Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 24270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 121(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 121(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
As I search his cool blue eyes for an answer to all my own questions, I desperately want the answer to be . . . him and me.
But I only have a chance of getting that if I have the guts to ask a big question.
I gear up for it, working through options in my head. Want to meet on an off day during spring training?
But that sounds like too much too soon.
Want to do this again in six weeks?
And that feels like I’m planning too far ahead.
Chris Garnett isn’t known for that.
He’s the just for fun guy. He’s the guy who wants to get me in bed. Out of it—who knows?
But, hell, I like the man. More than I expected. More than I’m prepared to. And I wish I could be as fearless in romance as I am at the plate.
Maybe I can try though. Take a step toward him.
“So, what do you think about maybe playing pool sometime?” I ask, figuring I’ll use his words from that September game when he asked me to play.
“Holy shit. It’s Spencer and Garnett!”
I cringe.
I jerk my gaze away from Chris, and into the eyes of a big dude with a big booming voice and a thick Queens accent. He’s not alone. The guy’s got an entourage with him. Four other dudes, in baseball jerseys, a mix of Gothams and Union. The big dude points from Chris to me. “I thought you guys hated each other. Did you, like, make up?”
The back of my neck prickles. Shit. Did they see us conducting a kissing clinic a few minutes ago? That’s not exactly how I wanted to go public with my, ahem, change of heart about my rival.
The last thing I want is for the whole damn city to know I’ve got it bad for him, only for him to walk away.
My jaw ticks, and I try to summon up a PR perfect answer. But none comes.
Chris laughs easily, then fires up that smile, clapping me on the shoulder, bro-dude style. “We’re working on it. We’ve been debating how far the Knicks are going this year, but it seems we disagree on that.”
“But you guys are, like, hanging. That’s awesome. Putting the bad blood behind you,” another fan says.
Yeah, I’d say we did that.
In the studio.
On the couch.
Here in this booth.
Chris turns his smile to me, all laidback and casual, the guy who flirted with me incessantly throughout the season. The guy who just . . . flirts.
“We did. And now we’re friends,” he says.
My shoulders tense. Friends? But then I talk myself down. He’s not going to tell a fan what we are. But what the hell are we? “Yup, we’re friends,” I say, so I don’t come across as uncomfortable as I feel.
“Can we get a pic?”
And the last five minutes of my first real date with Chris Garnett turn into a selfie session with a bunch of guys from Queens. By all counts, this is good. I’ve wanted this since I was a kid. To play the game at the highest level, to have fans.
But all I want right now is to snag a minute alone with Chris.
Only as these guys take pic after pic, the minutes tick away.
And it’s time for me to settle the tab. I say goodbye to the fans, head to the bar, pay the bill, and meet Chris on the street.
A glance at his watch tells me this stolen moment is over.
“So,” he says, tucking his thumbs into his jeans pockets. “I guess when they tag us on Twitter and Insta, everyone will know we cleared the air.”
“Our teams will be so proud.”
“Yeah, they’ll be stoked we don’t hate each other anymore.”
“We’ll be like Jeter and A-Rod. Buds,” I say.
Now it’s his turn to frown.
Then he seems to erase it, nods, and says, “Yeah, we’re friends.”
Chris grabs his phone. “Then, since we’re friends, you should give me your number,” he says.
As I give him mine, I take out my phone and save his name and number when he sends me a text.
I write back with looking forward to seeing you on third base.
When it lands on his phone, he raises an eyebrow before tapping something on the screen.
I wait, but a text doesn’t appear.
“Just making a quick update to your contact display name,” Chris says. “Friend.”
That’s not what I wanted to be with Chris Garnett. But maybe it’s a start. For now, though, it’s time for him to take off, and for me to let him. “See you around,” I say.
He claps me on the back, a ballplayer bro hug, and no one in this whole city could be the wiser that an hour ago my hands were in his hair, his lips were crushed to mine, and his kisses made me want all the things with him.