Stealing Home: A Reverse Grumpy-Sunshine College Sports Romance (Beyond the Play Book 3)
Stealing Home: A Reverse Grumpy-Sunshine College Sports Romance: Chapter 30

“SURE YOU DON’T WANT to come out with us?” Rafael asks from the doorway. “Julio found a decent bar. You could test the waters.”

I just pull my t-shirt over my head, stifling a yawn—and a wince. I tweaked my finger while making a sliding catch during the game earlier, and while it’s not serious by any means, the trainer still sent me to my room with a huge ice pack and strict instructions to let her know if the bruise feels concerning. “I need to ice my fucking finger.”

“Oh, yeah.” He taps out a message on his phone and slides it into his pocket. “Forgot about that. Want me to see if any girls are interested in coming up after? A couple chicks at the game were checking you out.”

“I’m still with Mia, you know.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, drumming his fingers against his arm. “Did I miss something? You dating now?”

“No.” I grab the ice pack and set it over my finger. It’s swollen and tender to the touch, but the bruising isn’t too bad. “We’re just hanging out.”

“Who’s to say she’s not out right now, picking up someone else?”

“She’s not.” I probably say it too quickly, but I can’t tamp down the rush of possessiveness that pours through my veins at the mere thought of her hooking up with someone else. We haven’t spoken about it explicitly, but I know that we’re exclusive again. We might not be dating, but we’re not going to anyone else for sex, either of us.

Rafael snorts. “Okay, man. Do what you want, I guess.”

I give him a pointed look. “What I want is to call her, but I need to be alone for that.”

He puts his hands up placatingly as he backs away. “Whatever. Enjoy. Text if you end up wanting to join us.”

When the door shuts behind him, I flop against the bed. One good thing about most of the guys going out: Hunter, who is bunking with me on this trip, is going too, so I have privacy to call Mia.

I close my eyes, breathing in the bleach smell of the hotel sheets. There was a time when every away trip was exciting. The high school tournaments were fun, and the travel during the playoffs my first year at McKee was a party. Lately, though? It’s more of a hassle than anything. I’d rather be at home with Mia than humping all my gear to fucking SUNY Albany. I’m already dreading the grind of the minors, which will involve way more long bus trips and second-rate hotels. The design of the baseball season at any level means that most of your life will be long-distance.

I press the heels of my hands into my eyes. My finger protests as the ice pack plops onto my chest.

I shouldn’t call Mia.

This trip is forcing there to be a bit of distance between us, and that’s not a bad thing, especially after the nightmare I had the other night. Those first few seconds after I woke up, I thought I was still dreaming. She looked like an angel in the moonlight, her hair spilling over her bare shoulders, delicate perfection in every feature on her face. But it wasn’t a dream. She was there and she wanted to help. Maybe it was because of the quiet of the night, which always makes me feel alone—although less alone with her there—or the fact I was so shaken by the images my mind couldn’t stop spitting out, but I spilled my guts to her in a way I never have with another person.

Ever since we started hooking up again, I’ve tried to hold back just enough to prevent a slide into feelings I don’t want to have to shut down later, but in that moment? I would have given her anything in the world. I would have gotten on my knees and begged for her love. I’ve pretended that what we have is enough, but it isn’t. It’s never been casual for me, not for a moment.

My chest aches. I rub it as I stare at the ceiling. Someone clearly didn’t get the memo about leaving stucco ceilings in the past.

I pull up her contact in my phone. My thumb hovers over the call button.

What the hell did I fuck up? What did I do to turn her away after things had been going so well? Why aren’t I enough for her, when I know I would treat her better than anyone else in the whole goddamn world?

I stab the button. The phone rings once. Twice. Three times.

“Sebastian?”

Hearing my name from her lips is a balm on my soul. I sit up, putting the ice pack back on my finger. “Hey. You busy?”

“I’m just at the lab.”

“Do you get overtime?”

She snorts. I’ve never been inside the lab where she works, but I can picture her sitting in a desk chair in leggings and an oversized t-shirt, her blue light glasses perched on her nose. Her hair is probably twisted into a messy bun, and I’d be willing to bet that she’s wearing the gold hoops she’s been favoring lately. I rub Dad’s medallion.

“No,” she says. “But I was in a meeting for half the afternoon, so I’m trying to make up the time now. How was the game?”

“We won. And I got two hits. A single and a double.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah. Messed up my finger, but it’s not too bad.”

“Which one?”

“Just the pinky.”

“At least it’s not one of the important ones,” she says, a teasing note in her voice.

I grin, even though she can’t see it. “You’re a dirty girl sometimes, di Angelo.”

“You like it.”

“I do.” I settle against the pillows, stretching out my legs. “Although I guess you’re too busy for fun right now?”

“What, you miss me that much?”

“Yeah. You’re all I’ve been able to think about since the moment I left the field.”

“Oh,” she says.

I swallow, pushing past the awkwardness. Maybe this isn’t the best way to bring up her unfinished promise to me, but I can’t stop thinking about how she helped me in the aftermath of that nightmare.

“I know I’ve left it alone,” I say. “And I can keep being patient if you need that. But you promised me something, and you haven’t kept up your end of the bargain.”

She’s silent for a long moment. I know she didn’t hang up on me because I can hear her quiet breathing. Even though she’s down in the Hudson Valley and I’m all the way up in Albany, it feels like there’s a golden string between us, shining in the dark. I wonder if it only glows for me, or if she can feel it too.

I can’t be the only one. Whatever makes her hold back so much, it’s not for lack of feeling. If she would just let me in, I’d know how to help her.

“I can’t,” she says. “Not like this. Not over the phone.”

“Whatever it is,” I start, “I won’t judge you.”

Another silence.

“It’s not like that,” she says eventually.

“Then what’s it like?”

“Look outside,” she says.

I slide off the bed and walk to the window. Heavy curtains cover it, but I push them aside, peering up at the dark. “What am I looking at?”

“Can you see the moon from where you are?”

It takes me a second, but I replace it. “What phase is it in?”

“Waning crescent. See how it’s just a sliver? It’ll be a new moon again soon.”

“It’s pretty.” I spend enough time awake at night that you’d think I’d notice the moon often, but I can’t remember the last time I looked directly at it. When I play night games, the moon and stars are far away, nearly hidden by the stadium floodlights.

“I’m looking at it too.” There’s a rustling sound on her end of the line. “I miss you.”

At her words, my heart starts racing. I press my fingertips to the glass. The sliver of moon shines like a pearl, seemingly small enough to cup in my palm. For a moment, I can almost convince myself that the golden string is tied to the moon, and if I tug on it, she’ll be able to feel it. That even if we aren’t saying all we mean right now, she’ll get the message. “And I miss you.”

“Sebastian?”

“Yeah?”

“Will you stay on the line with me until I get back to the house?”

I swallow down everything—the wishes, the dreams, the aching, sticky-hot want—and hope I sound halfway to normal. I can always give more when it comes to her. “Always, angel.”