Christ, how can I be this obsessed with this woman?
The last week has been a whirlwind. We’ve both been really busy, but we managed to see each other on Tuesday night and have talked on the phone every night we weren’t together. Well, maybe “talking” isn’t the right word because, God knows, our chats haven’t exactly been PG.
The start of the National Anthem alerts me that it’s time to stop daydreaming about Dani and pay attention to what’s going on around me. She stands, pulling off her hat and putting it over her heart.
I don’t know what I expected to hear, but when she starts singing, I can barely stop myself from laughing. She is truly and utterly awful. There isn’t a single note sung on key and yet she plows on, at the top of her lungs.
And fuck if it doesn’t make me want her more.
She doesn’t care about what anyone thinks, not one single iota. In fact, I’m pretty sure if anyone said anything to her about her lack of vocal skills, she’d probably have some witty retort about how she has other oral talents.
What I wouldn’t give to have those talents used on me.
It’s not from her lack of trying. On Tuesday, when she was over, I managed to avoid the situation completely by just making her come repeatedly. If I never gave her reprieve, she couldn’t put me in a position to have Deflate Gate again.
She didn’t seem to mind. The constant stream of moans, cries, and grunts as she came all over my face let me know I’m at least doing that right.
The anthem ends and she sits back down and glances over at me. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why do you have that shit-eating grin on your face?”
Apparently, I suck at hiding my reaction to her—on my face or in my pants.
“I was just thinking about Tuesday.”
She blushes and the corners of her mouth tip up as she squirms in her seat.
Yeah, she’s definitely thinking about it now.
I want her remembering how hot it was. It helps distract from the fact I haven’t let her touch me. I just need to get my head in the game and be mentally prepared for it next time.
“Ooh, the first pitch!” Her excitement matches that of the crowd as a roar goes up all around us. Our seats are pretty awesome—one of the few perks of being in a chair is the seating at places like this. Although, if it were an option, I would have her down in the first row, right behind the net, so she could experience having a fast ball flying right at her—it’s the closest she’ll ever get to being on the field.
For me, the exhilaration of being part of the game was only ever matched by being in the ring. I’m sure a lot of that had to do with the fact that I did it with my dad. I spent every possible minute with him at the gym when he was training. He would put me in the ring and “spar” with me, letting me believe I was actually able to put him down with my eight-year-old punch. It wasn’t until after his death that I realized what being in the ring really meant to me. Mom tried to keep me out of competition—and she did, I never fought again—but she couldn’t keep me from the gym and the bags. It was my tie to my dad, and there was no way she was taking that from me.
Only the accident could do that.
Dani slides her hand over mine. “Hey, you all right?” She’s staring at me, concern in her blue eyes.
“Yeah, just thinking about when I used to play. That’s all.”
She frowns and squeezes my hand. “I’m sorry. Is this too hard, being here? We can go.”
“Fuck no, we aren’t leaving. There are a lot of things I’ve had to deal with not being able to do anymore. This is just part of the deal.”
He sounds sincere, but the sadness in his eyes when he watches the field give him away. This is hard for him in a way I can never even begin to understand. Even after three years, he’s still coming to terms with what happened, what he lost, and things like this are going to continue to mess with him emotionally.
What the fuck do I do?
I don’t know how to handle this “feelings” shit. Dates, in and of themselves, aren’t a typical occurrence for me. Usually, it's meet someone at bar, go somewhere to fuck, repeat. Maybe I should have stressed to Savage how out of my element I am here. I don’t want him thinking I don’t care, but I have no fucking clue what to say right now.
Returning my attention to the field, I say the first thing that pops into my head. “More women should come to baseball games. The tight white pants are really doing it for me. I don’t think they know what they’re missing.”
His laugh is music to my ears. He reaches over and cups my cheek, turning me to look at him. “Have I told you how much I love that you have no filter?”
I freeze and try to school my features.
Love?
Holy hell.
My mind tells me to run screaming but I try to use logic.
It’s just a phrase. Relax.
He’s not saying he loves you.