Stealing Home: A Reverse Grumpy-Sunshine College Sports Romance (Beyond the Play Book 3)
Stealing Home: A Reverse Grumpy-Sunshine College Sports Romance: Chapter 27

THOSE ARTICLES WON’T ANNOTATE themselves, but I can’t bring myself to feel bad about blowing off work when it means more baked ziti, a cheesy old action movie—my favorite kind—and touches from Sebastian. While he went downstairs to grab the rest of the pasta, plus a glass of bourbon on the rocks for me and a beer for him, I cleaned up in the bathroom, changed into a tank top and pajama shorts, and ran a comb through my hair. I’m usually not big on cuddling, but the past hour, wrapped up in him while we watch the movie, has been nice. Normal. If I don’t think about anything beyond this moment, I can pretend that when I look at him, I just see a friend I happen to replace attractive.

Sebastian kisses my neck softly. “Someone was photographing me during practice.”

I tear my gaze away from his laptop, where Keanu Reeves and Patrick Swayze are parading around in all their ‘90s glory, and frown. “Wait, what?”

His hand, which is on my bare knee, tightens slightly. “Some creep is probably selling the pictures to a publication as we speak. I spoke to Richard and he’s going to try to get anything that crops up taken down, but still. I wonder if he did it freelance, or if someone hired him. And if someone did, why, because it’s fucking weird.”

I reach over and pause the movie. Whatever I thought he was holding back about earlier, it wasn’t this. I figured he just had a tough practice, which must happen sometimes, even when you’re locked in. The last time we spoke about baseball, a couple days ago, he was still having trouble at the plate. But this? This is on a whole different level.

Indignation rushes through me at the mere thought of his privacy being violated so callously. “That sounds awful.”

“It’s stupid, I know there’s a lot of interest in me and I should be grateful, but I just… I wish it would stop.”

I wriggle around, so I’m facing him instead of sitting back against his chest, and stroke his hair away from his face. “That’s not stupid. You have the right to privacy.”

“I already agreed to do an interview soon, and that’s going to come with an actual photoshoot.” He makes a face. I don’t blame him; something tells me they’ll be a lot more interested in his personal life than his thoughts on baseball. I wouldn’t be able to handle that either. “This is making me wish I could cancel the whole thing.”

“Can’t you?”

“Maybe if I do it, it’ll deter other people from doing shit like this.”

“Or maybe it’ll draw more interest.”

“There’s going to be interest no matter what,” he says. “With the draft, and it being a decade since the accident.”

“Oh,” I say softly.

His mouth twists. I run my nails over his scalp, hoping to be soothing. I never know what to say in these situations—usually when I open my mouth, I fuck things up somehow. But he’s right, if he was eleven when his parents passed, it’s been a decade. A decade of a different family, a different life. Even though he was young when it happened, he remembers it all, and I’d bet that’s what he’s thinking about right now, given the far-off look in his eyes.

“It’s okay,” he says eventually. “We don’t have to—I just—fuck.”

“The school knows, right?”

“He wasn’t on university property, but my coach said he would tell the athletic department.”

“Good.”

He grimaces. “It’s just stupid. I should be grateful, you know? I’m probably going to go high in the first round. I’m going to be set, if I can navigate the minors and get called up at the right time.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to have feelings about it. Even if those feelings aren’t what you think they should be.”

“Everyone is so excited.” He bites his lip. “Why aren’t I more excited?”

Before I can respond, he reaches around me and turns the movie on again.

I slide my hand from his hair down to the back of his neck, squeezing lightly. “Seb.”

“Let’s just watch the movie.”

“Are you sure?”

“Please, Mia.”

I wet my lips. The urge to push is simmering just underneath the surface, but sometimes a distraction is what someone needs, so I just turn around and settle back into his arms. He wraps an arm around my belly. The weight of it grounds me.

“Thank you,” he mumbles.

I hope this is grounding him, too.

A KNEE to the stomach wakes me.

I gasp, my eyes flying open. As I blink in the blue dark, I remember where I am. Sebastian’s bed. Point Break and baked ziti. Baseball and photographers. We fell asleep almost the second the credits started to roll, wrapped up in each other.

My belly aches as I take in a breath. Sebastian’s arms are still around me, holding tightly, but he’s thrashing around. We’re dangerously close to the edge of the bed. My heart thuds, panic flooding my half-awake senses. ‘Seb.’

‘No,’ he says, his voice filled with anguish. “No no no—”

‘Sebastian,’ I say, my voice cracking in the middle of the word. I’m frozen; I need to force myself to move so we don’t topple to the floor in a heap. I try to wriggle out of his grip, but he’s too strong. ‘Sebastian, wake up.’

‘Don’t,’ he cries. ‘Please.’

That ‘please’ tears through me like a bullet. I pull at his arms until his grip breaks. Panting, messy hair falling into my eyes, I press him down against the bed. He nearly bucks me off, but I hang on, digging my nails into his arms. “Sebastian, wake up!”

I thought I’d understood what Izzy meant when she said he has nightmares. This is on a completely different level, and the adrenaline racing through my body won’t calm the fuck down. I can practically feel my heart in my throat as I beg him to wake up. What do you do when someone won’t wake from a nightmare? Slap them? Shake them? Keep pleading until they snap out of it? Why the hell don’t I know the answer?

“Sebastian,” I say again, my voice sharper. There’s a blur of orange out of the corner of my eye; Tangerine, streaking off the bed, no doubt scared by the loud noises. “You’re having a nightmare. Wake up!”

His eyes finally fly open—but they’re as wild as an animal’s. His body is rigid. I cup his cheek; his skin is clammy.

I whisper his name this time, rubbing my cheek against his.

Relief chases away the adrenaline when I feel his hand cup the back of my head. His fingers stroke through my knotted hair gently.

“Mia,” he murmurs. His voice is hoarse. “What…”

“I think you were having a nightmare.” I pull back so I can meet his gaze. “I couldn’t get you to wake up.”

His eyes close briefly. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”

“Are you okay?”

“How about you?”

I wince, but I don’t want to lie to him. “You, uh, kicked me. But it’s okay, it’s not—”

He sits up so fast, he nearly knocks me backwards. “What?”