Page 66 of Off Limits: The Firsts

“Dude, is she with . . .?”

“Well, we definitely know what team she wanted to win tonight,” J.P. murmurs, just above the chatter of the crowd.

I shift in my seat to see better and try to wrap my head around why she’s sitting with Penski and Cameron, whose asses we just kicked tonight. I think of her Facebook page. Of picture after picture of her with other players.

It’s her fucking job, Easton. Dealing with other men is her job.

So why didn’t she say anything to me about them when I asked her if she wanted to do something tonight? If there was nothing to hide, then why fucking hide it?

And if you’re trying to hide something, then why come to Sluggers when you know that’s where the whole team goes after a game to blow off steam?

You don’t own her, East. She’s not yours. You don’t have the right to know what she’s doing when she’s not with you. You don’t get to lay claim to her.

Fuck that. I damn well do.

I’ve put the time in. I’ve gotten to know her. I’ve taken more care than I ever have with a woman, and so, fuck yes, she’s going to be mine.

Wasn’t that the whole point of this?

And it’s not lost on me, I can’t do shit about any of it. I can’t stare long enough to see that she has on a denim skirt, with some sexy ass cowboy boots on her feet. Or that her hair is curled and down, when usually it is thrown up in a ponytail. Or that she has some top on that makes my mouth water thinking about what’s beneath it.

She gets dressed up for them, but not for me?

My blood boils knowing that they’re over there enjoying the sight of it, getting turned on by her, when I’m over here trying to figure out what the fuck is going on, because I can’t do anything about it.

Not with three guys staring me down. Hell, the guys wouldn’t give a shit if I was sleeping with her; the only reason they’d care is because that means they can’t get with her. But if they knew and accidentally told someone, and it got to the front office, then that could cause problems for Scout and Doc’s contract.

Besides, I promised her I wouldn’t say anything. And with a woman who has a hard time believing promises, this is one I need to keep.

The problem is, it doesn’t seem she’s keeping her word, either.

Her word? Have another beer. She made no promises. All she agreed to was getting to know each other, to seeing where this might take us . . .

And spending every day together on and off the field doesn’t qualify as that?

What is going on here?

“You okay there, Wylder?” Tino bumps my shoulder with his and pulls me from my thoughts, and I realize I’m still staring at her.

“Yeah. Sure.” I down my beer and lift my hand to the waitress for another. “Just trying to make sense of it.”

“She didn’t say anything to you during rehab today about knowing them?” Drew asks, glancing over to her again, and I hate that I want to follow suit, but can’t without being way too obvious.

Because every time I look her way, my temper burns brighter. I try to justify that she knows I’m here. Christ, they weren’t sitting there an hour ago when I got here to save our table, so she had to have seen me when she walked in. Why hasn’t she acknowledged me? I get keeping a public distance to protect our professional relationship and her damn contract, but a simple nod of her head wouldn’t scream “We’ve fucked,” either.

“Did she tell me she knew them? Not a word.” I thank the waitress for the new beer and take a long swallow of it.

“You’d think she’d have said something about sleeping with the enemy,” J.P. jokes. He gets the laugh he was going for, but all it does is piss me off even further.

I lose sight of her through the crowd and tell myself that’s a good thing. The conversation moves on like it should, even if all I can think about is what she’s doing here. With them. And why she didn’t mention it to me.

“I’m gonna hit the head.” Drew stands, and when I glance Scout’s way, she’s staring at me.

There’s a shot glass up to her lips, but she doesn’t offer me a smile, doesn’t acknowledge me at all; her face is expressionless—distant. And my fists clench in reaction to the fleeting thought that she’s ferreted. That she somehow got spooked and didn’t have the balls to tell me to my face we were over, so instead she came out tonight and sat where she sat on purpose, so I’d see her with them. And then I’d know.

But as she tilts her head back and downs the shot in one impressive swallow before slamming it down on the table among the countless empties I can now see, all I can think is that there’s no way she’s moving on without me getting to have a final say about it.

“Where’re you going?” Tino asks as I tilt my own beer back and down its contents.