, honestly.
I saw it during a pro game last fall. It’s new, apparently.
Anyway, the pitcher only gets two step offs or pick attempts per plate appearance.
If he can’t get the guy picked off and still tries a third time, the runner advances.
So freaking dumb. Did you finish freeze branding, by the way?
Tripp
Audio transcription: Would you still be my friend if I told you I used to think a balk was just the pitcher changing his mind politely? Mind you, I was like twelve.
Audio transcription: That’s horseshit about the disen-whatever rule.
What’s next? No fastballs allowed over ninety-five miles per hour?
I’d pull this guy if I were—uh, scratch that.
Literally strike three when I said that.
And yeah, we finished branding. My arms are so sore. I think they might fall off.
I might be making a fool of myself by switching my voice to a posh British accent in response to his first message. I know it’ll crack him up, though. His reaction is totally worth it. I laugh through my nose and press record.
Audio transcription: Ahem. Excuse me, kind batter. It seems I’ve had a change of heart. Tea and curveballs at noon, then?
Audio transcription: I’ll still be your friend, but that’s too funny. You’re never living it down. Don’t even get me started on all the new rules. Freaking downer, I swear. Pure play is a lost art.
Tripp
Audio transcription: That’s the worst accent I’ve ever heard, actually. Did you finish your app yet?
Audio transcription: I think you know the answer to that. No, it’s not done. It’s coming right along, though. Trying not to worry too much about the timeline as a whole. Focusing on the little wins each week instead, remember?
Tripp
Audio transcription: Right. I’m with you. Little wins. Are you watching at your place right now? You can come over. If you want. I mean, I want you to come over if you want to. I already said that you get the damn gist.
Finally. I smile as I sprint to the shower. I’m excited to see him, and I want to talk about more than sports or the banter and small talk we exchanged through texts during the week.
A quick shower and fifteen minutes later, I walk into the bunkhouse wearing a smile. Tripp’s phone is in his hands. He doesn’t bother looking up. There’s a deep crease in his forehead, and my face drops.