Page 21 of Perfect Game

“‘Night, Coach.”

Closing the door behind me, I turn off the overhead lights in the room and get ready to settle into bed for the night. Until my phone dings with an incoming text. And then another. And another. One glance at the screen shows me that Max is settled into his own room and making up for the interruption just now.

I really wanted to kiss you goodnight, but those two had terrible timing.

I was kind of hoping you would kiss me goodnight.Typing it almost makes it easier to admit.

Why don’t you meet me downstairs? We can get some tea before bed.

Don’t do it Sutton.

Don’t do it.

Sure.

My heart flutters in my chest as I slip into the nearest pair of shoes, shove my room key in the pocket of my leggings, and ride the elevator slowly down to the lobby. There’s a coffee cart in the corner with warm baked cookies, a handful of tea options, and carafes of coffee or hot water. Max is already there, his back to the lobby, giving me time to appreciate his tall, lean form, and the just tight enough tee shirt that stretches across his back and shoulders.

“Hey, Davis!” Jose Alvarez, my assistant hitting coach, calls from across the lobby, “Do you have a minute?”

Max turns around, an almost imperceptible smirk tugging one corner of his lips as he very pointedly dunks his tea bag in and out of the steaming cup of water in his hand. He issues a silent challenge with one raised eyebrow as Alvarez stands, with tablet in hand, and meets me halfway between the elevator and the coffee cart.

“Have you seen these stats?” Alvarez clicks into an email containing the same data I was looking at on the plane. “Should we meet with Roger and talk about tomorrow’s lineup?”

The last thing I want to do right now is meet with Jose and Roger and whoever else is having second thoughts about tomorrow’s game. The last thing I want to do is go over more data, more stats from spring training, and look at more heat maps and strike zone breakdowns.

“Jose, we have to trust that Roger knows what he’s doing. He’s seen the same numbers we have.”

“If you’re sure,” Jose sighs, clicking off his tablet.

I’m not.

“I am.”

“In that case, goodnight.” Jose claps me on the shoulder and I watch as he disappears down the hall, leaving me alone in the lobby with Maxwell and the night manager who pays us no attention whatsoever.

“You handled that very well, Coach Davis.” Maxwell smirks, handing me the tea he’s been holding. I look at the tag hanging down from the rim of the cup and find my favorite vanilla chamomile. One look at the cart behind Max shows me that this tea is not an available option and I wonder if he has a box in his suitcase just for me. “How are you feeling about tomorrow?”

“Fine.” I answer absentmindedly. My mind is still stuck on the fact that he brought my favorite tea on the road trip, something so small shouldn’t feel like such a big deal, but it is. It’s just the kind of thoughtful thing that Maxwell does, that no one knows about. The kind of thing that has me setting my tea on the nearest flat surface and reaching for the fabric of his shirt, clutching it tight and pulling him behind me as I push my way into the stairwell, the door clicking shut behind us and echoing against the stairs.

Pressing my hand against his solid chest, I back Maxwell against the wall before dragging him down for a kiss, his hand cupping the back of my neck. My senses are overwhelmed withMax— his warmth under my hands, the faint taste of tea on his lips, and the heady, bright scent of his soap. A scent I recognize from his house. A scent that curls around me as Max lifts me in his arms. With a yelp, I inadvertently break the kiss and bury my face against him.

“So,” Max catches his breath, grinning as my eyes meet his, “I bought the right kind of tea?”

“I’d say so,” I laugh, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth where his lips have ticked up in a lopsided smile. “Max…”

I’m cut off by the sound of a door opening somewhere in the stairwell and Max carefully lowers me to the floor, both of us smoothing out our clothes as footsteps sound on the stairs.

“Don’t forget your tea,” Max whispers, kissing just below my ear before heading up the stairs toward our floor, fingers skimming my waist as he reaches for the railing. “Goodnight, Davis.”

As Max heads upstairs, I step back into the lobby and pick up my tea and head to the elevator, riding up to my floor in a daze. It takes me three tries to get my keycard to work and when the door shuts behind me, the silence and emptiness of my room is overwhelming, and on this Opening Day Eve, I fall asleep to the memory of Max’s arms wrapped around me.

CHAPTER NINE

Opening Day

MAX

There’ssomething strange about starting our season on the road. There’s pomp and circumstance, but it isn’t for us. There’s a celebration that we watch from our sideline and our dugout as the city of Detroit celebrates their baseball team. We’re here because every story needs a villain, and every hero needs an opponent. Today, that’s us.

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