Page 11 of Home Run

“Maybe I want to keep this part of my life to myself.”

The men walked me backward to the bench like it was a fucking intervention. “So who’d you meet in Miami? Is that why you skipped the clubs?” Seth Butler, our star outfielder and team womanizer asked.

“No.”

“But you did meet someone.”

I took a slow, deep breath, closed my eyes, and let it out hard before cracking my neck. “Yes, I met someone.”

The amount of whispering and chattering that followed my statement was fucking annoying.

“I’m not going to see her again.”

They all froze. Erik spoke first. “Why is that?”

“Because we’re both fucking busy. But…”

“But?”

I cracked my neck the other way. It was weird to share personal shit like this. Injury, sure. Anger, always. But feelings? No. “We agreed to meet up on Christmas Eve.”

More talking. Chairs were dragged in. An audience formed around me. So many questions. Who is she, how did we meet, what happened?

“Her name is Hope Crawford.”

“And what does she do for a living?”

That was why I kept staring at my phone. I wanted to look her up. Everyone had a social media profile these days, right? I even had one. I ignored it unless my agent bugged me, but it was there. But I couldn’t bring myself to actually type her name into the search bar and find out who this woman was who possessed my body and mind.

“I don’t know.”

Ten phones appeared. “Hope Crawford?” They all began typing, showing each other the results. “You mean the Olympic gold medalist?”

I froze. Fit as fuck. Gorgeous leg muscles. Weird tan lines. “Maybe?”

“You really don’t know who you slept with, do you?” Wes shook his head.

I was on my feet in a flash ready to take my anger out on him. But Wes shot his hands up, Hope’s picture on his phone. I sat back down.

“That’s her.”

“Nice,” Seth said, nodding his head as he stared at his phone.

“Olympic gold in women’s individual time trial and silver in the road race,” Wes read, “plus dozens of other world championships and races. She’s a better athlete than you.”

“Asshole.” But he wasn’t wrong. I was arguably the best center fielder in professional baseball right now, but I’d never won a pennant, let alone a World Series. I had Golden and Platinum Glove awards, but those were a drop in the bucket according to Wes.

“No wonder you can’t meet up again,” Erik whistled. “She’s got wall to wall races across Europe and then two in Australia. How the heck did you meet her?”

I shrugged. “She came into the hotel bar with some friends and demanded I drink with them.”

Wes flipped through more pictures on his phone. “These friends?”

I nodded. Picture after picture of Hope, Marissa, and Daphne. Most of them dressed in identical cycling gear, arms over each other’s shoulders, some dressed in street clothes or even ball gowns at events.

“They’re teammates. Daphne is a Riley Cosmetics heir. Huh, her family owns that hotel we stay at in Miami.”

Well that explained the swank accommodations.

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