Page 46 of Off Limits: The Firsts

Forget about it, Scout. It’s his job to get good players on the field and win pennants. Players are commodities.

I sprint across a row of seats.

Screw that. Players are people.

My lungs burn, but I need more.

Martinez hits a ball over the left field wall in his early morning batting session on the diamond below, but the crack of his bat is silenced by my ear buds. And I need it to be. I may be in the stadium, but I need to forget about baseball for a few more flights. And, in particular, a specific baseball player.

So, I continue to push myself. To use the physicality to burn my mind and ease my soul. To eat away at my anger. To calm me the hell down when all I feel is uncertainty.

When all I want is something I can’t have.

So, I climb. Section by section. Step by step. Trying to shed the burden of my emotions with the sweat that drips off my body.

But the clearer my mind becomes, the more room I have to think, and of course I veer to where I shouldn’t. To Easton and everything about him. The contrasts. The unexpected. The disarming smile and the intense eyes. His soft groans in the dark and his baseball-bat-roughened hands on my skin. The vulnerability he pulls out of me, when I’m tough with everyone else.

This is not a good sign—me thinking about him.

Not at all.

And, of course, when I turn to run down the next section of seats, he’s right there, running behind me. Matching me step for step.

I ignore him.

I still get thirty more minutes to myself before I have to deal with him.

I still need thirty more minutes to figure out how to look at him and not want to feel how I feel.

I still want thirty more minutes to calm the flutter in my belly just from knowing he’s near me.

So, I run faster. I take the steps two at a time.

He does the same and double-times it so that he’s now running beside me instead of behind me.

I push harder. Irritated. Competitive. Not wanting him to think I’m weaker or less than or both, even though he’s never made me feel that way in the first place.

But having feelings for him does, and so that makes it his fault. All of it.

And so, I run. But this time, instead of turning to cross over to the next section, I run straight through the exit to the concourse beyond.

One of my earbuds has fallen out, and my shoes squeak on the concrete as I run in an all-out sprint down the empty corridor, past the vacant concessions stands and team merchandise kiosks.

His shoes slap the concrete behind me, and his labored breathing echoes through the space.

I know he’s fast. Having clocked his time, I’m well aware he could be ten steps ahead of me in seconds if he really wanted to be, and the fact that he’s not grates on my already irritated nerves.

And at the same time, I’m out of gas—my legs, my lungs, my everything—and so I have no choice but to stop when I’d rather keep running right on out of the stadium instead of having to face Easton.

“Scout.”

Keep running.

“Scout.”

I can’t even breathe, let alone talk.

“Hey.”