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Winter gives you the time to rest and restore so you can bloom in the spring.
The baseball team is practicing outside today. They’re more rambunctious than usual, laughter and smiles passing around the group of men.
With my camera in hand, I record the action from various angles, honing in on our star players. I capture Noah diving for ground balls at shortstop and Cuddy catching balls in the outfield.
Once I get to Ryker, I find myself in a trance as he whips precise balls over to first base from his spot on third. His forearms tighten, his shoulder muscles bunching at each throw.
His whole persona draws me in, and trust me, it’s not just the tattoos and muscles. Although, they are insanely sexy. It’s the way he stands confidently yet casually at the same time, like he knows who he is, yet isn’t trying to prove it to anyone.
I’m now sitting on the fence, my legs dangling above the red dirt as I look through footage from today while the boys wrap up practice. Today’s content has already been posted—a video of “This or That” with the fan favorite, Cuddy.
Noah has the sweet boy next door charm, while Cuddy is all about the camera. Ryker would rather have no part in it at all, yet fans love the grumpy baseball player, but not quite as much as Cuddy.
My mind is whirling with ideas when my eyes catch on the bin of spare gloves. With a delighted hum, I hop down from the fence and pocket my phone in my crossbody bag. Then I dig out a glove that would fit me.
I’ve always wished I could’ve played professionally, but I never learned how. It wasn’t allowed. Our head of security, Idris, who was more like a father to me than my own, offered to teach me, but trying to find the time to sneak away was nearly impossible, so it never happened.
Just as I find a black glove that fits perfectly, a deep voice startles me, forcing me to turn around.
“What are you doing?” Ryker asks, his arms folded across his chest, his own glove on his hand.
“Doing a quality check on the gloves, you know, making sure everything’s a-okay.” I wink, but internally, I want to cringe.
His eyebrows rise in curiosity as he stares at me down the brim of his RLU green-and-white baseball cap. “And did they pass inspection?”
I salute him. “With flying colors. Everything is A-plus okay, more than plain old a-okay,”
Why did I salute him?
“What were you really doing?” he prods.
I huff and swing my braid over my shoulder, fiddling with the end of it. “Don’t laugh, but I wanted to try it on, maybe throw a ball or two up in the air. I’ve never done it before, and I’ve always wanted to try.”
Ryker’s fingers wrap around my own on my braid, stilling my nervous fidgeting. “I can teach you.”
My eyes widen and my breath stops short as I take him in, the one responsible for my most severe case of whiplash.
“You’d do that?” I deadpan.
“I might be an asshole, but not enough to let you do it alone and hurt yourself,” he gruffs, letting his hand fall away from my hair.
“Ah oui, let’s go now.” I tug on his arm, pulling him toward the field that’s now empty since the boys have already left to shower, I guess.
“First thing, you need to show me how you plan to catch a ball.” He gestures toward my glove, and I hold it up excitedly.
I put my hand inside the worn leather and do my best not to think about the various sweaty hands that have been in here before. “Open.” I show him, then close my thumb and fingers together, “Closed.”
“Good, now I’m going to show you how to throw a ball,” he tells me, taking his glove off and placing it on the artificial grass. I do the same with my crossbody bag.
Anticipation rolls through me, wondering exactly how he plans to do that.
Ryker steps in my space, his dark blue eyes looking down at me. “I’m going to have to touch you. Is that okay?”
“Yes.” I lick my lips without thinking, and his eyes darken in response.
“Turn around,” he orders.
My body listens and I turn my back to him. A chill runs down my spine at his proximity. Ryker nudges his leg between mine, pushing my left leg out until my feet are shoulder width apart.
