Page 8 of The Promises We Break

Before I can answer. Seamus replies, “He met his dream girl.”

Jake ricochets his eyes between Seamus and me with a curious smile. “On the flight?”

So much for the circle of trust with my best friend Seamus.

“Nah, man. I mean, she was great.” Rubbing the nape of my neck as I round my head in circles. As content as I was with Ember, coach seating is not built for men like me.

“I think the word you used was perfect,” Seamus interrupts.

Dick.

I turn, giving him the look of death. But I am no match. Seamus is the scariest fucker I know. I’m certain he could John Wick my ass with a pencil.

“Yeah, perfect. She was perfect. But she ran off when the plane deboarded.”

Confusion makes way over Jake’s face. I usually don’t have issues if I attempt to go after a girl, and he knows it.

“I think she had a boyfriend.” I shrug. “Looks like I have a habit of hitting on unavailable women.”

Jake chuckles because that is exactly how I accidentally met his wife.

“Undoubtedly, the best moment of that night.” He pats my shoulder, still laughing, before grabbing his suitcase and heading toward the master suite we reserved for the so-called groom.

“We’re eating at the steakhouse downstairs in an hour.Dane and Kobi will be here in a few minutes, and the car will pick us up after dinner,“ Seamus calls out, heading in the other direction, toward the room he’s claiming.

I grab a bottle of water off the counter and head back to my room to get dressed. My thoughts keep straying to Ember. Damn her for running off. I already liked her, but now, now she’s a complete mystery and I don’t know if it’s the enigma of her or if it’s like my father always said. ‘When you meet her, you’ll know.’

My parents’ fortieth wedding anniversary is next year, and they have been a shining example of exactly what I want out of a marriage. They are truly the quintessential married couple. To this day, my dad still courts my mom. They kiss, laugh, dance in the hallway, and treat each other with the utmost respect. Sure, I see them argue, but in the end, they always support one another and find a middle ground.

They are the reason I’m a closet hopeless romantic, and I’ll never settle for anything less than unadulterated, can’t live without each other, love. Nothing short of magic, my mom would always say. Of course, I repress those feelings and never appear to be the romantic I am at heart around the guys. Except, I can’t seem to help myself with her.

Ember was magic. Her presence was all-consuming, and no one has ever captured my attention like she did. I’m so pissed at myself for not getting a last name or her phone number. I could have stalked her until she broke up with her boyfriend, then went in for the kill or just found ways to break them up.

Christ, listen to me.

I’ve got to get my mind here with the guys. It’s been far too many years since we’ve all been together.

I flip open my suitcase again and hang up what should be hung in the closet, then I unpack the rest into the dresser drawers.

We’re only here for two days, so I don’t have much, but Ihate living out of a suitcase. Whenever we travel for away games, the first thing I do is unpack. It makes most hotel rooms feel less stale. Especially the kind of rooms you stay in for the minor leagues. Travel is not nearly as comfortable as what the major league provides and the hotel rooms are typically shared. They are nowhere near luxurious, which is fine. I don’t need luxury. I just need it bedbug free, with clean sheets and an extra travel-sized body wash container.

I have to share the news with the guys. They need to know that I can’t get into any shit this weekend. I have a solid chance of getting moved up to the majors with the Seattle Smashers. This is the opportunity of a lifetime. I love San Diego and love the guys on my team, but I was built for the MLB. Both my older brother, Henry, and I were raised for it. We ate, drank, and slept baseball. Henry, of course, went on to play in the MLB, with only a short stint of time in the minors, which most ball players do. But ever since my injury, I’ve had to play in the minors. I’ve been holding on to the hope of getting signed, knowing my potential is there. But the coaches, they are the ones who steer clear of injured players, especially injuries like mine.

Nope. Not going to risk anything that can prevent this from happening, so I have got to tell the guys. If they get into some shit, I’ll bolt. Shameful, but necessary. They’ll understand.

I’ve finished getting dressed and appraise myself in the bathroom mirror. Dark stonewashed denim jeans fit low on my waist, and luckily, the material has enough stretch to give way to my muscular quads. I decided to keep it simple with a basic, but snug, beige colored long sleeve button up. The material is thin and soft and fits nicely over my chest and shoulders. I’ve strategically rolled the sleeves up just below my elbows, exposing the forearm tattoo I’ve been intending to turn into a full sleeve soon. I look pretty well put together, considering my brain feels like a jumbled mess.

Seamus bangs on the door as he walks by yelling, “Wheels up,” which is stupid because none of us are military trained except for him, and I swear he just likes to boss us around. I’m also surprised he knocked and that I haven’t experienced a full-blown invasion of my privacy yet from any of the guys.

As if on cue, Dane busts through my bedroom door without an inkling of a knock, barrelling into me with a manly bro hug.

“Hudson!! I’ve missed you, man.”

“Dane!” I pull back from his hug, rubbing my hand on top of his head, shagging out the long ass dirty blonde hair on his head. “When was the last time you had a haircut, man?”

“Women dig it. Guys, too.” He pulls it back in a low man bun, wiggling his eyebrows, and all I can do is shake my head. He has a ‘love the one you’re with’ idea of relationships. I’ve always thought that he was born in the wrong generation. He’s a hippie at heart and could probably live in a VW van his entire life and be totally content with nothing but a backpack full of shorts, t-shirts, and a couple of flip-flops. You would never know that he’s brilliant. Literally, the man has an IQ like Einstein with a personality like Bob Marley.

“That sounds like it has a story you’ll have to fill me in on.” I pat him on the back.

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