Page 55 of Off Limits: The Firsts

I smile and squeeze his hand. For a man who seems pretty open, I can tell he’s a bit exposed and uncomfortable. “Sushi? It’s all right, if you count California Rolls as legitimate,” I say to try to get a laugh from him. “I’m not very adventurous with it. And this conversation is okay. This is real, Easton. I assure you, I have more real than I care to think about in my own life right now, so this is okay.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” He looks down at our joined hands and shakes his head as if he’s trying to convince himself of something I can’t understand.

“It’s admirable to play for your dad, but have you ever wanted to do anything else? For yourself?” I leave the unspoken question hanging out there. The one I think I know the answer to: do you think your dad won’t love you if you don’t play?

“I’m good at this, though.” He lets go of my hand and paces to the other side of the batting cage to stare at a picture of him and his dad on the wall. “I sound like such a pussy saying that. Like I don’t have a backbone, or I don’t like to play, but I assure you, I do . . . there’s just a history that . . .. My dad is fucking Cal Wylder. He’s perfect in every way. The Iron Giant of baseball who broke records and is still the public darling of the club. He’s never had a blemish on his career. In fact, the only mark he’s ever had against him in his perfect life has been his divorce from my mom.”

“Nobody’s that perfect, Easton.”

“He is.” There’s bitterness in his tone.

“We all look at our parents through rose-colored glasses. Those lenses make you miss their flaws, overlook their shortcomings . . . and still be able to love them unconditionally.” He turns to look at me and narrows his eyes in thought. “God knows my dad is far from perfect, and yet when I see him, I see the person I want to be when I’m his age. I overlook his grumpiness and stubbornness and his need to have opinions about everything, even when I don’t ask for them. So I’m sure your dad is not perfect.”

“He’s pretty damn close to it, Scout. And even if he’s not, he demands it from me.”

I have no comeback for him because I saw it for myself the other day in the locker room. I wonder if Cal Wylder has always been that hard on his only child.

And I hate that I think I already know the answer.

“I’m sorry I don’t have a place to invite you to,” I apologize as I take a seat at the large island and watch Easton move with ease around the kitchen.

“Did you just move here?”

“I’ve kind of been on the move since I graduated college, shifting from clubhouse to clubhouse with my dad over the past three years. Learning from him so I could finally make sense of the things I watched over and over as a kid but didn’t understand. So, I’m currently living a few blocks over, on the other side of the stadium, in a furnished apartment until I figure out what comes next.”

Easton looks at me for a beat—something fleeting in his eyes I can’t quite pinpoint—before uncorking the bottle of wine and pouring two glasses in silence. He slides one across the counter to me and then meets my eyes. “What is next, Scout?”

“I get you rehabbed, get your arm to one hundred percent, and get you off the disabled list, for a start.”

“You think that’s going to happen?”

“Yes.” I nod my head for emphasis. “Today was a huge start. How does your shoulder feel? You really should have some ice on it.”

He laughs as he turns and grabs a medical ice pack from the freezer and presses it to his shoulder. Then, with a skill that tells me he’s done this more times than he can count in his career, he begins to expertly wrap an ACE bandage around the pack to hold it in place.

“So rehab me, and then what’s after that? Are you off to another club? Another city? Moving on?”

A part of me hates the lump that suddenly forms in my throat when I realize what he’s asking. The woman who’s afraid of getting too close to someone because everyone leaves her is now being asked if she’s going to leave. And the other part of me breathes in the feeling of having someone care enough to ask. Someone I want to care.

I take a sip of my wine and meet his eyes above the rim of the glass. I’m afraid to respond, uncertain of this next step between us. Downstairs was easy. We talked baseball, we talked about him, and we avoided the topics that had ruled our afternoon so far.

But now, the tables have turned. Now, the spotlight is on me, and I wish I could answer him, but I’m not sure what that answer is just yet. Or if I want to even have one, in case I get spooked again and need to leave.

“I’m not sure.” My voice is barely a whisper when I finally find it to speak.

“Rumor has it Doc is vying to get the permanent contract with the clubhouse for the team’s physical training. Is that true?”

I nod. “Yes. It is. It’s the only clubhouse he hasn’t held any sort of contract with over his career.”

“And so that’s why he wants it? Just because?”

“He’s kicking around the idea of retiring,” I lie, repeating the story he’s asked me to tell.

“Retiring? I don’t see him as one who’d want to retire.”

“Yeah, well . . . there are a lot of things about my dad that I don’t understand, so your guess is as good as mine.”

“What I don’t understand is . . . hasn’t he already fulfilled that goal then? I mean, technically he already has a contract with the Aces, since you’re here for me. So, once you’re done with me, you can move on to the next clubhouse? The next team? The next injured player?”