Page 86 of The Sweet Spot

“Eh, it’s not that bad,” I say as I drag my thumb across her palm, feeling her soft skin. “Angel, the umpire is a romantic, so he gave me the bare minimum punishment. I could’ve been suspended or fined too.”

“I don’t think he had a choice. The fans would’ve rioted if you received a worse sentence.”

I snort, leaning my cheek against her hair. She’s not wrong. The fans were so pissed when they announced I was leaving the game, that they drowned out every call with boos after that. It didn’t matter if it was in our favor, or Seattle’s. They were pissed, and they sure let everyone know.

They were angrier than me.

No regrets.

Especially because it gave me the chance to sneak out here and watch the rest of the game with Whit.

Did I have to wear a Seattle hat and a fake moustache? Yeah, but it was still better than Max’s first suggestion: the new Catfish mascot costume. Not only would that have been ridiculous, but the thing hasn’t even been debuted yet. The attention it would’ve attracted would’ve made it impossible to sit with my girl for as long as I have.

Long enough that we watched the Catfish win even though Grayson had to pitch to Kyle, and for Whit to devour three hot dogs during the seventh inning stretch.

Now it’s just us, the groundskeepers and the hiss of the hose as they water the grass.

Her hand is in mine, and neither one of us has made any attempt to move, because that would mean the night is ending.

“Ninety-five days,” she says quietly.

“What?”

“Before you got kicked out of the game, I counted.” She tilts her face up so she can look at me. “Ninety-five days until our schedules line up and I can stop doing this through a phone.”

“Ninety-five days.” I test the words. It sounds like nothing but feels like forever. Not that I’d tell her that.

“We can do ninety-five days.” I start to think it though. “We’ve done six weeks already, and if the end goal if you in my apartment, filling my kitchen with hot dogs, then it’ll be worth it.”

She laughs, swatting my in the lightly. The hit must do something to my brain because I suddenly blurt, “I think I’m falling in love with you, Whit.”

Fuck. Shit. Fuck.

I’ve been thinking it for weeks. Every time I missed her on the road, it felt like someone had ripped my heart out, let it dry out in the sun and then gave it back to me.

She hasn’t said anything yet. In fact, she goes still by my side.

I can’t let it fester.

“And — okay. That might be too much. That's probably too much, too soon. We've spent approximately a combined six days in the same room. I'm not trying to freak you out, I just—”

“JB.” Her hand lands on my thigh, but it doesn’t stop the need to get this out.

“—the words were right there, and I have famously poor impulse control, you watched me climb a wall tonight—”

“JB.” She lifts her head and moves her hand to my cheek now. I finally look at her. “I think it was probably too much, too soon, when you asked me to move in with you this morning, and showed me the space you made for me in your closet.”

My stomach drops.

I fucked it all up.

The only woman I’ve ever wanted in my space for longer than a night is looking at me like I have penguin knees.

“But I like your enthusiasm,” she says.

Oh.

Oh.