Page 86 of Third Time Lucky

His beard has its own Instagram account. I suppose it’s only a matter of time before something else does.

But back to the video.

Seeing Elliot on the pitcher’s mound was revelatory. This was a man in his element. His expression was centered, his body dancer-fluid as he wound up to strike out the other team over and over again. He did it with unflagging focus and steely determination. He was a highly trained and well-developed machine, but his obvious natural talent was clear as well. The fastball that earned him his nickname left no room for doubt.

He looked like a different person. And it wasn’t because of the beard and longer hair.

Even after a win, when his teammates smacked his butt and lifted him off his feet in hugs that could crack a lesser spine, his smile never reached his eyes. I went back to check the other videos, and it was always the same. I knew those eyes. I’d memorized his face and the set of his shoulders. I noticed the difference.

Why didn’t Elliot look happy?

He’s better now.

I think Rue brought a new purpose into his life. She made him look at everything differently, because he had someone who needed him. He reminds me of Rick in that way. Some men in this world are born to be fathers.

There’s no scientific evidence backing me up, but every time I see Elliot and Rue together, it rings true. They have the kind of connection you can’t force or teach or grow into. Two peas in a heart-stealing, chin-dimpled pod.

I’m not foolish enough to think I’m part of the equation at all.

“You’re still holding it wrong.”

“I am?” I shake off the introspection and study my high grip on the bat, keeping my expression blank. “That’s not what you said the other night.”

Not to disrespect my first real lesson or the sanctity of the pastime, but I need an Elliot fix more than grip-placement pointers. Acting like a smartass while mixing in some sexual innuendo has worked in the past.

“So, when you said you wanted to help me check out the new equipment, this wasn’t what you were talking about?” he asks.

“Sure it was. Throw me a slider. A changeup. A special Ransom screwball on speed. Whatever.”

His smirk is obvious, even from this distance. “You’re saying words, but I’m not convinced you know what they mean.”

“You can quiz me later. Let’s go. If I hit it, you have to take me upstairs to break in your new desk.”

He shifts on his makeshift mound, adjusting himself with a grimace. Gotcha. “And if I strike you out?”

“You have to take me upstairs to break in your new desk. Harder.”

He licks his lips, touching the rim of his ball cap with a sexy nod. I wiggle my ass and stick it out in the worst batter pose I can manage, ready to claim my prize. On his desk.

He’s turned me into a sex fiend.

Elliot winds up, glances behind him and then the ball is coming at me like a meteor breaking the sound barrier.

“Kevin Costner!” I use the name as a curse when I jump out of the way of Elliot’s death missile instead of swinging. I swear I felt a tiny sonic boom as that thing screamed past my face to lodge into the netting behind me. “You didn’t want to take it easy on the new guy? You could have cracked my skull open, and then you’d have no one to worship your beautiful ass.”

“It didn’t come anywhere near you. I made sure of it.”

“You threw it like that on purpose?” I stomp over to the fake mound, turning my new ballcap around and getting right in his face. His gaze drops to my mouth. “This is when I tell you that’s bullshit and if you don’t straighten up and win this game for the team, you’re outta here,” I growl in my best grizzled coach impression.

“Are you playing with me?”

“Aren’t we playing with each other?”

Instead of answering, he bends his knees and tosses me over his shoulder, then heads toward the stairs. Thank God.

“Wait” I say breathlessly. “I thought I got three strikes.”

“I’ll give you three smacks on your ass,” he mutters.

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