Wild Card Page 7

  Javi tipped his head, his only acknowledgment of Hunter’s words. “Your suspension is over, and I’m not going to keep you on the bench. We’ve made too much progress in the standings to have you sit out. And I know you’re close to a big milestone—”

  “Yeah, I don’t want to talk about that,” said Hunter, fighting the urge to clap his hands over his ears. The last thing he needed was a jinx on top of everything else going on.

  Javi shook his head and shot Hunter a wry smile. “Seriously? I didn’t take you for one of the superstitious ones.”

  “Safer to be superstitious in case there’s something to it instead of ignoring a hundred years of baseball wisdom and pissing off the sports gods.”

  “All right, then. I won’t say a word.” He blew out a breath and glanced up at the ceiling, as though searching for what he was trying to say. “Hunter, you’re the best player on the team, but you keep getting in your own way. I don’t know what your deal is, and it’s not my job to be your therapist—the team has one if you need one—but I want you to know that it’ll be hard for me to advocate for you to the upper brass when your contract’s up at the end of the season no matter what your numbers are if you don’t get your shit together. They like winning, but they have no time for the bullshit. And I know you want to stay. But I can’t promise you that’ll happen if you can’t turn it around.”

  Hunter just nodded. It was basically another version of Aerin’s “grow up” speech, and he had zero defense.

  “I know. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I’m in a better place now, mentally, and believe me, I know what’s at stake. I want to stay in Dallas, and I want to help the team win. It’s been a rough couple of months, but things are under control now.”

  “That have anything to do with you running off to Vegas and getting married? What’s the deal there?”

  Hunter leaned back in his chair and pushed a hand through his hair, aiming for a version of the story as close to the truth as possible. “I’ve been seeing Marlowe Story for about a year now. We met up for a little vacation in Vegas and one thing led to another.” He shrugged. “It wasn’t planned, but…” He shook his head, unable to hold back his smile. “I’m happy.”

  Javi nodded. “Good. I’d offer you some advice, but given how my marriage went down in flames, I don’t think I’m really the guy for that. So just…put her first, I guess. That’s really all I can say.” Javi turned his attention to his tablet, effectively dismissing Hunter, who stood. “Oh, and Blake? If you punch someone—anyone—again, I’ll bench you for a month. Got it?”

  “Got it.” Hunter had no plans to punch anyone. Granted, he never really had plans of any kind at all—things just sort of…happened in the moment.

  He headed out to the batting cages where Abby, the team’s hitting coach, was waiting for him. As he pulled on his batting gloves and prepped his bat, she stared at him with her hands on her hips.

  “So, married, huh?”

  “Yep.” Again, he couldn’t stop the grin from spreading across his face.

  One eyebrow crept up her forehead. “Didn’t even know you were seeing anyone.”

  “It’s kind of a long story.”

  “Well, I have to say I’m disappointed.”

  “Why, were you getting sweet on me?” he teased. He suspected Abby had someone in her life, but she never talked about it and he never asked.

  “Ha, no. I just would’ve expected any celebration involving you to come with a hell of a party.”

  “Ah. Well, there might be something in the works if my mom has anything to say about it.” And if he could convince Marlowe to go along with it.

  “Well, congrats.”

  He turned to face her and shot her a smile. “Thanks. Wasn’t planned, but I’m happy.”

  “I’m happy for you, if not a little surprised.” She looked as though she were going to say more, but then waved her hand, as if brushing away the topic. “Anyway, let’s get that rust off you, since you haven’t hit in over a week now.”

  Hunter stepped into the box and took a few practice swings while Abby gave him a few notes on his stance, helping him to make small adjustments that would influence his timing and power. He didn’t know anyone who studied more tape, who worked harder for her players than Abby. Then again, she’d once told him that as a woman in a man’s job, she had to work twice as hard to get half as far.

  “Now that you’re only one hit away from 1,000—” she started but Hunter interrupted her.

  “La la la la can’t hear you,” he shouted, trying to block out her voice. Yeah, it was superstitious, but he couldn’t help it—it was bad luck to talk about things that hadn’t happened yet, plain and simple. Every player knew that. Which was why no one was talking about the team’s shot at the wild card slot come September. It was still months away with a lot of baseball to play. Anything could happen, but one way to ensure it wouldn’t would be to talk about it. The media liked to go on and on about it, but it was never mentioned in the clubhouse. Ever.

  But he had to admit that it felt like a lot of things were coming together. He was one hit away from his 1,000th career hit. The team actually had a shot at the post season this year. He had Marlowe—sort of. It was a work in progress, but he was choosing to be optimistic. He was ready to walk the straight and narrow and sign the endorsement deal.

  All he had to do was not fuck it all up.

  Seven

  Marlowe stood alone in Hunter’s sprawling, quiet house as rain pounded against the windows. It was falling so hard it wasn’t just dropping from the clouds, but hitting the window panes with violent little explosions, as though someone were throwing it down. The entire house reverberated with the sound of it drumming rhythmically against the roof. With a little sigh, she took a sip from the mug of tea cradled in her hands and looked around the space. She’d been to Hunter’s place once before, but it had been a quick trip and she hadn’t really taken it in. They’d gotten in late yesterday afternoon, so she’d claimed one of the guest rooms and basically hidden herself away in it. Now, it was her home too—at least for the next several weeks while they saw this charade through—and even though he’d told her to make herself at home, she still felt like an intruder. Hunter had left for Dell Park a couple of hours ago to get ready for his first game back, so for now she had the giant place to herself.

  The living room in which she stood was large, with heavy wood beams crisscrossing the coffered ceiling that matched the wainscoting on the walls. The floors were a smooth kind of stone, and the furniture was all light brown and cream, done in leather and luxe fabrics. It was frankly more grown up than she’d been anticipating, but she assumed he’d had a decorator pick it all out for him. Along the far wall, three sets of French doors led out to the backyard, which featured an outdoor kitchen, a pool, and a rolling lawn dotted with trees. On the other side of the room, a stone fireplace took up almost an entire wall, with a massive wood mantelpiece running above it. She paced over the stone floors and studied the pictures and items on the mantel. A few pieces of art, including two gorgeous ink sketches, one of a forest and the other of a deer, two Silver Slugger awards, and framed family pictures. She picked up one of the photos, scrutinizing it. In it, she saw Hunter in front of a Christmas tree with who she assumed were his parents and his brother and sister. The picture couldn’t have been more than a couple of years old, and Hunter looked happy. Relaxed. Less on edge than he often was. Maybe things had changed for him somehow, or maybe she just brought out the worst in him.

  Guilt churned through her and she set the picture down in its place, making her way back to the kitchen, which was a huge open space. The kitchen itself was massive, and it looked out onto another living area with another fireplace, a fully stocked bar, and a soaring vaulted ceiling. Off of the living room was a curving wooden staircase leading down, which she knew led to Hunter’s bedroom. The entire lower floor—the house was built on a hill—was Hunter’s master suite.

  Feeling like a s
noop, she crept down the stairs and emerged into Hunter’s bedroom. Yet another fireplace—jeez, she didn’t think it got that cold in Texas—adorned the wall across from the king size bed, with a huge flat screen TV mounted to the stone above it. The bed’s sheets were rumpled and unmade, and a pair of boxers lay on the floor. Windows looked out over the backyard, lush and green. To the right of the bed, an arched hallway led to a ridiculously huge bathroom and a walk-in-closet the size of a studio apartment. Gently, she ran the tips of her fingers over the row of suits hanging on one of the racks. She could smell Hunter in here, his cologne, the tang of his skin, and it made her stomach tighten and swirl in a way she wasn’t wholly comfortable with.

  She headed back upstairs to the living area just off of the kitchen and settled herself on the couch, turning on the TV. Even though the house was huge—especially given that Hunter lived alone—she liked it. It felt homey and comfortable, surprisingly so given that it was easily 10,000 square feet of stone and wood. Maybe she liked it because it suited Hunter, and she was having a harder and harder time ignoring her feelings for him. She didn’t know, and it wasn’t something she wanted to dig into now.

  Flipping through channels, she felt at a loss for what to do, removed as she was from anything resembling normalcy. Normally she got up, played her guitar and worked on some new music, hit the gym, and then met up with a friend for lunch or had a business meeting of some kind. Then, after a little down time, she’d usually rehearse in studio and prep for any events coming up—concerts, interviews, fan meet and greets. Then in the evenings, she typically replied to emails, worked on her music some more, and had a quiet night in if she wasn’t performing or working. She’d have to figure out how she was spending her days here in Dallas. What her new—if only temporary—normal would be.

  Along with four spacious bedrooms, there was a gym upstairs, in a large room with a handful of skylights embedded into the slanted ceiling. Maybe a workout would help her feel less restless and displaced. Just as she started to get up off the couch, her phone buzzed from the back pocket of her jeans. The word “Mom” flashed across the screen, and with a sigh, Marlowe swiped her finger over it to take the call.

  “Hey, Mama,” she said, curling her feet up under her and hitting mute on the TV.

  “How come I have to hear from the TV that you got married? To some baseball player?” She could hear the disapproval in her mother’s tone and she steeled herself against it. To say she had a complicated relationship with her mother was a huge oversimplification. She loved her, but there were times where she wasn’t sure if she respected her. And they definitely didn’t see eye to eye on life in general. Not to mention that Marlowe still harbored resentments for the way she’d grown up and the damage her fractured childhood had caused and was still causing. Her mother had pulled her into a cycle of toxic, unhealthy relationships without giving Marlowe the tools to break it, sentencing her to a life of loneliness and fear. And yet she knew she’d never turn her back on her mother. She was the only family Marlowe had, and no matter how much baggage there was between them, that meant something.

  So, yeah. It was complicated.

  “I’m sorry. It’s been a crazy couple of days. It was a spur of the moment thing.” She bit her lip, warring with herself over whether or not to tell her the truth about the showmance with Hunter.

  Her mother let out a huge sigh. “Well, I’m so glad you found someone. God knows I worried about you so much being on your own like that without anyone to look after you.”

  “Mama, I’m grown. I don’t need anyone to look after me. I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.”

  “I know, I know,” she said hastily. “But now you don’t have to. He’s a baseball player, so he must have money, right?”

  Marlowe rolled her eyes. “I have money, too. Famous singer, remember?”

  Her mother charged ahead as though she hadn’t heard her. “And he must be so strong, and he’s successful and handsome and oh, honey, you do whatever you need to do to hang onto him now that you’ve got him, you hear?”

  A chill ran down Marlowe’s spine. Her mother had given her similar advice when things had gotten serious with Dirk, too, despite all of the red flags. And so now, she did the opposite, and completely ignored her mother’s advice, seeing it as coming not from a place of love and support but through her mother’s own skewed and fucked up worldview. Her mother had spent her entire adult life defining herself by the man she was attached to, causing her to put up with some pretty abominable treatment because that was better than being alone. Because of that, Marlowe had seen some pretty messed up things as a kid, things she’d sworn to herself she’d never tolerate as an adult only to find herself in an almost identical situation with Dirk years later.

  She’d known better, but she’d done it anyway. Clearly, she couldn’t trust herself or her reactions or feelings when it came to men. She was broken. Her mother had started all the cracks, and Dirk had finished the job. Not that she thought Hunter was anything like Dirk. God, even putting them in the same sentence felt unfair.

  “So tell me about the wedding. I want all of the details.”

  Marlowe picked at a thread on her jeans. “Um, well, we were in Vegas and drunk and it was a spur of the moment thing. I honestly don’t remember it that well.”

  “As long as he’s not trying to back out of it now.”

  Marlowe almost snorted out a laugh. Hardly. If anyone wanted to cut and run, it was her. Yeah, he’d been drunk, but he’d told her he loved her, and she believed him. But just because he thought he loved her didn’t mean things would work out between them, and it didn’t mean she was ready or willing to let someone in. And it definitely didn’t mean that she was anywhere near good enough for him.

  “What’s his house like? Is it beautiful? I bet it’s beautiful. Did you sign a prenup?”

  “Yes, his house is lovely, and no, we didn’t sign a prenup.” A tiny worry settled in the back of her brain, and she wondered if she should talk to Hunter about signing something, or if that would be hurtful. She didn’t want him to feel like she didn’t trust him, and yet…she didn’t trust him. Not fully, because she didn’t fully trust anyone, including herself. But, as she swallowed back the guilt eating at her, she realized that she wanted to trust him. Or at least, she wanted to try, to see if it was even possible. If she even knew how.

  They chatted a bit longer, getting caught up as Marlowe mainly dodged her mother’s questions and advice. Just as they’d hung up, she heard the garage door open and close, the alarm chiming as someone entered the house. Heavy footsteps echoed against all the stone and wood and she rose from the couch just in time to see Hunter striding into the kitchen.

  “Wasn’t expecting to see you until tonight,” she said, moving toward him. He’d left her a ticket so she could sit with the other wives and girlfriends at tonight’s game.

  He shot her a rueful smile. “Game got rained out.” He opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water. “I’m gonna go grab a shower and then we can figure out what to do with the rest of our day.” Heat simmered in his eyes as they took a slow walk down her body. Her stomach clenched, but she took a step back. She hated the way every single move, every single facial expression, every gesture, felt like a game of chess, all because of her fucked up brain. Hunter deserved better than that, and she didn’t want to lead him on or make him think they could have something she didn’t know how to give.

  He moved past her and she could tell he wanted to kiss her, but he settled for giving her hip a gentle squeeze before he disappeared down the stairs. She stood in the kitchen, taking a deep breath and trying to center herself against the confusing eddy of emotions constantly pulling at her. After a moment, she put the kettle on to make herself another mug of tea.

  Just as she was adding a bit of honey to her steaming cup, Hunter came back up the stairs, shirtless and wearing a pair of jeans with the top button open. Her mouth went dry as she watched him move, his muscle
s bunching and flexing below his inked skin. A little throb took up residence between her legs. It was completely unfair how sexy he was without even trying.

  He hopped up on the granite counter beside her, pushing a hand through his wet hair. “So. Any ideas about what we can do on this rainy day?” He inched a little closer, nudging her with his knee.

  Panic rose up, tightening her throat and she moved away from him. “You should put a shirt on. You’ll get a cold.”

  “It’s ninety-five degrees out. I think I’m safe.”

  “Well, I’d hate for you to get sick.”

  He grinned wolfishly and hopped down off the counter, moving closer. “Aw, you worried about me Lolo?” Hunter’s health was pretty much the last thing she was worried about. Humor and warmth shone in his eyes, and it’d be so easy to just lean into him, to press her lips to his and let him help her forget about the turmoil in her brain. Too easy.

  “I have some stuff to do,” she lied, and took her tea upstairs, shutting herself in her room, safely away from Hunter and the temptation he presented because she knew just how freaking good it always was with him.

  Oh God. How was she going to survive this?

  Hunter tossed the ball back and forth with Dylan as they warmed up in the outfield. Yesterday’s rain had vanished, leaving warmth and sunshine in its wake, perfect weather for the Longhorns’ double-header against the Twins. Unable to help himself, Hunter’s gaze drifted up to section 120, where all of the wives, girlfriends and family members of players sat. He searched for Marlowe, but didn’t see her, and he couldn’t help but wonder if she’d changed her mind about coming to the game. He had a feeling she was barely hanging on through this charade that for Hunter, was anything but.