Page 42 of Shades of You

Then Liv appeared, having made her way in from the outfield. Her approach shifted the atmosphere, drawing Evan’s attention. As she reached him, her arm looped around his waist. Evan’s shoulders dropped, and the stiffness in his frame melted away under her touch.

“Ready to go?” she asked, her voice low and soothing.

“I am.”

And there it was—a smile. It was small, almost hesitant, but genuine. The kind of smile that showed up when guards were let down and comfort seeped in. They walked off toward Liv’s Tahoe. I watched them go, feeling a curious mixture of relief and envy. In her company, Evan was different, lighter. He’d found his safe harbor in Liv, someone who helped him navigate his stormy past and anchored him in the present.

I hung back a bit, scanning the now quiet field. After tossing my mitt into my old green duffel bag, I called out my goodbyes. “Take care of that arm, Gabe,” I added, clapping him on the back before heading to my SUV. The night air was cooler now and a breeze drifted off the ocean. It held the promise of rain, or maybe that was just the cloud of disappointment following me.

As I drove home, my mind turned to Brenna. I wanted to see her again. Hell, right now. But she’d just broken up with a guy who was more or less stalking her. Nope—I wasn’t going to push her.

I tried to wash away the defeat in the shower and ate a quick meal. Settling onto the couch, Pedro hopped into my lap. As I absently stroked his soft fur, I pulled out my phone, hesitating for a moment. My fingers hovered over the keyboard as I weighed calling or texting. Playing it cool seemed like the better strategy, so I sent a text.

Hunter: Lost the game tonight.

She replied almost immediately, her words lighting up my screen. And, damn it, my mood too.

Brenna: Sorry to hear that! How are you feeling?

Hunter: I hate losing, even rec games. How was your day?

Brenna: You’re always a winner in my book. My day was good. Busy. Sold a big boxed set today. Limited edition.

Her response was prompt, warm. Not someone who didn’t want to hear from me.

Hunter: Sounds like your day was more successful than mine.

Brenna: Success is relative. I can sell a boxed set anytime. But the baseball season isn’t much longer, so losses hurt. It’s my job to cheer you up!

Her words made me smile, and I could picture the playful glint in her eyes as she typed them out. It was easybanter, a comfortable rhythm we seemed to fall into effortlessly.

Hunter: Who knew you were such a baseball fan?

Brenna: Nah. I’m not particularly into sports. Just trying to boost the morale of a certain tall, dark, and handsome slugger I know.

I grinned at her response. The evening stretched out, only the occasional purr of Pedro breaking the quiet of my living room. As our conversation flowed back and forth, I found myself relaxing, the tension from the game slowly dissipating.

Hunter: Thanks for being my cheerleader tonight.

Brenna: Always. Someone’s got to keep you from getting too down on yourself.

Hunter: I never feel down when I’m with you. I’d better let you go.

Brenna: Aw! Sweet talker. Night.

There was something both comforting and exhilarating about this easy exchange of texts. In a way, it felt like we were building something, brick by digital brick. Small experiences shared, little connections made. Even if our families’ histories tried to dictate otherwise, here we were, two people tentatively stepping over a century-old line drawn in the sand.

Setting my phone on the couch, I picked up the CliveCussler book from the coffee table and thumbed to where I’d left off. Adventure waited between the pages, a welcome distraction from the ache of losing the game, and thoughts of how much I wanted to go over to Brenna’s. Thirty minutes slipped by, Cussler’s words painting vivid scenes of underwater exploits and treacherous escapades. Pedro had fallen asleep on my thighs.

The sound of my text tone jolted the stillness, startling both me and Pedro. He gave a disgruntled meow as I reached for my phone, eager to read another message from Brenna.

Instead, the screen lit up with an unknown number. As I read the mysterious message, the air in my lungs froze. My entire focus lasered down to the words on the screen.

(305) 222-6395: You need to tighten up your stance and not take so many pitches. You’re so tall, your strike zone is as big as the Grand Canyon. You’re never going to draw a walk, especially in a rec league.

Numbness washed over me as I read the text. Then read it again. And again. Only one person could dismantle my batting technique with such precision. Only one person could have sent that text.

Evan.

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