Page 27 of Off Limits: The Firsts

“Not hardly.” He shifts in his seat and looks down at the label on his beer he’s playing with. “I run a literacy charity,” he says softly, lifting his eyes to meet mine. “We run programs at all of the local schools to encourage reading and to make sure any kid struggling with reading, or who has dyslexia, or just needs extra help or tutoring gets it.”

And there he goes, surprising me again.

“Who knew the man who’s got a wicked arm and swagger for days also has such a huge heart?” I murmur, more to myself than to him, but I am thoroughly impressed. Not just because he has a charity, because a lot of players pay it forward somehow, but after watching him—his interaction with the organizers, the kids, the good mood it put him in—it is obvious this is more than just a tax write-off to him.

I love that his cheeks flush some and hate that he’s embarrassed at all by it.

“I meant that as a compliment, Easton. It’s nice to see someone paying the community back, and in such an important way. Don’t ever be embarrassed by it. Please.”

“Your turn,” he says after a beat, effectively shifting the focus back on me. “Spill it.”

I suck in a breath and debate how to be honest with him while keeping my promise to my father. “I have an uncle who is pretty sick. It’s just hitting me harder than usual today.”

“Scout.” The way he says my name—apology laced with compassion—causes a lump to form in my throat. “I thought I was being so smart, tricking you into telling me something, and now I feel like a complete asshole. I’m sorry. The only thing I can say is I hope he gets better soon.”

I don’t know why I chuckle, but I do. The tone of it is anxious and sarcastic, and I know it’s because I’m afraid if I say the words out loud, they’ll come true. “Yeah, well, thank you, but he’s not going to get better.” I focus on shredding my cocktail napkin—anything to avoid seeing the sympathy in his eyes. I can’t handle sympathy right now. I can deal with anger. I can handle disbelief. But I absolutely cannot deal with sympathy.

Sympathy will break me, when I can’t break.

It will make me confess the secret I’ve been keeping. The one that’s been eating me whole—bit by bit, day by day—because I’d give anything to talk about my dad’s diagnosis. It would be so much easier if someone else knew so I could let all this bundled emotion out instead of letting it implode.

But I can’t tell Easton. I promised my dad I wouldn’t, so I sit in the booth across from him, staring at where I’m pushing the tiny pieces of shredded napkin around with my finger instead of looking at him.

Somehow, though, he senses that I need a connection, a something, and he reaches across the table and links his fingers through mine. I look down at our hands entwined; I study the scars on his from a lifetime of playing, and hold on to the little bit of comfort he has no idea how much I need.

“Thank you,” I say after a moment to regain my composure. A huge part of me likes this—our fingers linked—but knows it’s a bad idea all around. And yet, when I lean back in the booth, try to create an opportunity for him to withdraw his hand, he doesn’t.

“I used to play ball,” I say, feeling the need to reciprocate with something else about me, considering I wasn’t completely honest with my first confession. Anything to change the topic and relieve the depressed atmosphere I unexpectedly created.

“You did?” he asks with a tone so full of warmth that it pulls on me to look up to him. There’s a surprised gratitude in his eyes that tells me he wasn’t expecting me to let him in any more than I did, and for that look alone, I’m glad I did.

“Yep. So, I may not have played in the majors, but I won a few collegiate championships.”

“You’re fucking with me now.”

I laugh. “Why is that so hard to believe?”

“Because you’re completely unpredictable. First a stripper and now a ball player.”

“Very funny.” I roll my eyes as he narrows his in thought.

“Let me guess . . . you were a second baseman.”

“Uh. Please,” I say in mock offense because I know he won’t guess in a million years what position I played.

“C’mon. With that compact little body of yours, I bet you would’ve been a kick-ass second baseman.”

“I like to get a little more action than second base,” I say, fully knowing the innuendo that goes with it, but with the first drink down, I’m feeling a bit more daring than I normally would.

His eyes hold mine for a prolonged moment, and I know he wants to say more, but he doesn’t. Instead he begins to name every position on the field while I reject them until there are only two left.

“What’s left?” he asks, knowing damn well the answer.

“Pitcher and catcher.”

“No fucking way,” he murmurs.

“Yep.” I quirk an eyebrow, and the smug smile on my lips tells him I’m enjoying the fact he’s underestimated me.