She was allowed to feel this. To process it in her own way.
So I didn’t push. I just nodded. “I’ll get you a towel.”
“Our date got ruined. I was going to make lasagna.” She refused to make eye contact.
“We can do it another night,” I told her softly.
“I could have gone home with Millie.”
“Not letting you out of my sight, Tate.”
“I’m sorry if this ruins anything for your career.” She was looking at my hands. I didn’t think it was going to ruin my career, but it would sure as hell make playing the next game difficult.
I directed her to my master bathroom and showed her where everything was before sitting on the edge of the bed and scrolling through the notifications on my phone.
There were text messages from my teammates, a few from the twins, and about a hundred from Nick.
I was fucking exhausted. I didn’t have the mental capacity to make a public statement tonight. A news article notification popped up, the headline catching my attention.
BREAKING NEWS: Baseball Star Griffin Silver Involved in Violent Confrontation—Will He Be Ready for Game Six?
Earlier this afternoon, Atlanta Braves rookie sensation Griffin Silver found himself in an unexpected and violent altercation, surprisingly not on the baseball field, but in a condo.
Sources confirm that Silver intervened in a dangerous situation involving Tatum Grace, a well-known fitness influencer and Silver’s rumored love interest. Grace was allegedly held at knifepoint by Damian Voss, a former classmate of both Silver and Grace, who had recently been released on bail following a highly publicized grocery store robbery.
According to eyewitness accounts, Silver arrived at Grace’s apartment just in time to confront Voss, ultimately engaging in a physical altercation that left the suspect unconscious by the time authorities arrived. The police have since taken Voss into custody, but questions now swirl about the impact of the fight, particularly on Silver’s ability to perform in the upcoming game six of the National League Championship Series against the New York Navigators.
So far, neither Silver nor the Atlanta Braves organization has issued a formal statement about the incident or his condition. However, photos taken at the scene show visible bruising and swelling on Silver’s right hand, the same hand responsible for his game-winning pitch that got his team into the playoffs.
As for Grace, she was seen leaving the scene in a visibly shaken state with Silver.
With the next round starting in just two days away, the city of Atlanta is holding its breath. Will Griffin Silver take the field, or will last night’s heroics cost the Braves their shot at the championship? Stay tuned for updates.
The phone flew from my hand, crashing against the wall before clattering to the floor. My chest heaved, anger still pulsing through my veins.
“Griffin!” Tate’s panicked voice echoed from the bathroom, cutting through the silence like a blade.
Fuck.
I rushed to the door, pushing it open just enough for steam to billow out, curling around me like a ghostly warning.
“Sorry, baby girl,” I murmured, my voice rough with regret. “Lost my temper.”
A pause. Then the soft splashing of water filled the tense space between us.
“I was scared,” she admitted, her voice small.
My fingers tightened around the doorframe. My jaw clenched. I’d been so consumed by my own fury that I hadn’tthought about how it would sound to her, the sudden crash, the violence of it. After everything she’d just been through, the last thing I wanted was for her to feel unsafe.
The bathroom door creaked all the way open, and Tate stepped out, her damp hair clinging to her skin, her face scrubbed clean but still tired. She was drowning in one of my shirts, the fabric slipping off one shoulder, exposing soft, bare skin. My boxers hung loose on her frame. Her juicy ass was the only thing holding the waistband up.
Something about seeing her like this, wrapped up in my clothes, in my space, settled the storm inside me.It had been my dream for far too long.
Her green eyes flickered to where my phone lay in pieces on the floor, but she didn’t say anything. Instead, she walked toward the bed, pulling back the covers before crawling in, curling up against the pillows like she belonged there.
I watched her for a second, committing the sight to memory. Then, with a heavy exhale, I grabbed a clean towel and stepped into the shower, bracing my hands against the cool tile as the hot water pounded down.
Blood. Sweat. The weight of the night.It all swirled down the drain, washing away in rivulets of red and gray.