Page 105 of Playboy Pitcher
Seventeen minutes and twenty seconds.
That’s how long it takes for a candle to burn from tip to end. I know because I sat in a chair at my dining room table and watched all one-thousand-and-forty seconds of it.
Eventually, the flame burned so low, it melted everything into a sticky, rainbow-colored lapse in judgment. At that point, there was nothing left to do but to remove what little wax remained and let it burn my skin as a reminder of my own stupidity.
A branded tattoo she might as well have drawn herself.
“Happy birthday, Puddles,” I mutter, opening my hand and letting them scatter across the glass top table like a multicolored hailstorm.
Wincing as I push away from the table, I stare down at the smeared mess of wax, icing, and candy now cemented to the glass. The longer I stare, the angrier I become.
I leaped.
I fucking leaped and threw everything away tonight.
I should’ve listened to Coach when he came out to the pitcher’s mound in the third inning and warned me I was overthrowing again. When he warned me that my elbow was a stretched rubber band ready to snap. When he warned me if I didn’t let the relief pitcher take over, I’d blow it—my elbow, the game, and my career.
I should’ve listened.
Instead, I saw her in the stands. I saw her wearing that Storm jersey with that stupid smirking storm cloud mascot on the front, and I made the worst decision of my life. I ignored my head and listened to something that has done nothing but betray me for years.
My heart.
I wanted to make her proud. I wanted to give her something to cheer for.Thatwas her real birthday present. The love of the game.
Even if it came at the ultimate price.
“What the hell did you do to me, Willow?” I groan, kicking the chair across the room. “And where the hell are you?” I hate all these conflicting emotions battling inside me. I’m pissed at her for making me believe I’m someone I’m not. I’m hurt at being stood up and made to look like a fucking pussy. But most of all, I’m worried because she’s not answering her phone.
While all three are waging war inside my head, the last one easily slays the other two.
Something’s not right.
Circling the table, I make my way back toward the kitchen with the intention of calling Hoyt, when the doorbell rings, the sound almost like talons sinking into my heart.
I know it’s her.
Only five people have the access code to the front gate. Kyle, Tuck, Cruz, Hoyt, and Willow. The first four pound on the door like chaotic wrecking balls. She’s the only one who ever rings the doorbell.
I don’t know what face card of Willow I expected to find on the other side of the door, but it’s not the one that greets me. This one isn’t even a part of the deck.
She’s still dressed in the same Miami Storm jersey and cut-off jean shorts from earlier, but the smile I left her with is long gone. In its place sits an empty frown. The shadows keep me from seeing the rest of her face, but her body wilts in front of me like a dying rose.
“Willow.”
“Ben.” There’s a strain in her voice as she exhales my name.
“You’re late.”
“I know.” She takes a hesitant step forward, then pauses, as if one more will activate an invisible tripwire. “Can I come in?”
I want to slam the door in her face. Instead, I shrug and leave her standing there as I walk into the kitchen. I’m not sure what I’m doing, but as I hear the door close, I lean forward and brace my hands on the counter.
Instantly, I’m dragged into a porthole to the past as the phantom taste of tart lemon blueberry trifle and Willow’s sweet pussy coat my tongue. I try to swallow them down, but they only flare stronger, bringing with them vivid memories.
Willow screaming my name.
Willow bracing her palms against the wall as I drove into her.
