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“Maybe it’s time you start dating again.”
“What?”
Carter knows the gruesome details of how my last relationship ended—something he’s worked diligently to keep out of the press. My agent has been so successful that none of my new teammates even know about my previous engagement. Of course, I’d been deeply private about my relationship with Brielle even before it imploded.
“Being with someone makes you less of an unfeeling automaton. Not exactly passing as human, but close.”
He pauses for laughter that he’ll never get from me.
“More importantly, it would help your image to be seen with someone. You know, be social, interact with others, little things that prove you’re not a robot.”
Carter takes my grunt as encouragement.
“If you don’t want to have a real relationship, I can create one for you. There are loads of hopeful actresses who’d happily sign an NDA. It’s unconventional, but trust me, it’s worked for other clients of mine.”
I should have shut the idea down immediately.
No way. No how.
End of story.
Instead, I told my agent I’d think about it. Having someone to take to my brother Dustin’s wedding in a little over a month would definitely make the event less soul sucking. Both my dad and my oldest brother, Cody, keep harassing me about attending solo, as if being single is worse than getting sent to the penalty box in the final minute of a tied game.
But the real reason I said I’d consider Carter’s suggestion is because I could imagine a certain raven-haired woman finding that kind of subterfuge entertaining—fun, even.
I shake my head, dismissing the thought.
Even considering something like that is foaming-at-the-mouth bonkers. Maybe after this meeting, I should drop in to see Dr. Ramirez, our team doc, and get my head examined.
Buzzing conversations fall to a hush as Mike Ellison, the Waves’ new game-planning coach, dims the lights and sends a scouting report to the screen in front of us.
My hands grip my knees as fury flares in my chest. I keep waiting for this—for having to listen to the man Brielle cheated with and got pregnant with while we were engaged—to get easier, but it’s still a kick to the teeth.
“Today’s starter is Mendoza. Four-seam at ninety-six, cutter, splitter. He’ll pound the top of the zone early then bury the splitter once he gets two strikes.” He clicks to the next slide, showing a heatmap glowing red above the belt. “If it’s thigh-high or lower, let it travel. Don’t help him by chasing.”
Mike glances around the room until he finds Trevor Chapman, our catcher and one of the best hitters on the team. “Trevor, he’s going to challenge you inside.”
Trevor simply nods.
“Rhett, no first-pitch hero swings unless it’s middle-middle.”
My teammate holds up his hands. “I’ve changed. I swear.”
“Sure you have.”
Chuckles ripple through the room, but my jaw hardens when Mike’s gaze finds mine.
“Shane, they’ve figured you out.” He clicks to display my less-than-stellar at-bats from last night’s game.
A hush settles over the room. Rhett and Kai Sato had a tougher night at the plate yesterday, but Mike is singling me out—again. Ever since he’s taken this position, he can’t help but point out every mistake I make.
I stare at the screen, expression unchanged.
“They know you won’t swing until you’ve seen a strike. They’re stealing strike one every at-bat.”
“I’ll adjust,” I grit out.
“Why haven’t you already? We played the Admirals at camp, and it was the same story then.”
