Page 30 of SALT

Banks is one of our best hitters, but for some reason, he's acting like he's never hit a curveball. I'm watching his every move, trying to determine the root cause. His stance just now was laziness. Everyone knows you lean back, not in. His head isn't in the game, and I'm trying to deduce if it's physical or mental. Sometimes, players will over-compensate and make rookie mistakes to hide injuries. Other times, outside factors are the issue. Home life, school, work, and girlfriends can easily distract a player from staying on their game. They can't connect or stay focused. And other times, it's none of those things; sometimes, it's just a bad day. I've landed on the likely cause when a blur of red steals my focus as she rushes to the bench where Parker sits. I can tell from my spot behind second base, something is wrong.

After our exchange in the library the other day, she's gone out of her way to avoid me, which is good, but I can't stand it. I hate that she's not talking to me, and I loathe the irony in that statement because the opposite used to be true. I wanted her to ignore me. If she had, maybe I wouldn't have noticed her as much. Perhaps then, I wouldn't be obsessed and walking off the field. Whatever she said to Parker had him leaving the dugout and hastily following her down the tunnel toward the concourse without so much as notifying one of the coaches. The closer I get to the team shop, the more my anger spikes. I'm pissed she ran to Parker and not me, but the second my hand hits the metal of the door, I pause. Pausing is something new for me. I did it when I found her in the kitchen with Camila's son, and I'm doing it now, but it's not in my repertoire. I don't temper for anyone, but apparently, I do for her. I pull a deep breath into my lungs, letting them inflate, and hold it for a count of three before releasing it. I'm still livid, but at least I'm not unhinged. That is, until I open the door and find Cameron pulling his shirt off.

"Please don't tell me you left the field during practice for a quick fuck," I say, somehow managing to keep my voice level while my heart practically beats out of my chest.

Cameron turns to me, her cheeks tinged pink, but I don't see anger. I see panic. "The uniforms are too small." Turning back to Parker, she attempts to pull a new shirt over his head.

"I think he can manage that task himself," I assert as I walk further into the shop. His head pops through the top, and I see a telling smirk. It could simply be my remarks about the quickie, but I know it's more. He knows I don't like her touching him. There's this innate sixth sense all men and women are born with. We can sense competition, and right now, he knows he's mine. He struggles to get one arm through the shirt, and I ask, "How did this happen?"

"We wanted the uniforms to be fitted. Connor didn't want them to fit loosely, so he ordered them in a size smaller than usual. But there must have been a mix-up because these aren't just one size smaller; they are two. They sent us UK sizes, not American, which makes them two sizes too small."

"I found the measuring tape," Stormy says as she exits the back room. The girl looks like she stepped out of a hippie magazine, wearing a baggy, patchwork bohemian set of overalls with her hair in French braids down either side of her head. I don't know what her full story is. I've had my hands full between taking over for Connor and trying to go silent at Callahan & Associates. However, I've known my ex since grade school and never heard this name come out of her mouth. It's not one you soon forget. I slip my phone out of my pocket and make a note to send Moira an email asking for details on the new hire she sent to my office.

Cameron wrestles with the hem of Parker's shirt as she struggles to pull it over his toned abs. Watching her fingers brush against his bare skin grates on my nerves. "Cam, I don't think it's going to fit."

"Suck in your stomach," she groans. "This isn't happening," her hands drop as she stares at Parker, who's now stuck in his shirt.

"Do you want me to get the scissors?" Stormy asks, assessing the situation from her side.

"Fine," Cameron huffs, "Take him in the back, and I'll call Connor and let him know the bad news," she says as she pulls her phone out of her pocket.

Stormy ushers Parker toward the back storage room as I quickly approach Cameron, putting my hand over her phone before she can press the call button. "Is this your mistake or Connor's?"

"Does it matter? Either way, the team doesn't have a uniform."

There's my answer. It's his. Cameron may have designed them, but if I had to guess, Connor placed the orders. He probably tried to save money and went with a subpar supplier. I can't fault him. Every business owner bleeds money in the first few years. You live and you learn.

"He doesn't need to know."

Her stressed eyes search mine. "How do you figure? These uniforms don't fit."

"Can you make it right in time for opening day?"

Her eyes drop to the box as she bites her thumb. "I don't know… Can I pay for a new shipment? Yes, but I don't have connections with athletic wear suppliers apart from the one we used, which I will never use again."

"Where did all the logo wear from the shop come from?"

Her eyes close as her hand clenches tightly around her phone. "Why didn't I think of that?" She starts pacing and mumbling under her breath. "Parker, can you ask Coach Teague to send every player in, one at a time, for measurements?"

"Um, hello. I'm standing right here. Why wouldn't you ask that of me?"

"Because I'd rather not be sent away, and you can't stand to be around me." She walks over to the counter dismissively and grabs a clipboard. "I'll take the measurements in here and stay out of your way."

Parker walks out of the back room with Stormy on his heels as he pulls his practice jersey back on. "Go tell Coach Teague we are ending practice in twenty minutes and have all the players line up on the first baseline for new uniform measurements." He gives me a nod and heads toward the door. "Stormy, can you please run up to my office and bring down my laptop?"

"Sure," she draws out, not bothering to hide the annoyance in her tone from my menial ask.

Once she's out of earshot, I say, "This needs to stop Cameron. You need to stop pushing me."

She presses her lips together and looks away. "Have you ever stopped to think maybe I'm not pushing you? I'm merely existing." She grabs a pen off the counter and pushes it through the top of her clipboard. "I didn't ask for your help. It wasn't you I ran to just now."

My hand hits the counter. "That's the problem. You know I want it to be me."

"Do I?" she tilts her head to the side curiously, and my jaw instantly clenches. Once again, I've said more than I wanted to, and she knows it. Adding fuel to the fire, she says, "We should probably use those steaks you ordered." I can't tell if she's trying to incite a reaction out of me considering all my missteps or if this is something else. "You just said you wanted it to be you." She shrugs. "A girl needs to eat, and you said you'd teach me how to cook. How about tonight?" I can't help but close my eyes with regret at her ask. I just told her I wished she'd come to me, and here she is doing just that. I push her away only to turn around and pull her back, unable to stand the distance. It's fucked up. I shouldn't have offered to insert myself in her space more than I'm already in it. "It's fine," she says, stepping toward the door. "I'll order something in."

Unable to stomach the regret of giving her an empty promise, I say, "I didn't say no."

She turns back. "You didn't have to."

---