Me: I need to modify our arrangement.
28
HUDSON
The nine games we played in the last twelve days were both exhilarating and exhausting. The minors schedule is not nearly as tiring. Also, the excitement of the press and crowd adds a whole other element.
It’s been surreal.
We won all but one game, and Coach has been walking around with a pathetic, but contagious, grin permanently tattooed on his face. I’ve incorporated myself into the rotation, adding value to the team, and I’ve honestly never played better.
During the little off time I do have, I’ve thought about Ember. Not just her, but that text from two weeks ago that she’s refused to elaborate on since.
Little Red: I need to modify our agreement
What the helldoes that mean?
When I first received that text, it was the middle of thenight, due to our time difference. So, when I finally responded, she was still sleeping. When she woke up the next day, she avoided the twenty questions I had to talk to me about it. I assume she had been drinking with Cruz and probably lost the courage to say anything more.
So, needless to say, I’ve been in a constant state of suffering since.
Modify it how?
So many ideas have flashed through my head about how she is wanting to modify it and all of them seem to end up with her gone and out of my life, and I have no clue as to how I’ve become so reliant on her presence. It’s absolutely terrifying.
I pull into the garage and park in my designated spot. Ember’s reserved spot next to it is still empty, due to her car still being in Missouri. She mentioned that her parents are driving it down and will arrive tomorrow with it. She also told me she was excited to get her car, but incredibly nervous about her parents being here.
What she has shared with me about them is not bad, per se. It just seems like they don’t support her, or what she wants. They only support her when she makes her decisions based on what they want.
It’ll be interesting to see how they react when she shares with them that, not only is she married, but she’s working at one of the biggest companies in the U.S., and she’s climbing the ladder faster than I can throw a baseball.
I’m so proud of everything she’s accomplished in the short time she’s been there. She told me that Christian and Elena liked her idea, but there were some stipulations that she was working on. Regardless, I know she’ll work through those because she’s made for this. Business, marketing, public relations. It all comes so naturally to her. And it’s so goddamn sexy.
“Ember, you home?” I ask as I enter through the front doorbecause I didn’t want to appear too needy and text her when I landed.
“Hey, in the kitchen,” she yells back.
Hearing her voice makes the fluttering in my stomach go wild. How she can turn me into an excited teenager that easily is beyond me. Then her request and all the scenarios I have flash through my head, and my stomach is instantly a butterfly graveyard.
I turn the corner to the kitchen and see her pulling a pizza box out of the oven. She’s dressed in leggings and an oversized Seattle Smashers shirt that’s tied in a knot at her lower back. My—our—last name crosses over the back of it, and it takes everything in me not to claim her just like that shirt is.
Turning around to face me, an unavoidable smile crosses over my face at the sight of her. She smiles right back, biting her lower lip. “Hi, mister winning streak.”
“You watched my games?” I ask as my eyes gaze into hers, and fuck, I’ve missed them.
“Of course, I did. I can’t say you didn’t scare the hell out of me when that guy came rounding third and your shortstop threw the ball to you just in time for him to barrel into you. I was yelling at the TV, cursing that guy to hell. But when the umpire called him out and you won the game, oh my god. I was screaming.”
Her talking baseball does things to me that I have never felt before in my life. I might take her right here, right now, on this goddamn kitchen island.
“You should stop talking right now, because you recapping my baseball game is better than any dirty talk I can ever imagine. I’m not sure I’ll be able to hold back.” She tosses her head back and laughs and, Jesus, I’ve missed that, too.
“It’s Friday,” she replies, opening the pizza box she kept warm in the oven, steam rising from the inside, filling the roomwith the aroma of our Friday night favorite, which is just as comforting as the scent of her when I walked into the house.
I grab the box and head over to the couch, to continue our tradition. “Come on, little red. You have a lot of explaining to do.”
“So, did they love your idea?”I ask, as I pull an olive off the slice of supreme pizza from the paper plate on my lap, tossing it into my mouth.
“Yeah, actually, they jumped on it immediately. They pretty much took any other responsibilities I had, dispersed them to others, and are having me spearhead opening this club.”
