Hitting to Win (Over the Fence #2) (10 page)

S
itting in the car
, I feel dejected. Again.

I’d just left the swanky pet grooming store near Grover’s campus, and I knew by the look in the owner’s eyes that I was definitely not getting the job. I didn’t have anything besides a bunch of baseball awards on my résumé. Who the hell would hire me?

I rested my head against the back of the seat in my truck, thankful that it had been paid off and my father couldn't care less about this car. Over the past month, it was like a hurricane had waged wreckage through my life, and then ran back over it again.

But it was weird, I’d felt better than I had in years.

I’d started at the obvious place…by telling my father to fuck off. I would rather rake hot fucking coals all over my body than work for him. I’d started rationally in the conversation, trying to explain to him my dream of becoming the best hitter major league baseball had ever seen. He hadn’t taken it well.

In his usual brusque manner, he’d railroaded me, dismissing my dreams as a “child’s silly fantasy.” I’d lost it then. I told him I was done, I wasn’t working for the family business, and he could do with that information what he wanted. The last words I had ever heard from my father, because I really didn’t plan on ever talking to him again, were, “Your brother was a greater man than you’ll ever be.”

I agreed whole-heartedly. But I was going to live the rest of my life trying as hard as I fucking could to be as close to my brother’s greatness as I could.

The second thing I’d done was go to coach. We hadn't been especially close up to this point, with my aversion to authority and all that. But I'd gone in, tucked my tail between my legs, and told him the entire sordid story. If there was anyone who had the heart to help me out and steer me on a straight path, it was him. A former Army vet who'd come home and gotten into teaching, and then coaching, Coach Larry Kent was a hardass with a mushy center. He'd hand you your ass out on the field and then drive you home and make sure you locked the door before he left. He was a genuinely good guy. And I needed that kind of figure in my life right now.

After I'd spit out the entire story to him, getting teary on the parts about Jay, he'd gotten up, slapped me on the back, and said, "Son, thank you for coming in. I am going to do everything in my power to keep you here, at this school and on this team."

So that took care of tuition and my spot on the team. Hopefully. Coach still needed to come through with it, but I wasn't too worried about that. I knew we had scholarship kids on the team, and there was no way Grover was letting its best hitter walk off the field.

After him, my next stop was the Kappa house. I walked in, told anyone within earshot that I was quitting the frat, and walked the fuck out. Brett Mullins, the Kappa president, came bounding down the steps like a little bitch, screaming about how making me do the dance competition was only a joke, that they loved having me as a brother. I kept walking, got in my car, and drove away without another glance. Good riddance. Those fuckers were making my life toxic. I'd actually gone home after that and apologized to my real friends, the guys in the house. They all fist-bumped me and told me they were glad I was done being Satan's bro.

But it was the last task that was proving hard. I needed to get a job, start up a savings account for myself. The scholarship would cover tuition, but I needed money to live. To buy new uniforms and equipment, put gas in my car. And I needed a nest egg just in case my pipe dream of making it to the big leagues didn't work out.

I'd gone to the bank and set up accounts in my name, something I'd never actually done. I realized then that I hadn't done a lot of stuff for myself growing up, and that I had no idea how to do it now. Like making meals, paying bills, being responsible in general. Now that I looked at it, who was really the spoiled one?

And that just made me think of Chloe. I hit the steering wheel with my fist, causing the horn to jump. I hadn't really talked to Chloe since the night she threw me off the Zeta porch. Sure, we'd danced, but I knew that I couldn't truly apologize to her until I had something to back it up with.

I had promised myself that I'd change, and then I'd go after her. I'd spent too long being an immature piece-of-shit, ignoring the perfect creature that had been right in front of me all along. I wasn't going to be that stupid anymore.

But first, I had to get a job. I'd been into four places in the past two weeks, and hadn't gotten a single call back from any of them. I still had the money I'd siphoned out of the account my father had set up for me, but that was only going to last me until next semester.

Pulling out of the plaza where the groomers’ was located, I head over to Campus Center. It was the final night of Dancing with the Greeks, the night we'd been working towards since that first horrible rehearsal. I chuckle looking back at how nasty I was. Jesus, I was a fucking dick.

I pull into the parking lot, which is already filling with eager spectators, and run into the building. We have about an hour warm up, an hour for getting into costume, and then we go on. We're up last tonight, since we've pulled the highest overall score throughout the season. As I hurry towards our dressing room, my stomach tightens into knots. Its been doing that every time I'm about to see Chloe for the last month.

I haven't told her all of the changes that have been going on. Part of me is nervous she'll try to involve herself, and I don't want her in my life until it’s fully set. Another part of me dreads what she'll say, that she'll smile politely and tell me its great, even though I'll see the doubt in her eyes. Mostly, she just makes me downright nervous and anxious like I have some middle school crush on her. Fuck, I'm a pansy.

I whip through the door, and there she is, sitting at her little makeup station, covering her face in some white goo. I actually hate when she puts that heavy stuff on her face. She's so naturally beautiful, like the stars have kissed her face and left their magic there. I want to tell her to wipe it all off.

"Um...hi." And that's when I realize I've been staring at her for a few seconds, maybe minutes too long.

"Hi. How you feeling?" I smile at her, a genuine, true smile. I'm not nervous for tonight, but I know she might be. We are doing a waltz, which is simple enough. But I notice that whenever we do a dance that calls for me holding Chloe in my arms almost the entire time, she freaks a little. I notice the way her breathing shifts when I press into her, manipulating her body with my hands and arms. I feel her nipples stiffen on my chest, the way her face flushes a beautiful pink. It takes everything in me not to pin her up against the studio wall.

"I'll be fine." She turns back to her makeup chest, rooting around in there.

We're dancing the Ländler, the Austrian Waltz made famous in "The Sound of Music." It was Chloe's one request, a last hoorah dedicated to her favorite movie. I would never tell her no.

After we stretch out together and practice a few moves, we split up to don our last outfits of the competition. I brush my palms over the navy blue Captain's uniform, admiring how Von Trapp I am. I would definitely beat the crap out of some Nazi assholes.

When I get back to our joint dressing room, I stop short, almost tripping over my feet in the doorway.

The light blue dress runs over her entire body, the delicate lace sleeves running down to her wrists. The material poofs out at her hips, creating an effect that makes her already slim torso look incredibly tiny. Black curls of silk are piled on top of her head, a headband made of pearls holding the entire thing up.

She doesn't look like Fraulein Maria. She looks like a real-life Disney princess.

My heart must be lying on the floor somewhere, because I can't feel it beating. I want to speak, but somehow my voice has failed me. Finally, I choke out a word. "Wow."

Chloe turns, unaware before now that I've been in the room. She gives a shy smile, and aims her eyes to the floor. "Thanks."

I stand there, just staring at her. I can't do anything else.

"Oh, listen. Um, Owen asked me to talk to my papa about a possible job at my family's restaurant over winter break. Well, I asked him, and he said he'd be happy to hire any friend of mine on."

I don't really register what she's saying at first because I'm too busy committing this image of her to my memory. But then the word "job" breaks the surface and I tune in.

"Wait..what? Owen told you I needed a job?"

"Yes, he said you were in need of some money..."

Fucking Owen. Why did he have to go around trying to be helpful and shit. "I do, but Chloe I don't need a job from you." I back pedal fast when her face falls. "Not because I wouldn't love working for your family, or because I'm above it. It’s the nicest offer anyone's ever made me. But I can't put you in that position. You wouldn't want me there."

She looks inquisitive. "Not necessarily, no. But if you need help, I'm never going to be the kind of person who doesn't offer it. So the offer stands, if you want the job, its yours."

Brooke comes in and interrupts us. "We need you out on the floor now. Its showtime!" She flashes her too-white smile exclusively at me.

Chloe walks across the room without another word, silently signaling for me to follow her. A million thoughts race through my head. Why would she do this for me? I have a job? I'll be working with Chloe and her family for two months?

We sit supportively in the audience as the other couple performs their final dance, a fiery-hot salsa. They're good, but we're classic. I'm glad Chloe saved this dance for last. It’s the kind of dance that makes little girls fall in love, that makes every cool dude want to be the prince.

Finally Brooke announces us, and I grab Chloe's hand and parade her out onto the floor. I see Owen and Minka, front-row center, and I think I see Minka even tearing up already. Like I said, girls go ga-ga over this shit.

We line up next to each other, our eyes connecting and holding. When the music starts, we trot across the floor hand-in-hand. Then I spin her into my arms, the entire time our eyes never leaving one and others.

As we spin across the floor, I hold her eyes, searching them for any ounce of emotion or feeling. I'm trying my hardest to pour everything I feel for her into her open depths, to show her just how much I love her. And it hits me, square in the chest as I twirl her in my arms in front of hundreds of people.

I love her. I love Chloe.

It didn't happen fast, or all at once. Or even slow and steady. Gradually, over the process of this goddamn stupid competition, I'd fallen in love with this sweet, caring, amazing woman. This woman who had never once given up on me. Who, even now, after all of things I'd done to her, was still trying to help me.

The song ended and we stopped moving, frozen in our embrace, her head dipped back so that the pile of curls was almost skimming the floor. Her collarbone was exposed, her face in a wondrous smile. She was so beautiful.

The applause came, thunderously, and then Brooke was dragging the other couple to stand next to us. A drumroll started in the speakers.

"And the winner of this season's Dancing with the Greeks, the winners who will take home the Mount Olympus trophy, are.........CHLOE TRABUCCO AND MILES FARRISTON!"

A deafening roar came up from the audience, and I grabbed Chloe by the waist, hoisting her above me head, shouting and smiling. Chloe was starstruck, her face in a permanent dazed smile, her laughs coming out in disbelief. I lowered her slowly so she could find her footing, as the crowd poured onto the dance floor, everyone trying to talk to us. I kept her gaze as she traveled down my body, coming to stand on her feet in front of me. My body was pressed to her's, my arms wrapped around her to protect her from the mosh pit forming.

Our eyes are still locked onto each other, the space between us crackling with lust. I could just bend my head down, press my lips to her's. But I don't want to, not here. Without a word, I pull her hand and drag her through the crowd, back toward our dressing room. When we get there, she breaks into a fit of giggles.

"Ugh, thank you for getting me out of there, I thought I was going to get trampled."

Chloe's busy taking the bracelets off her arm when I join her from where I stand in the doorway, slamming the door hard behind me.

"What the..." I cut her off, moving swiftly to stand in front of her, grabbing her waist and pulling her flush against me. After a beat, I lower my head, her eyes going wide.

When I touch my lips to hers, just a brush, just the top of my skin to the top of hers. An electric current rolls through my body, all the way to the balls of my feet. I want to devour her, take her pleasure and make her mine. I grab her, kneading the tight flesh of her hips through her dress. She feels amazing, her lips moving in time with mine. I love her, I love her, I love her. The thought keeps flashing through my head, like the stocks on one of the ticker symbols in the business building. I’m trying to pour all of the love I have in my body into hers.

“No, Miles. Stop.” She pushes me back, her small hand flat against my abs. They constrict under her fingers, aching to feel her skin against mine. “We can’t do this. I meant what I said, this is over between us.”

Panic seizes me, infects my blood so that I feel like I might pass out and throw up at the same time. She doesn’t want me anymore. I fucked up my chances. For years I ignored her, and just when I realize what a fool I’ve been, she’s over trying to make something happen between us.

I want to plead, beg with her to reconsider. But I won’t. I’ve already put Chloe through more than enough of my shit. And Minka’s been right all along. She deserves better than me.

“Yeah, okay. I’m…sorry. Maybe I’ll see you over Thanksgiving?” I knew she’d be home, and I was staying with Owen.

She twists at her fingers and slowly backs towards the door. “Yeah, maybe.” And then she’s gone.

T
he crackling of the oil
, the smell of fried dough in the air. I can see the white, red and green sprinkles already poured into a bowl. It can only mean one thing.

Mama is making Christmas struffoli.

I glide into the kitchen, never letting my feet drag on the floor. I once had a ballet teacher who said the worst thing any human could do is shuffle their feet. I've lived in fear of that woman ever since. So, even though it's six in the morning, I point my toes each time they leave the ground.

I can practically taste the frying dough in the air, my stomach so barren and empty from the last few days of starving through the semester. We'd had our winter showcase, and a bunch of high-powered agents and ballet industry folks were in the audience. Even though, as a freshman, I'd only really danced in the chorus line, I'd strived to look my best, dance my best. I hoped it had showed.

"My Bella, why are you up so early?" Mama stands in front of the stove, her apron tied over her silk pajamas. Her Sicilian accent is all but gone, but around Christmas time I hear the inflection more than ever. I think it's because, around this time, she misses home so terribly.

"Couldn't sleep. Not when I can smell heaven from my bedroom." I move to sit on a leather and wrought iron stool at the enormous island mama currently has the prepped dough set up on. Our house is like a huge Tuscan villa set down right smack in the middle of suburban North Carolina. I know that some people in the area find my parents so "new money," but honestly Anthony and Isabella Trabucco couldn't care less. They came from nothing, and when they had the opportunity to finally give their children everything they never had, they went for it. In a big way.

I love my parents unconditionally, everything they've done is for me, my brother and my sister. I couldn't care less what other people thought as well. It’s where I got my positive outlook on life, the two of them. Growing up in as poor as anyone could in the south of Italy, my parents fell in love in the back of a kitchen, and had honestly never left. They married six months after meeting, and took off for the United States to try their hand at the restaurant business. It had taken them more than a few years, but they'd finally struck gold with Lucca's, their upscale Italian restaurant in the heart of Mitchum. From there, they'd expanded, planting Lucca's roots in three other Carolina cities. They loved what they did, they loved each other, and they loved us. I'd had an amazing childhood, and I knew how rare that was.

I reach across the counter and pop a freshly fried ball in my mouth. I gasp as the exquisite sweetness hits my tongue, sending me into a sugar coma.

"Hey!" Mama swats at me with her spatula, but smiles. "Those are supposed to be for later!"

"Mama, it's still a week and a half before Christmas. You'll make this at least four more times." I smile goofily, loving our Christmas traditions. And mama's tradition of generally overfeeding all of us until we burst.

"Yes, yes. How's my oldest child? Are you happy with how the first semester went?" We'd talked since I'd gotten home two days ago, but only briefly. This is why I got up early. I savored these quiet moments alone with my mama.

"It went well. I learned so much mama, you wouldn't believe the amazing things these new teachers have to show us. And I finally did a pas de deux dance at the end of the semester. I didn't even flinch!" My mom knew about my fear of dancing with a partner. I don't know where it came from, but since I could remember I'd had this irrational fear of it.

"I'm glad, Bella. And you won the Greek competition, your papa and I were so proud when we heard!" It had been a little upsetting that her parents hadn't made it up for any of the competition, but she knew they worked like dogs, giving their lives to the restaurant all hours of the day.

"That's okay, I know you were busy. It was good though, to dance a different way. It almost made me re-commit myself to ballet after it was over."

After the competition, I'd immersed myself in my ballet. I'd been in the studio eight hours a day sometimes between classes and personal work. My feet bled, my joints ached, but I continued on. I wanted that summer intensive so much, I could taste it like a little struffoli ball.

"And that dance partner of yours, the boy from home, huh?" Mama doesn't look up from where she has her back turned to me, but I see her do the nod. The nod she does when she's trying to bring something up without bringing it up.

When I don't answer, she tries again. "He called papa to see if the job offer was still on the table. Papa told him he could start tomorrow, on your shift."

She turns, pinning with her typical "curious mother" look. I cast my eyes down to my fingers, which I'm now pulling on. She knows something's happened, I can feel it in her laser stare focused on the top of my head.

"Chloe, what's going on with that boy?" She doesn't ask it in a judgmental parent way, but in a, "You better tell me before I drag it out of you,” way. I don't want to involve her, don't want her thinking any less of Miles or giving him the stink-eye while he's on the job. But if I don't let loose, she will bug me for the next month I'm home.

"Something did happen, but its over now."

She tilts her head, and turns back around to poke at the dough balls frying in the oily pan. "It's not over. I can see it all over your face it's not over."

I sigh. The way she knows me is freaky. Its like she has my internal thermometer, she can read every single thing I'm feeling. And it's amazing how, just like that, I feel like a little girl, seeking my mother's comfort. Instead of an adult, college student. "It is, mama. We can't...he's not good for me. Or I'm not for him, right now."

"It's not over, Bella. I'm your mother, I know you. You've loved that boy since you came up to my knee." She measures her hand, gesturing just how little I'd been.

I'd forgotten how I used to moon over Miles to her in my younger years. Before I learned you should try to keep all secrets from your parents. "But he doesn't feel the same, mama. I think he actually hates me a little."

She chuckles. "Do you know that I hated your father the first time I met him? I couldn't stand him. That suave, cocky way he'd saunter into the kitchen, smiling at the waitresses and wielding his knife around. I wanted to wring his neck."

My mouth hangs open in shock. “What? I never knew that?” My parents had always seemed as in love as horny teenagers. Always kissing and holding hands.

“Oh, yeah! I couldn’t stand the sight of him. And he wasn’t too keen on me either. But, something happens, and BAM! Everything changes. I think maybe you know what I’m talking about, Bella.”

She points her spatula at me, that all-knowing look in her eye.

“I don’t know, mama…”

“Then why did you agree to let him come work at Lucca’s?”

She had a point. “Because he’s in need, and I could never say no to someone who needed help. Even, and maybe especially, him.”

“Ah, always my sweet girl. You see the best in the world, and I love you for that. But sometimes you need the drama, the conflict!”

“Ah mama, I don’t want the drama and the arguing that comes with something with him.”

“But honey, that’s what makes life worth living. We don’t live in this perfect world where everyone is happy all of the time.”

Thundering steps down the kitchen stairs caught our attention. Piled at the bottom landing stood my papa, my 16-year-old brother Anthony and my 14-year-old sister Vanessa. All sleepy-eyed and stumbling. If I was my mother, Tony and Nessa were most definitely our father.

And okay, we had two staircases in our house. Three if you counted the basement. Maybe I was a bit spoiled. But come on, Miles was a Farriston. He had more money than a small, or even a medium-sized, country.

“Struffoli!” Tony snatches a handful of the little dough balls and throws them in his mouth before mama can hit him.

“Is there coffee, Isa?” Papa rubs the sleep from his eyes. He never was a morning person, mostly because he ran the restaurant until close every night. But now that I was home from school, he tried to get up for these family weekend mornings.

She hands him coffee while Nessa flops down, her head buried in her phone. She's at the age where you talk to your friends every second of every day, and your family is just boring as hell. I haven't been able to get through to her for months. We used to be joined at the hip.

Papa takes a sip of his coffee and sighs in satisfaction. "So, your friend starts at the restaurant tomorrow..."

Why are my parents intent on bringing Miles up? They've definitely had conversations about this. "Yep."

I don't feign interest, because if I do he'll keep at it. The truth is, I'm going to have butterflies for the next 36 hours, right up until I see Miles.

I haven't seen him since  that last night we danced. And he kissed me. Oh god, what a kiss that had been. It was a mind numbing, drool worthy kiss. But I'd made a promise to myself.

I didn't know what to think about us working together at Lucca's. I was there all the time, and from what it sounded like, Miles would be too. He needed as many shifts as my father could give him, or so I'd heard. We'd be together every night for almost a month. I don't know how I'm going to be able to ward off this new charming Miles I'd encountered the week before Thanksgiving.

"Are you still seeing this football boy?" Papa flips on the news, and I can see mama's ears perk up where she's assembling the struffoli on the island. In the corner, Tony's turned the already lit and decorated Christmas tree on, the lights twinkling in the dark family room.

"No, I called things off." After I'd gotten back from Thanksgiving, Steven asked me out again, and I turned him down. I hadn't been feeling it, and after our fourth date knew enough was enough. I wasn't the type to string someone along.

"Hmmm." Papa leaned back in his chair, rocking in the expensive leather glider. No one sat in that chair but him.

"Okay, since you already all snagged some anyway, come eat this struffoli wreath before its cold."

Everyone looked at each after mama's declaration, and then sprinted to the kitchen.