Page 73 of The Path to Loving Him
She slowly nods.
“You were . . . foster kids, right?”
I can see the wheels in her mind start turning. “Where are you going with this?”
“Well, if that’s all you could afford, that makes me feel?—”
“Nope,” she says, shaking her finger at me. “Do not even think about it. I’m grossing you out. I’m not making you think anything else about me.”
“Gabby.”
“Remember when I knew who you were and I didn’t tell you? Instead, I used your dick for my own pleasure. Remember how mad you were about that? Go back to that, Ryland.”
That gives me pause as I wrestle with my feelings. “This is all fucking confusing.”
“How about this . . . who do you think the best catcher in the league is right now?”
I lift a brow at her. “Are you going to say a different name just to argue with me?”
“No, I have a name set in my mind.”
“How do I know you won’t change it if I say the same person?”
“Fine, how about we write it down? That way, I can’t change my answer.”
I study her for a second. “From the look in your eye, I’m guessing you’ll name someone controversial.”
“No, I’m going to be right. And hey, now you can get a glimpse of my knowledge.”
She might be right about that.
I take baseball trivia very seriously. The vile ketchup sandwich might have created pity, but if she tries to tell me that someone is a better catcher than the one in my head, that could create a real division, which in return would probably cool the temperament and need between us. Can’t fuck someone who is wrong about baseball.
I rip off a piece of the pizza box top, and I hand it to her along with a marker from Mac’s marker bin. “Write it down, and then I’ll tell you who the best catcher is.”
She takes the marker from me, uncaps it, and writes a name down. When she’s done, she caps the marker and tosses it on the table, holding her cardboard close to her chest.
“Okay, who is it, Rowley?”
Rowley? Why do I find that so hot?
Clearing my throat and reminding myself what I’m trying to do, I say, “Whatever you wrote down, it’s not correct unless you said Asher Peppers.”
She smirks and flips her cardboard over. I read, “Jason Orson.”
I roll my eyes dramatically. “You have lost your goddamn mind. You’re only saying that because he’s charismatic.”
“Uh, excuse me?” she says. “Do you really think I’m that dense?”
“If you’re saying that you think Jason Orson from the Rebels is better than Asher Peppers from the Bombers, then you have lost your goddamn mind.”
“Explain,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest.
“No.” I shake my head. “I wantyouto explain.”
“Easy.” She takes a seat at the kitchen table, so I do as well. “Jason Orson has two championship titles under his name. Peppers doesn’t.”
“That’s your reasoning? You realize it’s a team event, right?”
