Page 56 of Off Limits: The Firsts

He doesn’t relent. Not the intensity in his eyes . . . or the searching questions . . . or the unspoken ones. The ones that say: tell me if you’re leaving.

“That’s the typical MO, but this time around, he’s looking for a term contract for the season and beyond. A multi-year agreement.”

“Hmm.”

“What does that mean?” I wish he’d just come out and ask me what he wants, because I feel like he’s leading me somewhere.

“Well, if Doc has done things one way for all these years . . . why change now?”

“Because of me.” The answer is automatic, and I realize that I’ve given him the truth, but can’t give him the reasons why.

“You?”

“Yeah. He lived this life. He knows how hard it is to feel settled when you aren’t anywhere long enough to let roots grow, let alone have a family . . . and he doesn’t want that life for me, so he figured if he got a contract for a team as a whole, then that would give me a place to settle for the first time since I graduated from college.”

And because he knows I’d rather quit than not be near him in these last months.

“So you’d be the one to stay then?” He leans a hip on the kitchen island and digs deeper. I nod slowly and concentrate on tracing the lines in the granite on the countertop.

“You wouldn’t move on to another team?”

“Not if I get the contract.”

He’s quiet for a beat. “Is that what you want, or are you just doing what your Dad wants?”

The irony in his words is not lost on me. He’s turning my questions back on me. I lift my gaze to meet his, suddenly very aware of how similar our situations are.

“It’s what I want,” I say softly.

“And it’s dependent on me, right?”

I stare at him, see the curiosity in his eyes, and wonder if, when it comes to why I want to stay in town, we are speaking about my career, or about whatever this is between us.

“In a sense.” I chew on the words, not wanting to put pressure on him to heal quicker to get me the job when I’ve already seen the amount of pressure his dad puts on him.

He nods and then swallows the rest of his glass of wine without saying a word, leaving me wondering what he’s thinking. The mood between us suddenly turns uneasy, both of us with questions to ask but unsure how to ask them.

If I were to stay, how would this change the dynamic between us when I’m no longer just in town for a few months?

“What does your mom think about all of this?” he asks, throwing me for a loop.

I stutter to answer as a part of me hides in shame over my own mother not wanting me. Then again, he’s shared so much with me tonight, been so open, how can I not be honest about the one thing I can?

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen her since I was five.”

“Scout . . .” His voice trails off like most people’s do when they hear that news, uncertain what to say.

“Hey, it’s not sushi, but that’s my bet-you-didn’t-know-about-Scout fact of the day,” I joke, trying to quell my immediate defense to shut down after letting someone in.

It’s my thing. It’s what I do. And every part of me revolts at my need to avert my eyes and change the topic.

And so, when I lift my gaze and meet his, I see compassion there. Understanding. Acceptance. All of them cause a flutter of anxiety to fly in my belly, and yet the feeling is a far cry from the all-out panic that usually consumes me.

Once again, Easton is making me feel instead of shutting down, and I’m not quite sure what to say now.

“Did you say sushi? I think that’s exactly what we need.” He smiles softly, giving me the reprieve he somehow knows I need. “I’m starving. Want to order some takeout? I know a great place that delivers.”

Saved by sushi.