Page 2 of My First and Only Crush

“Sinclaire,” I say hoarsely.

She laughs and throws herself at me, wrapping her arms around my neck. A backpack slides off her arm and thumps to the ground as I catch her.

“Ooof,” I say, the word coming out through some kind of muscle memory. She wasn’t heavy back then, because she was a girl. And she’s not heavy now, because while Sinclaire Rosehill is all grown up, she’s still an itty bitty thing.

But this is what we say. Said, once upon a time. I sayoof, and she?—

“Silly Patrick,” she says, thumping her hand on my shoulder.

My heart lurches at the very new, very different sensations that playful push triggers.

“Didn’t Dad tell you I was going to be here today?”

“I—” I set her down and push her back, using the pretense of wanting to take a good look at her to put some distance between us. “Haven’t seen him yet.”

She beams at me. “They’re taking pictures of him today, too, and I asked them if we could do a family photo since I was going to be here anyway.”

“Of you and me?”

She blinks at me, her brow pulling together in confusion. “No, of me and my dad. But that’s a great idea!” She carries on as if I haven’t just put my foot in my mouth like a sex-deranged madman. “We’ll definitely get a picture of the three of us. There’s a picture at home of me swinging between you, hanging on your arms, do you remember?”

Each word is another nail in my coffin.

Yeah, I remember.

I remember Jeff Rosehill welcoming me onto this team when I was a bright-eyed twenty-year-old kid from Wildflower Hollow, Wyoming. He introduced me to his three-year-old daughter daughter, Sinclaire, who looked up at me like I was as tall as a skyscraper. And when I knelt down in front of her and introduced myself, she said, “Trick? That’s a mean name. Tricks are mean.”

I was Patrick to her for the next twelve years.

She was fifteen when her dad retired. Fifteen when they moved to California, and other than seeing her briefly at her mom’s funeral when she was…seventeen? Eighteen? our paths haven’t crossed since.

But Jeff is back with the team he once led as a player. A few weeks ago, he was announced as the new team manager.

My one-time teammate and mentor will now be my coach.

Yesterday, we had lunch and I promised him I was looking forward to this season. That nothing has changed, and I’m still totally focused on taking the best team we’ve fielded in years all the way to the World Series.

But that was yesterday.

I pick up Sinclaire’s backpack and hand it over. When her fingers slide against mine, her eyes go wide and her gaze snaps up to my face. My breath catches in my chest and I see my career flashing before my eyes as I consider yanking her hard to my body and confessing my darkest fantasies about her.

Brand new fantasies, still staggering around on coltish legs. Half-formed and hard to explain.

But before I can do anything—like showing her how hard she makes my cock and what I instinctively want to do with it—she lets out a nervous laugh that slaps me in the face like a full glass of ice water.

“You’re not as tall I as remember,” she says in a rush. “I mean, you’re still really tall, but…”

I’m six-foot-four, and she has to be at least a foot shorter than me.

And here I’m looming over her, thinking horny thoughts. Fuck.

I step back, way back. “We’ll put your dad in the middle,” I say, the words scrapping out of me.

She frowns.

I don’t know. That didn’t make any sense but I can’t think straight.

From the field, I hear Jeff calling her name.

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