Cleat Catcher (The Cleat Chaser Duet Book 2) (47 page)

I typed out a message with my thumb and index finger, because I’m a weirdo.

I fucked up, didn’t I?

The screen was in my peripheral vision, taunting me when the phone lit up again.

Look bitch. When there’s an opportunity to drink beer, we do not waste it. Meet me at O’Connelly’s in half an hour.

I chuckled.

Fine. See you there.

That’s a good whore.

Finally having worked up the courage, I scrolled down to the article. Kyrie’s headshot was in the byline with her name and new title, executive editor. Her writing was effortless, conveying every little piece of information perfectly so that even a dummy like me could understand her thoughts. She talked about her struggles and working jobs she didn’t want to work, with her long term goal always in the back of her mind. How she used it to get out of bed every morning and write the pieces she wasn’t interested in.

Then, she moved on to her social life, and how a working woman could make mistakes and not veer off the tracks. She talked about being engaged, and though she didn’t mention that sack of dicks by name, it was obvious who she was talking about. Reading about the shit he put her through made me want to break his nose. And then, finally, there I was in stark black and white:

Finding love isn’t quite as easy as I’d been led to believe—as any of us have been led to believe, really. But there was a time, and I’m not talking about my fiancée who had a penchant for sleeping with women other than me, when I was really, truly in love. I didn’t know it then. I thought if I guarded my heart, kept him at arm’s length, that I was doing the right thing. I wasn’t. He taught me that opening up wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. He taught me that love, even after disappointment, was possible. And I gave him so much more of me than I ever intended.

And then I made a mistake. A big one. I hurt the man I love. But the thing is, when you hurt someone you love, you feel the sting, too. I made a love mistake. One that I’m not sure I can remedy. But I have learned something from it, something that I hope to share with you, dear reader. When you’ve ended the chapter on a toxic past relationship, go ahead and close the book, put it on the top shelf, and never open it again.

Pushing through one of the big heavy wooden doors, I saw Braden sitting up at the bar top with a black and tan in front of him. He held up a hand and motioned me over.

This was our favorite dive bar. It was rarely busy and today was no exception. Half the tables along the walls still had chairs stacked up on them. Patrick stood behind the bar bullshitting with Braden. The old man had a bar towel draped over his shoulder as usual.

He was legit, came over from Ireland long before we were born.

I plopped down on the barstool next to Braden and looked up at Patrick, a man of few words. “The usual.”

“Aye.”

Patrick turned his back to us and started to pour a Smithwick’s off the tap as I dropped my head down toward the bar.

Braden whipped out his phone with the article on it and slid it in front of me.

“Already read it.” I shifted in my seat.

“Well fuck, that was like—all I had really.” He stared down into his beer. “What are you gonna do?”

I let out an exasperated breath. “I don’t know, man. I just—I love her. It’s just so complicated. How am I going to work with Richards?”

“How is that complicating things?” His eyes widened.

I furrowed my brow as if his question couldn’t be serious. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you already fucked him up? It’s going to be hell working with him anyway, regardless of what goes down with you and Kyrie. Shouldn’t you at least get the girl if you’re gonna have to put up with his shit?”

I leaned back. “Wow. That is actually sound logic. Good for you.” I chuckled and patted him on the back. It was a joke, but his words resonated and had my mind racing again.

“Thanks, dick.” His stare was still serious. “I know we joke a lot.” We both grinned. “But for real. Fuck. I hadn’t seen you that happy in, well, since we’ve known each other. Not trying to get all fucking gushy on you. Nikki definitely put me up to this and I thought I’d seal the deal easy with that article, and then we’d just pound some ice colds.”

“Here y’are, Easton.” Patrick set the big frosted mug of beer in front of me.

“Thanks, Pat.” I took a sip and licked the foam from my top lip as the strong hops wafted across my nose. “I mean, you know I want to be with her.” I nodded to the phone. “I ignored her. Hurt her more. During the biggest moment of her career. Beat up her ex who happens to be our new pitcher. She hesitated when I asked if she had feelings for him—”

“Those were nerves and you know it. You’re kind of an intimidating motherfucker when you’ve just throttled some guy’s face, you know?” Braden sat up straight and shook his head. “No, man. That’s a bunch of bullshit. Since when are you the type to make excuses? You’d never do that on the ballfield. Why is it okay to do it now?”

I saw a vein starting to bulge in his neck and his jaw clenched.

“What if she rejects me?” Hearing those words as they came out of my mouth, all I thought was one thing.
You’re lying to yourself.

Braden shook his head again. “You read what she wrote. She put herself out there for you. You know what? I’m not thirsty anymore.” He shoved his beer across the bar and stood up. I watched the beer slosh back and forth in the glass, foaming up at the top. “These are on you, bitch.” He scowled, then turned and left, shoving the door open on his way out.

I whipped out my wallet and threw down my card before yanking my cell phone from my pocket. My thumbs flew over the screen as I sent a text to Kyrie.

If you still love me the way I love you, be at the game tomorrow night.

Patrick ran my card and handed it back. I sprinted through the door and out to the parking lot. The sun was blinding from how dark it had been in the pub.

I scanned the lot and saw Braden’s Mercedes backing out. Sprinting up to the car, I beat on his window and he jumped and threw a hand up in defense.

The window lowered slowly. “Jesus fucking Christ, you animal!”

“I sent her a text. Let’s do this shit!”

He threw the door open and I barely dodged it. His chest was heaving up and down with each breath, his teeth grinding, jaw tight. Braden stepped from the car and his lips were mashed into a thin line, then they slowly turned up to a grin.

“Was it my dramatic exit? Nailed it!” He laughed.

I picked him up in a huge bear hug and squeezed the oxygen from his lungs, then started dry humping him up against the car. “You like that shit?”

“Oh yeah, give it to me, daddy!”

Our laughter echoed through the parking lot when a lady walked by with a stroller, gawking at us. We both stood to attention.

“Good afternoon, ma’am.” Braden’s cheeks were puffed out, a laugh waiting to explode from them.

She kept walking, shaking her head and mumbling.

“So what’d you do?” He bounced around on the balls of his feet like a fighter about to enter the ring.

“Sent a text, saying I loved her and for her to come to the game tomorrow.” I grinned at his excitement.

“Nice!”

“Just hope she takes me back.”

He smacked me playfully across the cheek and pointed a finger in my face. “Easton Holliday doesn’t take no for an answer. Don’t be a whore.”

I was a hot fucking mess the entire day, ever since I woke up. It was torture not to text Kyrie, but everything I needed to say was better said face to face.

Don’t fuck this up, Easton.

Hopping in my truck, I sped off toward the field. When I arrived, Richards was getting out of the car in front of me.
Fuck.

He shot me a glare and I saw the dark shadows around his eyes. It made me smile for a moment, and then everything came rushing back—my anger at him, the look on her face when I asked her if she had feelings for him. It would take a while to get past, but I’d decided Kyrie was worth it.

I waited for Richards to disappear before getting out of the truck. Braden whipped into another spot.
Thank God.

He’d help keep me focused if Sean decided to run off at the mouth. We strode toward the clubhouse. Braden looked down at his phone and then glanced up to me and smiled.

“Text from Nik. She’s not for certain, but she thinks she’s convinced Kyrie to come.” He nudged me with his arm.

I tried to play it off. “Oh yeah?”

“Mmhmm.” He pushed open the door and I followed behind.

I still couldn’t believe Coach hadn’t called me in to discuss—well, rip me a new asshole over—fighting with Sean. The prick was nowhere to be seen as we stripped down and started to get ready for the game.

Braden had a foot on the bench, strapping his shin guards on. “I know it doesn’t help things, but Richards is starting tonight. Just wanted to get that out of the way.”

“The fuck? Why?” I tied one of my cleats.

“Graves is hurt. Tendonitis. Coach is moving him up in the rotation.”

Fuck!
I should’ve been concerned for Graves, but all I could think about was Kyrie having to watch that motherfucker on the mound all night. He was good too, which made things worse. He usually lasted well past the seventh inning.

What if he runs her off? It’ll ruin everything.

Braden must have sensed me warring with myself in my mind. “Hey, snap out of it, bitch. You come in and win the game, and then go win the girl.”

“Fuckin’ A.” I grabbed a ball from my locker.

“I wonder why Coach hasn’t said shit about the fight?”

Braden looked away. “I don’t know, man. Maybe Richards has steered clear. Not hard for you pitchers to do. Fuckers don’t have to play every day.” He turned back with a toothy grin. “I’ll see you out there.” He smiled and ran off, his spikes clacking on the concrete once he reached the hall leading to the dugout.

I threw on the rest of my gear and grabbed my bag, then headed out for the bullpen. When I walked past Coach’s office, the door was cracked and I heard him talking. “Son, what the fuck happened to your face?”

Richards was in there? Fucking great.

“Nothing, Coach. Took a spill while I was biking.”

I leaned in closer to the door.
Why would he lie?

“Goddammit, son! Biking? What in the fuck were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t. I’m sorry.”

“Nothing we can do about it now. Get the fuck out of here and stay off the goddamn bike until the season’s over.”

“Yes sir.”

Shit.

I started down the hall when Richards came through the door. His stare was like fire in the back of my skull.

“Holliday.” His word echoed off the walls.

Be fucking cool. Do not ruin your career, Easton.

I turned and walked back toward him, until we were a few feet apart. “Yeah?” I leered at him.

“I don’t like you.” He smirked and I wanted to smack it off his goddamn face. “But we have a job to do. I made up an excuse to Coach.”

I set my bag down. “I heard.”

“Tell Braden I took care of it and to stay the fuck away from me unless it’s baseball related.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I lifted my cap and pushed my hair back from my brow before sliding it back down on my head.

“Right. Like you didn’t send him to talk to me?” His foot tapped on the ground.

“No.”

He smiled this time. “That little fucker.”

I grinned a little, now curious to what that sly bastard pulled. “What’d he say?”

“That I needed to stay the fuck away from Kyrie and make up a story for Coach. For the team and for my health.”

I shook my head. “I didn’t put him up to that.”

“He’s a devious little prick. And, for the record, his threats didn’t do shit for me. All the same, I came here to play, not feud with another pitcher.” He looked up at the ceiling and then back to me. “Let’s just keep our distance and do our jobs. Deal?” He held out a hand.