Page 54 of Off Limits: The Firsts

“Yeah, well . . .” He shrugs and blushes and it’s rather adorable. “The machine is having issues, or else I’d tell you to hit a few.”

“I haven’t touched a bat in what feels like years.” I run my fingers over the butts of them and then continue to explore the space. We both fall silent, but I know he’s watching me, and I’m not quite sure what to do about it.

I asked to see the field because it was safer than going into his condo where I will be reminded of the other night when I need to still process the events of the day and how I feel about them. How I let him wear me down, kiss me senseless twice, and then manage to get me to admit that maybe I want to see where all of this leads us because me agreeing to come here means it is, in fact, going somewhere.

And that scares the hell out of me.

There’s a wall to the left of a bathroom. It’s lined with framed jerseys in different colors and sizes, and it takes me a minute to figure out what they are. “These are all of your Little League jerseys, aren’t they?”

I stare at the simple idea and can’t believe how touched I am by the sight of them. The history he has with each one. The memories from then that made the man he is now.

“Yes. My parents kept them all.” He says nothing more, and the silence prompts me to wonder more about him, his family, but I have a feeling it’s an off-limits topic.

“Have you always wanted to play baseball?” It’s a simple question, one I expected him to answer immediately, and his pause piques my curiosity.

I turn to look at him while he’s looking at his history on the wall. I take in his profile—the bill of the baseball hat shadowing his face, his thick lashes, straight nose, and full lips. His scruff is longer today than normal, and there’s something about it that’s incredibly sexy.

“It was what was expected of me.” The honesty in his voice is haunting. His exhale is uneven. “I mean, I’m Cal Wylder’s son.”

There’s an unreadable emotion in his tone, and I sense there is so much more beneath the surface, but I’m afraid to pry, even though I want to.

“Were you always good at it? You’re such a natural, but I’m sure it had to be hard living in the shadow of your dad.”

He chews the inside of his cheek as he continues to stare at the wall. He points to one of the smallest jerseys up there. It’s a faded dark green with the number ten on its back. “That was my first year playing. I remember I got in a fistfight with Joey Jones. He told me I had to have been adopted, because there was no way Cal Wylder’s son could be so horrible at playing baseball. I cried for days. My dad was on a road stretch and I dodged his phone calls, too embarrassed to tell him what had happened. I knew he was going to be so disappointed in me—not because of the fight, but because of how bad I was. I spent days sick to my stomach and worried about what he was going to say when he came home and saw for himself.”

I want to walk over to him and hold his hand. I want to tell him I’m sorry. Tell him I understand about living in shadows of giants and the weight those shadows bear. I want to do anything but hear the sadness in his voice. Yes, he has the last laugh now, being as successful as he is, but even success can’t erase the scars of childhood memories.

“That must have been hard.”

He nods, shifts his feet, and then points three jerseys down to a dark blue one with the same number on it. “That was the year everything clicked for me. I was eight. My hand-eye coordination suddenly matured, and I learned to read a ball out of a pitcher’s hand. All of a sudden I went from zero to hero. And, of course, that meant my dad came to more games when he could. Suddenly I was Mr. Popular. Kids who wouldn’t give me the time of day before now wanted to be my friend in the hope that they’d get some pointers from a major leaguer when he showed up.”

I close the distance between us and step up beside him, our arms touching, and let him get lost in his thoughts.

He points to the next frame over, a red and white jersey; this time the number on the back is eighteen. “That’s the year my parents divorced. I lived at the field that season. It was so much easier than being at home where my mom cried nonstop, or being with my dad when he was in town and feeling guilty for leaving my mom home alone. Baseball became my escape that year. I put everything I had into it. It was the first time I really fell in love with the game.”

“So, back then you played to escape. Why do you play now?”

He laughs. “Because I make a shit ton of money, and who wouldn’t want to play baseball for a living?”

“True.” I nod, but can sense the unspoken words and the underlying hint of sarcasm. “Do you still love it?”

“Some days.”

“If you have a shit ton of money, then why do you still play?” I know I’m pushing, but I’m intrigued how a man who is so incredibly talented and oozes respect for the game has misgivings about saying he loves it.

“For my dad.”

“For your dad?” His answer surprises me. “Not for you?”

“No.”

“Do you love it?” I ask the question again, forgetting that I already have, and before I can tell him to disregard it, he responds.

“Yes. No. Fuck, Scout, most days I don’t know.” He turns to face me for the first time, and I can see the conflict in his eyes, the uncertainty in his expression, and the tension in the set of his shoulders. “It’s all I’ve ever known. All that’s ever been expected of me. It’s hard to explain without sounding ungrateful because I’m extremely blessed in talent and luck when I know there are a million others who would kill to fill my shoes. It’s just complicated. I have a love-hate relationship with the game just like I guess I do with my father.”

Reaching out, I link my fingers with his. I don’t say a word. I try not to judge. All I do is just listen, because the pain in his expression says that’s exactly what he needs from me.

His laugh is unexpected and loaded with sarcasm. “Fuck,” he says as he lifts his hat, runs a hand through his hair, and then sets it back down. “When I said we needed to get to know more about each other, I sure as hell didn’t mean this. We’re a far way off from learning if the other likes sushi.”