Page 35 of Caught Stealing

In the background, the local news flashes on the television screen. It’s only on for a little ambiance, but when I hear Andrew’s name, my ears perk and I glance up. It’s a video of him in a past game throwing the pitch that, I assume, originally hurt his shoulder. I wince when I see just how much pain he’s in, but my stomach also flutters at the sight of him. I can’t stop picturing the disappointment on his face when I told him I couldn’t date him.

As he walks off the field, a younger pitcher takes the mound with a great big smirk. He nods toward Andrew, but it’s no friendly gesture between teammates. It’s laced with sarcasm, full of an almost I got you now sense of entitlement. I don’t like it, and I check the name on the back of the jersey. Martinez.

“Well, Mr. Martinez, you are officially my least favorite Sharks player.” Not that I have a favorite. Of course, I don’t.

The video switches to the news anchor recapping the game, then adding, “Rossi’s most recent injury might not only be a season ender, but a career ender. The thirty-two year old pitcher is seemingly still at the top of his game, but no one can deny over ten years of pitching takes its toll on the human body. We wish Andrew Rossi the best and pray for a speedy recovery.”

I reach for my phone to find out more about this Martinez character when someone knocks on my door. Checking the time, I’m a little surprised to note it’s after nine. I’m not expecting anyone, so Ginger is already tense. I shove all my sketches and lists aside and stretch before heading to the door with my protector by my side.

One glance in the peephole and I want to curl into a ball and hide. Or die. Whatever keeps me from having to confront the situation standing at my front door. Every six foot, black hair, blue eyed, broad shouldered part of Rory Elsher is filling my doorframe, and I can’t decide what to do about it. It would be fantastic to open the door, shove his stuff into his arms, and slam it in his face. The only problem with that scenario is that I can’t lift his gear bag. It’s a backup bag, but still holds expensive equipment he wants, though why he needs it after several months at nine at night is suspicious. Or perhaps not after our chance encounter at the bistro the other day.

He raises his hand and knocks again, prompting Ginger to low growl.

“It’s all right girl. Go to bed.” She gives me her best are you sure stare before heading to her fluffy pillow when I point away from the door.

Rory must overhear our interaction because he says, “It’s just me, Lots.” As if this is somehow reassuring. I might prefer a robber to my ex at this point.

With a deep breath, I open the door. Rory’s lips part as he takes me in. He hums something under his breath I can’t decipher before he runs his hands through his hair. “You…look…you look perfect, Lots.”

I glance down at myself. Oh fudgesicles. I’m wearing the only pair of sweatpants that I own paired with a long sleeved tee with my college’s logo. The outfit itself isn’t a big deal, but the fact that the image on the sweats is an Arctic Fox logo is not good right now. It could have literally been anything else, and I could pass it off as me being comfortable while grading papers. But no. Of course, it has to be the sweats with his team’s logo.

Oh, and his last name emblazoned across my rear end.

Kill. Me. Now. Kill me and get it over with because I will never convince him that I’m not interested in getting back together with him now. It was habit that drew me to the comfy, worn in gag gift he gave me on our one year anniversary. I’m simply used to the same routine—get home, go for a walk, eat dinner, crash in cozy clothes and grade papers.

“Can I come in?” Rory asks, drawing my attention back to him. "I really want to talk to you."

“Rory, I’m busy right now. You didn’t call, and I'm trying to finish my work and get to bed.”

His tongue darts out to lick his lips and he rolls his lower lip in before biting it. That’s his habit, and one that means he’s winging every second of this. He didn’t plan ahead, which is probably a good thing since planning to show up at my house uninvited at such an hour would not win him any points. Not that he has a prayer of earning them anyway.

“I’m sorry it’s late and that I didn’t call. I was passing by and…” He sighs and rubs both hands vigorously over his face. “Before I knew it, I was standing at your door. I think my mind is used to turning into your neighborhood when I’m up this way. And I think that was the problem all along. We got into so many habits and I took you for granted. Things just weren’t as exciting as they were in the beginning and—”

“Wait, wait a second. Are you trying to say you strayed because you were bored with me and our relationship? Because I have news for you, Rory. All relationships settle in and get boring sometimes. That’s when you put in the work and try to find new and creative ways to keep that spark. You don’t invite a new person into the equation.”

None of this comes as a surprise to him. He knows, and judging by his tense facial expression—pursed lips, clenched jaw, and unwavering stare—he’s known it for a while. He’s unhappy, which is still, unfortunately, second nature for me to know. I felt it at the end of our relationship, but no matter what I did, it never eased that tense unhappiness that lingered between us.

“I know,” he whispers, his voice husky with emotion.

I almost feel sorry for him, then I remember how much I cried when he left. He didn’t even turn around to see the pain he caused. Didn’t think twice about moving on with someone else. He hasn’t even publicly announced our break up after four months apart, which I can only assume has brought significant speculation about where I am and what I’m doing. I haven’t dared look at any social media apps since our breakup. I don’t want to know what people assume—or worse, what Amanda, the social media manager, might have posted.

But when it comes to him, or anyone really, I’m a glutton for punishment. And I can't help but remember how good we used to be. It wasn't all bad, and part of me can't help wondering what exactly went wrong. I step aside and let him in. A snowball stands a better chance on a Georgia front porch in July than Rory has of winning me back, but if I listen to what he has to say, maybe we can both move past this and find a happier future. When there’s nothing left to argue, he’ll see why I can’t forgive and forget. Perhaps forgive…never forget.

“Thank you,” he says and pauses in the entryway. His gaze lands on the last of his things waiting for him to pick up. He’s wearing jeans and a band tee, his usual attire when we’re not out on the town, which means he wasn’t heading home from hanging out with the guys or a date. I can’t say why, but curiosity eats at me.

“What made you pass by my neighborhood?” I ask and cross my arms.

Rory shoves his hands in his pockets and looks down at me. “To tell the truth, I just drive around a lot now. I don’t enjoy hanging out with the team without you, and I haven’t…I mean, I’m not dating. So, yeah, I ride around and think mostly.”

“You think?” I don’t mean for it to sound as skeptical as it comes out, but he still chuckles anyway.

“Contrary to popular belief, yes. I think about a lot of things, like my career and future. Mostly I think about you though.”

“Yeah, well, don’t worry about me. I’m doing fine. How’s Amanda?” I almost choke on the name of their social media manager, a woman I used to call a friend who stabbed me in the back repeatedly while smiling to my face.

“I don’t know. We don’t talk.”

I raise an eyebrow, desiring some sort of clarification.

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