Page 86 of Off Limits: The Firsts

“Why you gotta be like that, Scout? Wylder’s starting to rub off on you isn’t he with his . . .” His voice fades off as he looks down to his hands coated in blue sparkles and does the only thing he can, laugh.

“You can shower, Tino . . . but you’re still going to sparkle under the lights for the next few nights, if not weeks,” I tease as I turn to head back to my training room.

There’s more ribbing as I walk away but there’s one comment that rings louder than all others to me. “Wylder’s almost back, boys. That much he just proved.”

He sure did.

The thought makes me smile more than anything has all day long. Well, since the last time I saw him that is. Because if Easton’s pranking the guys again, that means he’s getting back in his groove—mentally and physically.

“One scoop of chocolate peanut butter in a cup, please,” I say to the girl behind the counter waiting for my selection with her ice cream scooper in hand.

“Make that three scoops.” I yelp at the sound of Easton’s voice and before I can turn around, his hands slide around my waist and pull me back against him. “Hi.” His breath is hot against my ear, and after a long day it takes everything I have not to sink against him and just close my eyes.

“Hi.” My smile is automatic when I turn to face him and take a step back, ever conscious of being noticed together in public. I take him in and wonder if there will ever be a time that I look at him and don’t feel that flutter in my belly. “Blue glitter, huh?”

His lopsided grin turns full-blown, eyes light up with mischief, and he gives a little boy shrug in his grown man’s body. “Peanut butter and chocolate, huh?”

I nod. “Yep.”

“Treating yourself for anything in particular?”

My day flashes through my mind. The update from Sally on my dad. My double training session with Easton. The frantic call from my dad’s long time client, the Red Sox, asking me to drop everything and fly there to evaluate their ace pitcher who hurt his arm last night. My refusal and then agreement to hop on a video conference call so I could help develop a regimen for them to follow. Then there was the report I had to put the finishing touches on for Cory—my proposal for how I would handle the players’ day to day routine if I were to get the Aces’ long-term contract.

“Yeah. I survived.” My smile is soft when I respond. “It’s been a day.”

“That bad, huh?” He asks as he steps forward to pay for the ice cream despite my protests.

“Not bad, just crazy.”

“I like that you treat yourself to ice cream,” he says with a smile as we sit across from each other in the small seating area.

“I like that you chose glitter to showcase Tino’s talents under the lights tonight.” I raise my eyebrows and take a bite of the heavenly ice cream.

“If you’re trying to get me to admit I did something today,” he says as his shoe taps mine beneath the table, “then you’re barking up the wrong tree. The first rule about pranks in the clubhouse is that there are no pranks in the clubhouse.”

“Oh, please.” I laugh and roll my eyes. “Well, it was pretty damn funny and the poor guy is going to be scrubbing that off himself for the next few days.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear because the Nutella he hid inside my back pockets at the start of the season really sucked ass.” My eyes widen as the gasp falls from my lips. “Yeah. It was that bad. I was late getting changed after an interview ran long. I threw on my clothes and hauled ass to the field. First inning, I go to put something in my back pocket and all I feel is this gooey stuff. So now I’m behind the plate with a crowd at my back and something that’s the color of crap on my fingers. Where exactly was I supposed to wipe it? On my pants? That would be a great story for the announcers to create as they try to explain why Easton Wylder is crouched behind the plate with these mysterious brown smears all over his pants that appeared out of nowhere from one pitch to the next.”

I laugh so hard my eyes tear up because between the disdain in his voice and the image he’s painted in my head, I can see it all perfectly. And he’s totally right. “So what did you do?” I ask when I can finally speak through the giggles.

“I rubbed my hands in the dirt to try and cover it up some,” he says, the devilish look returning to his eyes again. “So . . . glitter.”

“Did you just break the first rule of the clubhouse?” I tease, realizing this was the perfect way for me to end the day. His only response is to take a big spoonful of ice cream and shove it in his mouth so he can’t talk. “Whoa. Wait. How did you know I was going to be here?”

“I was taking a walk toward your place to see if you wanted to grab a bite to eat and saw you in here.”

“You could have just called, you know?”

“I know, but I figured if I came in person, you’d have a harder time saying no.” His smile turns shy and it takes everything I have to not lean across the table and brush a kiss against his lips.

Doesn’t he realize he’s the only one I say yes to?

“Will he be ready?”

I startle at Cal’s voice beside me, but try to keep my cool, forget the she’s a piece of ass comment, and turn my attention from where Easton’s currently crouched behind the plate in full gear.

“Mr. Wylder.” I nod and go to turn my attention back to his son but the look in his eyes—the genuine concern—stops me.