Page 59 of I Still Love You

“Relax, bro. It’s not an insult to you. It’s a lifestyle. I get it. I’m just saying it’s not surprising to hear that you ended it with her. She’s a total fucking smoke show, seems to have a good head on her shoulders—from what I can gather—and has to be smart as shit and good in a crunch if she’s a nurse. I’m shocked you even brought her around.”

Layla is all those things and more. Each attribute he listed is partly responsible for my attraction to her—and for the first time since she’s been back, I allow myself to be aware of Layla’s appeal unabashedly. I would love nothing more than to sink myself into her over and over again and never let go.

Maybe it’s because of the conversation we had outside of the bar and grill. The way I kissed her. I couldn’t help myself. We were talking, and she was saying the right goddamn things, and the love we once shared pulled me to her. I did what any man would do standing in front of their ex-fiancée who was finally explaining herself and apologizing for the stuff she did—I kissed the shit out of her and chose to worry about the ramifications of it later.

I just didn’t expect it to hit me this quick. It being the regret that’s been slithering into my mind since I walked away from her. I know I need to stay focused on myself and what my future holds, most importantly, my approaching hearing. But my heart, my fucking soul, wants me to toss my reservations into oncoming traffic.

The second Tilly plants in my head that I fucked up, that I totally let a ten out of ten go—actual relationship or not—I wonder if I should trust myself more. That, maybe, I should follow my instinct and forgive what happened in the past and follow what feels right for the future.

Team Regional is up by three points, and I have no fucking clue how. We’re playing like shit. Our batters keep striking out, unable to hit a ball if their life depended on it. Meanwhile, Team Wolves—plus two players from the hospital because of their injured players being out—have easily hit two home runs.

Hell, I could be part of the reason we’re tanking since I’ve been distracted by Tilly’s conversation. It doesn’t have to be all about the competition out here. This is to raise money for the hospital, but a tiny part of me wants to fade to black because we can do better than this, damn it.

“Come on, Luke,” Killian, a guy from the hospital who’s standing at first base, shouts. “Toss it good!”

Toss it good?

Jesus Christ.

This is part of the reason why we suck ass.

I roll my shoulder a few times, pulling out one of the movement prep exercises Henderson and I have been revisiting in therapy. It’s easier to understand how his injury happened when I’m standing on this mound with the weight of the ball in my hand. My throws are a third of the speed of his. I can’t imagine it tickled when his rotator cuff tore. The burning sensation that spread must have been a bitch. I think back to all the games I’ve re-watched, especially some early in my career. It’s wild seeing men handle pain differently. Some get carted off the field on a stretcher over a meniscus tear, while others walk off the field after an ankle sprain.

It’s insane, but also the reason I’ve been adamant about keeping proper form. The last thing I need is getting injured when I’m the person who’s supposed to patch these guys up when they overwork their bodies.

Someone from the batting cages whistles as the next batter takes their place. Being in my head over my form, I don’t realize it’s Layla until I look up. She grabs the smaller bat behind the catcher, curling her fingers around the glossy wood. She taps the tip against the home base one, two, three times, pushes her ass out, and tucks the bat close to her shoulder. Shouting ensues from the sidelines, and I glance over, seeing Sierra and another dark-haired girl cheering for Layla.

A baseball cap keeps her hair and the sun out of her face as she turns her head in my direction and assumes the position. Wiggling her hips, she shifts back and forth on her feet, pushing her ass out a centimeter more—barely anything—but I can’t fucking help noticing.

Her legs, tan and bare from the thigh down, glisten in the light of day. I can tell they’re well moisturized from here. They look fucking delectable. Maybe if I wasn’t so at odds with how I’ve been feeling, I’d be inclined to get closer for the sake of getting to feel them again. The weight of them around my waist used to feel like heaven. Used to get me hard just thinking about it.

Now is no different.

My jeans tighten a fraction of an inch, and I chastise myself because we’re in public. I may not have cared as much when we were younger, but my career is everything to me. I can’t pop a goddamn boner in the middle of a charity event that I set up.

Get your shit together, Sacks.

I toss the ball in the air and ignore the way Layla curls her bottom lip into her mouth to focus. My palm grows sweaty as it falls into my hand, and I angle my body. I breathe in deeply and twist into the throw. The ball flies across the field, targeting her bat—hopefully to strike her out—but as luck would have it, she hits it square in the center, sending it speeding through the air and directly into my goddamn balls.

Holy motherfucking shit.

I fall to my knees as if I’m in being dead kneed, cupping my junk as I wail out a low, husky groan. A sharp pain shoots up, settling into my stomach—and, holy fuck, I think I’m going to vomit. The pain dawdles as I drive my forehead into the dirt in front of the pitcher’s mound, my entire body absorbing the pain from the hit. I feel everything. Like all the nerve endings in my body have been cut with a pair of dull ass scissors. The miniscule dots of dirt bite into my skin, and Jesus Christ, I need to breathe.

“Man down,” Tilly yells with zero concern across the field. I should load up the automatic ball thrower and force him in front of it. See if we could label him as a man down when the balls smash into his dick. “Take fifteen!”

“Luke, Oh my God,” a hand falls to my back, doing little to distract me from the pain lingering in my gut. “I didn’t mean to do that. Are you okay?” Her fingers curl up over my shoulder, and she tugs like she’s trying to lift me, but I can’t. Fucking. Move.

It’ll be worse if I roll to my side, that much I know. I’ll look even more pathetic than I do now, too. Not that I’m worried about my image, but some of these guys are my friends. They won’t let me live this shit down. In fact, none of them come to my side to check on me. Probably because the assholes have been in this same position and know there’s nothing that’ll help. Layla and the guy from first base are the only two who seem to care.

“Luke, buddy.” There’s a wince in his voice. “You good down there? Need me to get a paramedic?”

I don’t need a fucking paramedic; I want to roar at him. I need you to shut the fuck up so I can remember to breathe. It’s on the tip of my tongue, but I hold it in, instead focusing on trying to keep my breakfast down.

“Oh, wait,” the direction of his voice fades. “You work in the emergency room,” he says, referring to Layla. “That’s the best you’re gonna get, buddy.” Then he pats me on my back. He pats me on my fucking back. If my knees weren’t weak, I’d make sure he needed a paramedic and call him buddy afterward, too.

“Killian, can you maybe find us a pack of ice?” Layla asks, her palm rubbing lightly up and down the spine of my back. There’s movement to my side a second later. I don’t see it but hear it. “Don’t worry. He’s gone. What do you need? I can examine you if you’d like, you know, just to make sure you’re okay…down there.”

Abso-fucking-lutely not.

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