I laugh and bite back the unusual urge to ruffle his hair. It would be weird to do—the kid’s way too old and I barely know him. But then again, he is still a kid. And I have a deep sense that he truly needs that kind of affection in his life. Weird. I dunno where the hell this is coming from, but I hope he’ll use the card if there is something more to him being off. “Let me know what game you want to attend.”
“Will do.” E.J stares at the card.
“Kid.” He looks up at me then. “You really can call me if you need anything. At all.”
“Thanks,” he says, avoiding my eyes suddenly. Then as the bell rings, he shouts an animated goodbye and heads out of Avery’s classroom.
“That’s more like his usual self.” Avery watches the doorway as a few students trickle into the room, a few quickly taking note of my presence. “Thanks for doing that for him.”
“It’s no problem.” I shift on my feet, shoving my hands in my pockets. All poise and class, Avery greets the students before looking back to me. Damn, I don’t know what’s past a goner but that’s the level I’m on.
Much like the awkward teenage boys filling the halls, I make the decision to just ask. Could go either way, but hormones and adrenaline leave me little choice but to take another swing. “Can I get your number?”
Her shoulders stiffen, and she glances around the room, I’d guess wondering if any students overheard. “I still don’t think it’s a good idea,” she murmurs quietly.
“Because of history, right?”
She only responds with a nod.
“I have no clue what that even means, Avery,” I reach into my wallet, pull out another card, and print my cell number on the back, then slide it across her desk because I don’t want to risk her not accepting it from me. “We’re on the road for the next week and a half, but you can still use this if you decide you need someone. Because I do know we can’t have a history if you won’t give us a chance.”
I don’t wait for a response. Instead, I wave at a few of the students who make eye contact and nod at me before making my way out into the hallway. Damn, she sure is stubborn. But my gut is pretty reliable, and it’s telling me there’s been some progress made by my impromptu visit today.
Or at least I have to tell myself that. I need to accept how desperate I am for her to give me a chance. It’s insane. I’ve never felt anything close to this before. And that’s when I finally realize why I want her to give me a chance.
Because she doesn’t like baseball. She doesn’t like sports.
She met me and wanted nothing to do with Carter Barlowe.
So, if she likes me, it’ll be for me. Not my fame, not my star status, not my father’s legacy. Nothing but the man I am. And for the first time in my life, I’m wondering if I like the man I am without all of those things. I wonder if he’s a decent soul, capable of being a whole person. I wonder if Ms. Avery Whitlock, history teacher, didn’t just make me question my own history.
11
AVERY
“I can’t believe you’ve left him hanging for a week.” Bodie drops his head back on the sofa, rubbing his face. “Avery, he gave you his number a week ago, and you still haven’t used it?”
“No, and I don’t plan to. I told him I didn’t think it was a good idea.” But I can’t say I wasn’t tempted to text him a few times.
The camera zooms in on his face as he removes his hat, glances into it before replacing it snug on his head, then delivers the pitch. Bodie claps after Carter strikes out another batter. It’s his third game pitching （ugh—yes, I’ve been keeping track） and from the looks of it, and the cheers of my best friend, Carter isn’t disappointing. I’m less disappointed to watch this game than I care to admit, as well.
“You really need to start watching the games at your place. Or with your brothers. They enjoy all of this stuff.” I wave my hand at the screen as the camera stays on Carter, tracking him as he makes his way off the field, down the dugout stairs, to the end of the bench before plopping down. He gets a few fist bumps, but mostly his teammates leave him alone.
“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?” Bodie snickers.
Grabbing the stack of ungraded pop quizzes off the coffee table, I attempt to focus on them, but my attention keeps getting pulled to the game. The Coyotes capture another win, and the broadcasters talk about Carter for a few seconds before they go to a reporter who’s standing with him on the field. I don’t even try to pretend I’m not enraptured by that face that has distracted me all week.