Page 80 of Easy Out

I stand behind her and pull her long brown hair over her shoulder. “Hola, Lauren." I pepper her neck with kisses and wrap my arms around her waist. A low whimper escapes her, and it speaks right to my dick. I kiss her one more time before stepping away.

There will be time for that later. Hopefully.

“Can you drain the pasta?” Lauren turns off the burner, and I do as she asks. “How was practice?” I grumble out a response. I’m still mad about the media training. Lauren takes the hot pot of drained pasta out of my hands and places it back on the stovetop, then proceeds to turn off the other burners.

I expect her to start mixing the pasta, chicken, and sauce together. Instead, she steps in front of where I’m leaning against the counter. Lauren wedges herself between my legs. My hands move to her hips without thinking.

“What happened?” Her hands glide up my chest until they are around my neck. Poor little thing is stretched out on her tiptoes to reach me. I pick her up and spin us around, placing her on the counter.

“How do you know something happened?” My heart hammers being this close to her.

“You’re being grouchy,” she says like it’s obvious.

“I’m always grouchy.”

“Not with me.” Lauren digs the pads of her fingers into my scalp. It feels phenomenal. My head droops like I’ve been shot with a tranquilizer giving her easier access to my head. “Talk to me, James.” This woman has the power to get me to do whatever she asks.

Letting out a sigh, I tell her everything about my meeting with Coach Lawson. Lauren already knows why I have this fear, but I reiterate it anyways. The thought of stuttering on national television sends me drowning into a pool of nerves and anxiety.

Lauren fiddles with my hair which probably looks like I’ve been electrocuted now that she has raked her fingers all through my curls.

Not that I’m complaining when her hands are all over me.

“Did something happen to make your coach worried?” I shake my head.

“Not really. I just refuse to do interviews. He thinks that kind of attitude will be frowned upon in the league. He’s probably right.” He is right.

“Do you want to know what I think?”

I nod. “Always, cariño." I pop a kiss on her lips without deliberation. Something I never would have done a few months ago.

“I think if someone asked you about a play or whatever, you would be able to answer them without a problem. I also think that you should take this training seriously and tell them about your past.” I huff and attempt to push away from her, but she fists the bottom of my shirt. Her fingers disappear under the fabric and trace the valleys of my abdominal muscles.

“Hart, this person is an expert. If anything, they will be able to teach you how to deflect and give short answers that won’t tank your career.”

“I guess.”

“You know I’m right. Maybe you can ask your coach to let you do interviews when Koa or Wyatt are with you in the beginning. Ease you into it some.”

I scrub a hand down my face. “Yeah, maybe. I don’t see why I can’t give yes and no answers or avoid the cameras altogether. I’ve been doing it that way for the last seven years. It’s worked fine for me.”

“You can try, but that’s not who you are. People need to see what an incredible person you are inside. They should know you’re more than a good baseball player.”

Lauren might be the one blushing, but it’s my heart that is pounding. It’s my chest that feels the weight of her words.

I’ve always been the kid that is good at baseball. “He can’t talk but he can swing a bat.” My biological father has said that more than once when he managed to show up for a game. I know the fact that I had a stutter disappointed him. I wasn’t the perfect son he hoped for, but I could play ball.

As a kid, I wanted to impress my father. I thought if I was good at baseball, I could keep his attention. I played baseball because it was something I enjoyed doing with my stepdad Stephen, but I selfishly played because it gave James Jackson a reason to be proud of me.

I poured everything I had into baseball. So much that it’s all that’s left of me. I became synonymous with the sport.

And now Lauren is telling me I’m more than baseball. That in the short amount of time we’ve spent together she doesn’t see me solely as the guy who can hit a curveball out of the park or catch a grounder off a bad hop.

“Good? I think we both know I’m better than good. I’m phenomenal, extraordinary, sensational,” I say to bring some levity back into our conversation. If I don’t, I’m likely to do something rash like ask the girl to marry me.

“And so humble too.” Lauren pinches my side which hurts more than one would expect from such tiny fingers.

“You’ll pay for that, brujita.”

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