Page 98 of Off Limits: The Firsts

“Easton,” he groans, mistaking my silence for uncertainty, and causing my smile to widen. “Please tell me you thought to ask her.”

I laugh—can’t help it. Torturing him is part of my job as his client.

“I’m not feeling as confident about this as I was when I picked up the phone to call you. I thought you two were close. Why the hell would you not flat-out ask her?”

His torture has gone on long enough. I can hear his anxiety ratcheting up. “Relax. There’s no need to worry. It’s just fun listening to you carry on like a little old woman.”

“So your arm’s good, then?”

“I love how you just completely ignore me.” I laugh, needing the comic relief this phone call has brought with it.

“Easton,” he warns as I laugh again.

“We had one . . . uh . . . final workout last night. It felt great.”

If he only knew what I was talking about.

“No side effects or anything?”

Not the kind you can quantify. “Nope. I slept like a baby.”

“Good. Good.” I can hear his agent’s mind start to turn now that he knows I’m ready. “Just promise me from here on out you won’t do anything stupid like sign a document that says you’ll agree to be back on the field by a set date.”

“Are we back to this again? I was in pain. They pushed papers in front of me, and I signed. Does it matter? It all worked out, and I’m back with one week to spare on their deadline.”

“We dodged a bullet is what we did.”

“Quit being a worrywart. I’m fine. You’re fine. We’re all fine.”

“You’re going to kill me one of these days, Wylder.”

“No, I’m not. I’m your most favorite client.”

His silence makes me smile.

“Just make sure you’re in the locker room getting ready to help catch bullpen like you’ve been doing. That way, when I get the call you’ve been taken off the DL and reinstated, you’re at the field.”

“Already planned on it.”

“Wow.”

Easton’s voice startles me. I’ve been so lost in my own mind, so busy rehearsing what I’m going to say, what my dad advised me to say, that I didn’t hear Easton come back.

“What?” I turn to face him, watch him pull his sweat-soaked Under Armour shirt over his head and toss it in the hamper.

“Work-out-clothes Scout is hot. Cowboy-boots-and-skirt Scout is sexy. But dress-up-for-a-business-meeting Scout is gorgeous.”

“Thanks. I’ll be in a room full of men. Work-out-clothes Scout makes them think I’m a college intern getting my hours in. Cowboy-boots-and-skirt Scout makes them think I’m there to giggle and flirt and maybe date a baseball player,” I say as he lifts his eyebrows. “And dress-up-for-a-business-meeting Scout tells them I take my job seriously, and I’m a professional who wants what’s best for the team and the player.”

“What if what’s best for the team, for you, and for the player are all different things?”

“In this case they are the same, so it doesn’t matter,” I say, knowing he needs the reassurance that I technically can’t verbalize due to my contract but have told him in a hundred different ways anyway.

“But what if they were, though?”

I don’t like the feelings the question evokes, because they very well could have been when he punched Santiago the other day. But that was a different day, a stupid fight, and we’ve moved on, so I try to shift from this topic.

“Well, since you said wow when you saw me, I’d use my wily feminine ways to woo them into what I thought was best.”