Page 36 of I Wish He Would

“Your guess is as good as mine.” I shake my head. Most of my teammates aren’t much younger than me, but I still have no idea what they’re saying. Maybe nasty means impressive in their new generational slang? Or I could just stink.

The rest of the team pinches their noses as I walk past and waves their hands in front of them. A few of the guys are shaking their butts as they do it. I grab my sweat towel hanging over my shoulder and throw it at Dawson as I pass him.

“Gross.” He lets it fall to the floor with a grimace.

“You’re the one who said I was nasty.”

Dawson shakes his head. “Hayden did. I just agreed.”

“Semantics.” We step into our state-of-the-art locker room that was refinished right before I got here. It’s definitely a step up from what I had in the minors. We each have our own locker space—it’s really more of a mini-closet—crafted out of wood with a metal rod for hanging our uniforms and cubbies for storing our personal effects during the game. Our names and jersey numbers hang on metal plaques above each one.

Austin Bradford #13

I smile, remembering how excited Alyssa was when I told her my number was the same as Taylor Swift’s favorite number. It’s always been my lucky number ever since I wore it on my jersey in T-ball, but I appreciate it even more now that it makes Alyssa happy.

I throw my dirty uniform in the hamper that reeks more than a middle school boy’s locker room after gym class—and they called me nasty—before grabbing a quick shower. I’m not sure what shampoo and conditioner they stock for us, but it leaves my hair softer than any brand I’ve ever bought for myself. I guess that’s what you get in the majors—large lockers and fancy hair products.

I throw on a clean pair of underwear, black shorts, and a light-gray muscle tee before returning to my locker. I add a few swipes of deodorant and a spritz of cologne, sit in the leather chair the team provides for each player, and pull on a pair of socks and my tennis shoes before throwing everything I need to take home in my duffel. I grab my phone and call out to the guys, “See you guys tomorrow.”

“Have fun out there.” Hayden wiggles his brows.

I step into the tunnel, where loved ones wait to see us after each game, right as Fletch starts to mime something not worth repeating. I roll my eyes and pull the door shut behind me.

I smile when I find Alyssa in her usual spot. I love how she always shows up to games in her usual style, but she never fails to wear something white with a maroon silk scarf in her hair to match the Mustangs colors.

When I reach her, she wraps her arms around my neck and squeezes. “You were amazing out there.”

I hug her to me, loving the feel of her in my arms. “Thanks, I had a lucky game.”

She pulls back to look up at me, her blue eyes sparkling. “No, it’s talent.”

“Lots of practice,” I counter.

She playfully swats my arm. “We could do this all day.”

I smile at her. “Bring it on.”

She looks away for a fraction of a second, but it’s enough for me to notice the playfulness fade from her eyes.

“What’s wrong?” I rub a hand along her arm.

Alyssa looks at everyone around us celebrating as their player comes out of the locker room and shakes her head. Her long blonde waves flow with the movement. “It’s nothing.”

I place my hand on her lower back, feeling protective as I lead her down the tunnel toward the parking lot. The more I’ve thought about things since my chat with the guys, the more I’ve realized how big of an idiot I was. How blinded I was by my career ambition that I didn’t see the perfect thing right in front of me. Her.

It’s warm when we step outside, but at least the humidity has calmed down since the sun has set. We reach my Ford Escape in my assigned parking spot, and I lean against it and look at Alyssa. She won’t meet my gaze. “Come on, Lyssa. Talk to me.”

“I don’t want to ruin your night.” She kicks a rock by her shoe and stares at the pavement.

I gently grab her chin and tilt her head until our eyes meet. “It will only be ruined if I’m up all night worrying about you.” I sigh dramatically and drop my hand. “My brain is going to come up with the worst-case scenarios.”

Alyssa shoots me a look. “We should be talking about your game-winning hit.”

I shove my hands in my pockets to keep from reaching out to her. “I don’t care about that right now.” I just care about you. “Just talk to me about whatever it is like it’s one of your terrible date stories.”

“You’re not far off,” she mutters.

“Trouble in paradise with Rhett?” I try to keep my voice even.