Page 100 of Off Pitch

“Seriously?” Cole says, surprised.

I let out a deep breath. “Yeah… it’s been feeling less and less fake. And I have no idea what to do about it.”

“You should talk to him,” Lucia says. “The way he looks at you makes it obvious that he’s feeling it, too.”

“I don’t know. We both went into this with the expectation that the relationship wasn’t real.”

“Yeah,” Cole says with an eye roll. “And then he started coming to talk to you before every game. He started happily talking to the media and going out publicly with you to be photographed for the tabloids. He started lighting up the moment someone evenmentionedyour name. Lo, that is not the man I’ve known for three years.”

“Well, things can feel less fake without us wanting to actually be together. It’s not like he has feelings for me or anything,” I reply. But that last part comes out weakly, as if it hurts me to say it. Like it hurts me to think about the fact that my feelings might not be reciprocated. The feelings I’ve tried so fucking hard to deny, but it’s so damn obvious to anyone that sees me with him that none of it is fake to me.

“I don’t want to meddle at all, believe me,” Cole says. “But I do think you’re wrong. I’ve already been thinking that, but I didn’t want to say anything. Whatever you do, though, just don’t get yourself hurt.” He reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “We’re all glad to have Happy Harlow back. You’re finally back to the sister I always remembered.”

“No matter what, I’m not letting myself go back down that road. There’s the real possibility that nothing comes from this whole arrangement other than our pre-agreed terms and now sex. It all is what it is, and I’ll handle it.”

“You could talk to him when he flies home after tomorrow’s game,” Cole says before he takes a bite of his omelet.

Rory smirks. “I don’t think talking is what they’ll be doing then.”

“It is not,” I say, heat creeping across my cheeks. “Actually, Cole, I was thinking we could do a raincheck on our breakfast this week. I’ve, uh… got some other plans.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Cole mumbles.

The change of direction in the conversation was nice, but I know they’re all right. I’m going tohaveto talk to Knox about all of this at some point. The longer this goes on without me saying anything, the more likely I am to get hurt.

But even the thought of having that conversation makes me nauseous.

All of this would have been so much easier if Knox wasn’t so fucking perfect.

thirty-eight

Harlow

After breakfast this morning,I went back to my apartment and spent the rest of the day working onStarred and Fast. Things are going really well, and I want it to maintain the momentum it’s gaining.

I work on some more articles to post over the coming days, and when that’s finished, I finally allow myself to relax. I read a smutty romance book, use a shower steamer since my apartment doesn’t have a bathtub, and enjoy half a bottle of Riesling. Now, at eleven PM, I’m wine drunk, dancing around my kitchen while singing Taylor Swift very off-key.

“I’m the one on the phone as you whisper, ‘Do you know how much I miss you?’”

My song time is interrupted by my phone ringing, cutting off the music. I grab my phone from the counter, still swaying my hips to the song that’s no longer playing, and look at the screen. And I smile. Knox is calling.

“Hey, Slick,” I say, answering the phone and bringing it to my ear. “You’re interrupting my drunken singing.”

“Oh God,” Knox says from the other line, stifling a laugh. “Can you even sing?”

“Not well,” I say as I chuckle. “But after half a bottle of wine, I’m up for anything.”

“Then I’ll be sure to grab some wine for my place.”

“You’re terrible,” I reply, shaking my head but still smiling. “How was the Home Run Derby tonight?”

“It was fun to watch,” he admits. “It’s entertaining to see players from other teams hit home runs when you’re not the one pitching them.”

“Like you give up a lot of home runs, Fort. Nobody can hit your damn knuckleballs.”

“I wouldn’t say nobody,” he replies with a light laugh. “I’ve given up my share of home runs and all.”

“So modest,” I say. “What are you up to?”

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