Page 3 of Love Beyond the Diamond

He shakes his head, some of his longish hair bouncing off his temples. “It’s sweet. Like you just had a bowl of Fruity Pebbles.” He shifts even closer, his gaze darting all over my face. “You said you were tired?”

My brows crash together, not following his train of thought.

“Yes. Constantly. I work three jobs.”

He draws in a nasally inhale. “And you’re thirsty?”

“Yes,” I say slowly, gaze narrowing.

How does he know that?

“Are you using the restroom more than normal?”

“What?”

I rear back so quickly I almost hit my head on the wall. The blow is cushioned by his hand gently cradling the back of my head. Though I’m grateful for his whip-fast reflexes, this line of questioning is creeping me out.

“Where’s your insulin?” His focus bounces between the pulse point in my neck and my eyes.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, standing.

Mafia boss or not, I’m out of here. It’s been too long of a day—month, really.

“No.” His fingers curl around my wrist. “You can’t go home.”

My pulse thrums in my throat as I tilt my chin up. “Just try and stop me.”

He grunts, tossing a stack of bills on the bar, grabbing a black motorcycle helmet I hadn’t seen to the right of his chair, and then scooping me up until I’m pressed tight across his chest.

I struggle against his firm hold, but my slim frame and dexterous fingers are no match for his brute strength as he stomps toward the exit.

“Great. Now, I’m getting kidnapped.”

Chapter 2

Shane

“I’m not kidnapping you,” I say through gritted teeth, pushing out of the noisy club toward the parking lot. “I’m taking you to the hospital.”

All night, I’ve been irritated at our first baseman, Tenny Jackson, for two reasons. The first was for adding me back into the inane group chat he started over spring training, and the second was for dragging me out to this so-called “team-building exercise.”

After we finished tonight’s second game of our season-opening homestand, Tenny insisted we all go dancing. I’d planned on skipping this nonsense altogether, but Trevor Chapman, our team’s catcher, pulled me aside and suggested I make an appearance. Since he’s the revered unofficial leader of the Waves and a baseball legend, I begrudgingly listened.

Now, though, I’m grateful I came to this dumb dance club, subjecting my eardrums to deafening music while ruminating about how tired I was going to be at tomorrow’s game.

What if someone hadn’t noticed the signs?

She finally stops writhing in my arms. “You’re what?”

“I’m taking you to the hospital.” I set her down beside my black Ducati. “I think you’re having a diabetic crisis.”

A pout laces her distractingly full lips. “But I don’t have diabetes.”

“That’s what my childhood best friend thought, until his blood sugar was so high it almost killed him in the middle of practice. He had the same symptoms as you: fruity breath, excessive thirst, exhaustion, the need to use the—”

“I get the idea,” she interrupts with an outstretched palm.

A beat passes, and I feel the weight of time like the tick of a doomsday clock. When this happened to Bryce, he passed out, forcing the coach to call 911. That was when they discovered he had type 1 diabetes.