Head jerking back, I stare at her, but she keeps her attention straight ahead towards the outfield.
It’s beautiful out here, golden hour in Chicago. The sky is all shades of orange and yellow, and the field is cast with a warm glow. But the woman next to me is all ice tonight, vastly contradictory to the bright light she’s brought into my life this summer.
“You’re not just the nanny and you fucking know that,” I remind her in a stern whisper. “What the hell is up with you today?”
She shrugs nonchalantly and takes another sip of her drink, flipping her hair over her shoulders.
I lean down to her ear, speaking quietly. “Toss your hair over your shoulder like that again, will you. It’s giving me flashbacks to a much happier Miller with a mouth full of my cock.”
Finally, the smallest, most discreet smile pulls at her lips.
“Jesus,” I chuckle. “That’s what gets you to smile? Am I going to have to fuck the attitude right out of you, or what?”
“Probably.”
I find Max walking the length of the field with Isaiah before my attention falls back to the girl next to me. She’s got her drink mid-air on the way to her lips, but I snatch it out of her hand and finish it myself.
“Hey!”
“You’re being a brat today.” I swallow down her cocktail and set the glass back on the table.
She scoffs. “I’m a ray of fucking sunshine.”
“You’ve had an attitude since the photoshoot yesterday, and you won’t tell me why.”
She continues to remain silent. We don’t tend to keep things from one another, other than how I truly feel about her, so not knowing what’s going on in that pretty yet frustrating head of hers is grinding on my nerves.
We’ve got one night left together, and if this is her form of distancing herself in preparation, I’m going to be pissed. She’s the one who is leaving. She’s the one who wanted to remain detached. If there’s anyone who should be mentally preparing for her departure, it’s me.
I’m the one who broke my rule of not having sex with her, all while knowing I was going to fall fast and hard if I let myself add another layer of connection to her, and that’s exactly what happened.
One of the equipment managers catches my attention in the distance, placing two gloves and a ball next to home plate. He gives me a small nod in confirmation before rejoining the festivities.
“Come with me.”
“Why?”
“Stop being so testy today and come with me.” Linking my fingers through Miller’s, I pull her behind. We pass by the staff and their families on the way to home plate, and I just smile and nod my head in greeting as if dragging my coach’s daughter behind me is normal everyday behavior.
“I can be testy all I want. It’s my birthday.” Miller halts. “Wait. We can’t go on the field.”
“I already talked to our groundskeeper. They’re going to drag the infield later tonight, so we’re good.”
“Good for what?”
Grabbing the two gloves, I hold the pitcher’s one out for her.
Her skeptical gaze drifts from the outstretched glove back to my face.
“I want to see you pitch, Miss All-American.”
She quickly shakes her head. “It’s been a long time.”
“That’s okay. You can ease into it.”
“I won’t be very good.”
I’ve noticed this about her. She has a hard time being anything but the best. It’s an odd contradiction to the girl who lives unattached and carefree, floating from city to city. But when she has a goal in mind, she has this innate need to be the greatest to do it. All-American pitcher. James Beard recipient. As if the titles mean she’s accomplished something instead of simply doing it out of joy.
“I don’t care if you’re good or not, Mills. I just want you to have some fun with me while I’ve still got you.”
She hesitantly takes the glove.
“We’ll play for it,” I say. “If you get a strikeout, I’ll stop asking you what’s wrong. If you get a walk, you start talking.”
The most discreet tilt happens at the corner of her lips. I toss her the softball and finish with a gloved tap of her ass, sending her on her way to the pitcher’s mound.
She goes about forty feet from me, not quite the full distance of the mound to home plate, but more accurate to the distance she’s used to when playing softball.
“Can I warm up?” she asks.
I chuckle, crouching behind home plate. So competitive. “Yeah, baby, you can warm up.”