Page 23 of Off Limits: The Firsts

And we stand like this for a few seconds, his hand on my arm, his eyes asking me what’s wrong, and mine questioning why this room evokes the conflict I see hiding in his.

The clearing of a throat has me jumping back like we’re two kids caught doing something we shouldn’t be doing.

“Sir,” Easton says with a slow nod as I meet the eyes of the giant who is standing a few feet away from us, an indecipherable look on his unmistakable face.

“Easton.” He looks down to his watch and then back up, with hazel eyes that are a mirror image of his son’s. “Cutting your rehab time a bit short, aren’t you?”

The laugh that falls from Easton’s mouth is one I haven’t heard before. It’s void of any humor. “This is my second session today, so no, actually, I’m not.”

The man’s gaze shifts from Easton’s to mine as he angles his head and studies me. “We haven’t officially met.”

I snap to attention, suddenly cognizant of what the situation looks like—Easton and I alone in the locker room, with his hand on my arm—and stride toward him with my hand outstretched. “Scout Dalton. So nice to meet you, Mr. Wylder.”

“The pleasure’s mine,” he says, brows drawing together as he looks me in the eye. “So you’re the one charged with getting my boy back up to speed.”

“Yes, sir,” I say as resolutely as possible, a little star struck and a lot aware that Cal Wylder has a ton of pull in the front office of the Austin Aces organization. “We’re making good headway.”

“What seems to be holding him back?”

The question throws me. Why wouldn’t he just ask his son, who is standing right beside me? He’s searching, when he knows I can’t tell him. Discussing Easton’s status with anyone other than the GM is off-limits for me, not to mention completely unprofessional.

I glance over to Easton, who gives me no indication that he wants me to answer, and then back to Cal. Is this some kind of set-up? See if the new girl can handle both confrontation and keeping her mouth shut at the same time?

“Nothing that I can tell,” I say with caution, trying to feel out the situation. “Just creating a routine for stretching and strengthening, and giving Easton the time to learn what his repaired shoulder should feel like. It’ll most likely have a completely different feel for him, so he needs to learn what each pinch or pain is telling him now.”

“Good. Good.” Cal finally looks back to Easton again. “From where I was watching in the press box, you seemed to have lost some time on your run to first. Don’t let him fool you. He’s faster than that, Ms. Dalton. He just has a habit of slacking a bit if no one is pushing him.”

“Most players wish they had his time.” I laugh, thinking Cal’s joking until I notice the look on his face, eyebrows pinched as his eyes shift back toward mine. And now I’m under the impenetrable stare.

“Hmm.” He doesn’t say anything else, but rather lets the sound hang in the air as if he doesn’t believe me.

“The stopwatch never lies.”

“Well, he can do better,” he says with a disapproving shake of his head quickly followed by the flash of a dazzling smile almost as if he remembers he has an audience. “But I’m glad to hear you think the shoulder hasn’t slowed him down too much.”

And even though the words sound sincere, I’m not sure there isn’t the hard edge beneath them of a father pushing his son beyond his limits.

“Not at all, sir,” I say to keep the peace and my respect in place. I glance over to Easton, noticing the strong set of his jaw, the visible tension in his shoulders, and his eyes locked on his father’s, despite the tight smile on his lips.

There is suddenly a palpable tension between the two of them that grows with each passing second. I try to deflect.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Wylder.”

“Cal,” he says, finally drawing his eyes away from Easton.

“Cal,” I repeat. “I’ll get him back on the field, but only because he’s busting his ass to get there himself.”

He gives me that look again, hazel eyes searching, just like his son’s. “Good to know,” he murmurs. “Keep up the good work.”

And with that, a man I watched break every record in the book when I was a kid, turns on his heel and heads out of the locker room.

Cal may have shut the door in his departure, but the tension he brought with him still lingers.

“We need to get the fuck out of here,” Easton mutters as he turns to face me. “Get changed if you want, and grab your shit. We’re going for a drive.”

I stand there, mouth agape. Easton takes a few steps and turns back to look at me like I’ve misheard him. The look in his eyes is just as demanding as his words. I want to tell him to go to hell, that I don’t take orders from anyone, and yet for some reason, I do just as he asked.

This time.