Meyer’s face falls, and she freezes where she stands.
Anger flares, and I push off the doorframe, but all the pressure in my body washes away as she approaches.
I didn’t realize how badly I needed to see her and Bailey. To see with my own eyes that they’re okay, but as I realize they’re just fine, which deep down I knew all along, the tension returns.
“What the fuck, Meyer?” My shoulders hang, my tone beaten, even to my own ears.
She pinches her lips closed, slipping past me and unlocking her door.
Helpless, I watch as she gently rolls Bailey’s stroller inside the apartment.
Slowly, she faces me, and it’s not hard to see it’s the last thing she wants to do.
A sharp pain punches my gut and I stretch my torso to ease it.
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” she says quickly. “I’ve been busy.”
“Too busy to pick up the phone?” I step closer.
“I don’t have a lot of time right now.”
“Not even for me?”
A shaky breath flies from her lips and she looks everywhere but at me. “My schedule’s jam-packed and—”
“Am I not on your schedule, ma?”
“No, actually. You’re not …”
I was joking, but the finality in her tone stirs something inside me and my muscles grow tight. “What?”
Slowly, her head lifts. “You’re not on my schedule anymore, Tobias. Your grades are up. You’ll go back to working with your team during study hall hours. That should be enough to get you through finals.”
“All right …” I draw, unease making my pulse pick up. “Whatever, fine, it doesn’t matter, but tell me when I can see you? I can come early or late. Walk you to class or to drop off Bay. Whatever works for you, I’m there.”
Meyer’s eyes cloud and she looks away.
“Baby, what’s wrong?” I step forward, but her words have me jerking to a stop.
“You’re not my student anymore, Tobias.” Her voice cracks, and I’m too fucking stuck to register what she’s saying until she’s closed the door in my face.
My chest grows tight, the rest of my body following as I force my feet to slide backward. With each step, my confusion grows and by the time I reach my truck, still running, idle in the space where I parked it in my rush, my chaotic mind grows frustrated.
I’m not her student anymore, she said. Well, so fucking what?
I’m her man.
She’s my girl.
And Bay …
I swallow, stumbling a bit as I drag myself into the driver’s seat.
I’m not sure what just happened, but I know something’s not right.
She’s pulling away, pushing me away and I don’t understand why.
She’s …
I …
My frustration bleeds into anger and I’m far past pissed as I reach Coach’s house, a two-story home a couple blocks from campus.
There’re a few cars out front, but I don’t care. I bang my fist on the door, and I don’t stop.
It doesn’t take long for him to open the door, and as he does, over his shoulder, I spot the rest of the coaching staff sitting around a card table, cigar smoke filling the place.
“Why am I off her schedule?”
He steps out, closing the door behind him. “Son—”
“Why am I off her fucking schedule?! You need to force her to put me back!”
“You need to calm down.”
“I can’t! Give her back to me!”
His head tugs back, his frown deepening. “Give her back … son, she was your tutor, nothing more.”
Before I can think, before I even know what I’m doing, my fist flies, connecting clean across his jaw.
His head snaps to the side and I snap the fuck out of it.
My face falls, and I dart toward him. “Coach, I—”
He jerks away, flinging my hands off him. “Go home.”
“Fuck!” I shout, running my hands along my head and spinning to face him again. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“I said go home. I don’t want to see you until it’s time to take the field tomorrow.” He glares, spitting blood to the side. “Find somewhere else to dress out.”
“Yes, Coach.” I swallow, a familiar feeling surging inside me, making my temples throb and body heavy.
Regret is a motherfucker, and that motherfucker knows me well.
The ball leaves my hand with a hiss, and Echo’s knee drops to the dirt as he slides right to snag it.
“Ball two,” the ump calls out.
Echo’s throwback has more heat on it than normal, but I ignore it.
Jaw clenched tight, I point my left foot forward, leaning over until my shoulders are parallel with my knee. Ready to pitch from the stretch, I look right to left, letting the bastards on first and third know I haven’t forgotten about them.
Echo calls for a curve, but I shake it off, as I do his next, until he gives me what I want.
A fast ball.
With a deep breath, my nostrils flare and I wind back, releasing a fucking cannon, but this time, Echo’s glove hits the dirt.
Ball low.
Fuck!
I grind my teeth together, stretching the cords of my neck and get set again.
Again, Echo tries for the curve, but I jerk my head and his chin lowers.
He’s getting pissed, but I don’t care.
My game, my ball, my fucking pitch.
I release on a hiss, and once again, the umpire calls out a ball, and the motherfucker walks to first.
My first official walk of the season.
My head is fucking screaming on the inside, but I pull at everything I’ve got to hold it in, simply stepping off the mound and pointing at the big belly bastard.
Don’t fuck with me, blue. Not today.
The man just shakes his head, and when I turn mine, I spot Coach coming out onto the field.
Fuck!
He steps up, meeting my eye with a strain in his own. “You need off this field?”
“No.”
“You sure, ‘cause—”
“I said no, Coach. Let me finish.”
“Bases are loaded, and you have one out.”
“I know what I have and what I don’t.”
He opens his mouth, but remembers the cameras are on us and gives a brisk nod. “Do your fucking job, son.”
Rolling my shoulders, I adjust my hat, look across the field and then face my boy.
Echo nods, slaps his glove and drops into position, so I do the same.
We’re near the bottom of their lineup, a kid from Kentucky with a batting average below 230. Sitting him down will be cake.
Echo doesn’t let up, and drops two fingers, so I nod, giving in.
Curve it is.
I send the fucker, but I know the second it leaves my palm, I’m fucked. That baby’s coming around too soon, showing itself, and I watch in disgust as the punk’s grip tightens around the thick leather.
The ball connects with the bat in the perfect fucking spot at the perfect fucking time.
His swing is hard and solid and he doesn’t drop his shoulders or his head, that boy sends it … right over the goddamn wall.
Grand fucking slam.
I throw my mitt into the dirt, kicking it away while all four fuckers round the bases to home plate.
Echo comes out to talk to me, but I give him my back, spinning the other way when he jerks at my collar, forcing me to face him.
I don’t know why, but I shove the guy hard enough to send him lurching back and then the umpire is in my space, shouting something, but I can’t hear.
My ears are ringing, the sun is beaming and the next thing I know, I’ve got the ump’s chest plate in my hand.
I tug him forward, all to send him tumbling onto his ass.
My coaches and half the team are on the field now, but I know what’s coming.
The umpire gives the signal, and I’m ejected from the game.
Coach Reid grips my shirt, but I yank away, unable to look at him as I charge toward the tunnel and into the locker room.
Inside, I tear my jersey from my body, my hat already long gone, and bend at the knee.
I fucking scream, shoot up and start tearing shit off the wall, throwing anything I can grab and reveling in the sound of the clacking metal on metal, but it’s not loud enough to drown out the pain.
The fucking confusion.
The ache I never wanted to feel but do.
This is worse, so fucking much worse, than when my parents turned their backs on me my senior year.
Worse than when I realized I’d never live up to my brother in their eyes.
Worse than when I thought I’d never again set foot on a field as part of a team.
I feel weak, like a pussy.
Like a little bitch.
‘Cause, fuck me, I’m pretty sure my heart is actually breaking.
Straight up tearing into little pieces inside my body and ripping every blood vessel open with its end.
My body slides along the lockers until my ass hits the floor, my chin slamming into my chest.
I couldn’t handle any of those things and I really can’t handle this.
Meyer
I’m on my knees in front of the TV when my name is called.
It takes effort, but I look away from the screen, finding Bianca standing there, her bag slung over one arm.
“Oh, chica.” Tears well in her eyes instantly and she rushes over, falling onto the floor beside me. “I knew you were watching the game.”
I lean into her, shaking my head, but sensation evades me. I can’t feel her arms as they wrap around me and I have no clue what she’s whispering into my hair.
He just broke on the field, right there for all to see, Tobias lost it.
It’s all my fault.
“No honey, it’s not your fault.”
I pull in a choppy breath. “It is.” I sway, fighting back tears. “I knew what would happen, I knew he was more than what everyone saw. I felt something that night months ago. I told … I told him I couldn’t tutor him. I should have fought him harder. I should have fought myself harder.”
I shouldn’t have fallen in love with him.
But I did, knowing all along nothing could ever come of it.
To allow Tobias to love me would be selfish, because I would be taking away someone else he loves, and that’s wrong.
He doesn’t deserve to feel betrayed by everyone in his life, and I know that’s exactly what would happen, so it’s my job to make sure it doesn’t.
Because there’s no other option, and since there can be no winner here, I’ll happily be the bad guy if it saves him the least bit of sorrow.
No matter what, we both lose a little.
I just have to make sure he loses less than me.
I swipe at my face, and pull myself free of Bianca’s hold, slowly pushing to my feet.
“Girly, what are you doing?” she whispers, watching as I pull my sweater over my head and smooth my loose strands of hair back.
“Getting ready.”
“For what?”
There’s a heavy knock at the door moments later and her eyes crinkle.
My lips twitch and I nod, and with a shaky breath and strength I don’t feel, I pull the door open, revealing Tobias on the other side.
“Tutor Girl …”
