I pushed on the edge of the table and stood, flashing a regretful smile at the two matchmakers. “Excuse me, I need to use the ladies’ room.”
I sidestepped down the table, my eyes sliding forward, past the row of men hunched over their food, each engaged in conversation or busy eating. All except for Chase, who sat back, one arm draped over the back of a chair, his expression impossible to read, his stare dark and penetrating and locked on me. I tried to look away, but couldn’t, holding the contact until I reached the end of the table and was free, all but tripping in my heels in my haste to exit.
I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror, trying to find a reason he’d stared. Spinach in my teeth? Nope. Giant zit on my face? None. I flipped the handle, was washing my hands under hot water, when my cell buzzed. I grabbed for a paper towel and reached for my phone, a moment of confusion at the text.
Grant’s son? Didn’t realize your Yankee loyalty went that far. Oh. And Happy Birthday.
I leaned against the counter and sent back my best attempt at coyness. Who’s this?
Guess.
I didn’t need a guess. I hesitated, then had a moment of evil inspiration. Holding back a smile, I replied. Please stop. We were a one-time thing. Get over it. It wasn’t even that great.
I sent the red herring into cyberspace and waited, smiling. Let my new ‘friend’ stew over that. I watched dots of activity appear, and then stop.
Ty?
I waited an appropriate length of time, leaving him hanging, then set the hook. Who’s this?
Chase.
Oh. Nevermind. I thought you were someone else.
I didn’t wait for a response, my high note hit. I stuffed the phone in my purse and tried to compose myself, to hide my smile, before I stepped back out. The man needed to be taught a lesson, needed to learn to mind his own business. It’d do him some good to stew over my mythical team boyfriend.
36
What the…? Chase looked down at his phone, rereading the lines of text, the conversation taking an entirely different direction than he had anticipated. When he’d gotten Ty’s number from one of the ball boys, he’d planned to have it for emergency purposes only. Then … after overhearing that attempt to push her toward Grant’s silver spoon of a son, he couldn’t help himself. He had planned to rib her a little, poke out a little fire. He hadn’t expected to uncover this bomb. He texted back, his fingers fighting against common sense, the words out and sent before he could bring them back.
Who did you think it was?
There was a flash of blonde, and he locked the phone, sliding it into his pocket, watching her as she reentered the private room, her dress navy and short—too short for a place like this, one filled with men—her smile the only feminine thing in the room. She was a blur of tan legs and tight material, her long hair swinging as she settled back into her chair, her smile easy as she responded to something her dad said, her phone elsewhere, along with her concern. His text would be unread, would sit out there, insecure and abandoned, for who knew how long.
He shouldn’t have sent it. It was pathetic. He shouldn’t have messaged her at all.
He picked up his knife, his cut into the steak rough and hard, his irritation mounting as he stabbed the piece with his fork. Chewing, he glanced down the long table and wondered who, of the men present there, she had mistaken him for.
37
Cincinatti
Maybe it was because I’d skipped lunch. Or maybe it was because Forte had left his gold chain at the hotel and I had to get a driver to take me there, then back, missing batting practice, all so he could put that nasty thing around his neck and still error. It hadn’t been ‘right on the dresser’ like he’d said. It’d been in the shower, coiled up next to a used bar of soap with various old man hairs stuck in it.
Whether it was due to hunger, or Forte’s errand, I was grouchy. We were also down by two, which made me jittery, my palms sweating as I hung off the dugout and watched Fernandez whiff.
“Ty.”
His voice was low, but I heard it, pushing off the fence and turning to Chase. He sat on the metal bench, his hat pushed back on his head, one hand rubbing at his mouth.
I said nothing, just raised an eyebrow.
He lifted his chin, nodding his head back. “A few rows up, the brunette in the tight red shirt.”
I fought to keep my expression level. “Yeah?”
“Get her number.”
I glanced back, Fernandez still at bat. An oh-and-two count, two outs on the board. I could tell you, without even seeing the pitcher’s curl, what was about to happen.