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She continues to work. “No.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.” She gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze, yet to look and realize I’m only inches away from her and wanting her attention. “Can I ask a favor?”
“I already married you once, Kennedy. What else do you want from me?”
Her lip twitches in a grin. Her, more than anyone else, I like making smile when I can. Especially after what she told me last night. No one ever hugged her? Well, I’d bet that no one made her laugh much either.
“Can you try not to get in a fight with Dean today?”
“No promises on that.”
“I’m just saying, if you hurt each other, I’d have to pick sides and Reese might find it odd when I run over to my brother instead of you.”
She finally meets my eye, and her sharp inhale only confirms that she had no idea how close we’re standing right now.
Kennedy’s hands stop moving, but they don’t drop from my shoulder. She also doesn’t move from between my legs.
With my palm resting on my knee, I ever so slyly reach out to dust my fingertips against the back of her thigh before curling them in. My silent way of telling her I like exactly where she’s standing.
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch.
Freckled skin. Pouty lips. My eyes immediately drop to them, and I find myself licking my own.
I want to know what those lips taste like, what her mouth would feel like against mine. I’ve wondered for years. And the idea that I may have already kissed this girl, but was too drunk to remember, kills me.
“Kenny,” I whisper.
Her gaze drops to my mouth, and she doesn’t move or shy away. That little victory feels like I won the lottery.
“Yeah?” It’s soft, kept only between us.
“It’s kind of fucked up that you’d pick your brother over your husband.”
“What can I say? We’ve got history.”
“Yeah, well we’ve got history too, Kennedy. You just haven’t been paying attention.”
I take a practice swing in the on-deck circle just before Cody earns his fourth ball, getting him to first on a walk.
It’s why he’s our lead-off hitter. He knows how to get himself on base, whether that be through a walk or a hit.
Then comes me, second in the lineup. Last year, I finished with the most home runs on the team, but the second most RBIs. That’s because Travis is our power hitter. He cleans up in the fourth spot. If I’m at bat and don’t bring myself home, I make sure I’m out there on a bag so he can.
I miss the cheers from the home crowd when we’re on the road. I miss my walk-out song. I miss the comfort of being in our own clubhouse, but I fucking love to score on someone else’s field.
I catch Kai in the bullpen, elbows on his knees as he watches me intently. Lucky bastard only has to work once every five games and gets to sit on his ass for the other four. The guy has always been my biggest fan though, and half the reason I’m the hitter I am today.
Your swing develops real quick when you spend your entire childhood practicing against Kai Rhodes. He is still, to this day, the best pitcher I’ve gone up against.
I’m booed on my way up to bat and it only makes me smile. Flattering if you ask me, that I’ve scored so much in this stadium that Atlanta’s fanbase remembers me.
My cleats dig into the dirt, my center swaying in rhythm as Atlanta’s pitcher shakes off his catcher’s call. He accepts the second one, standing straight with his hand on the ball in his glove. He quickly checks on Cody at first before sending a fastball a little high and inside the plate.
That’s a ball, I think to myself as I let it sail past me.
“Ball,” the umpire calls.
