Page 11 of Restricted List

“Helps them, too, apparently. They just won the damn World Series.”

“They did. First time the Stars brought the pennant home in twenty years.”

I reach across the table and place my hand on top of my dad’s. “And the first since you started managing the team seven years ago. You’ve done an incredible job with them, Dad.”

He places his other hand on top of mine and squeezes. “Thank you. Maybe we’ll be able to host another champagne shower next year.” Before he continues, my dad makes a strange face. “Where were you during that, by the way? I didn’t see you in the clubhouse.”

“I was there!” I all but shout as I choke on my water. “I was in the clubhouse.”

“You were?”

No, I dragged Cole over to the showers where no one else was around.

But I’m sure asfucknot going to tell him that.

“Yep,” I breathe. “Must’ve just missed me since it was crowded.”

My dad eyes me curiously but thankfully doesn’t press it. “Must have. Make sure you come to celebrate with your old man at the next one.”

“You got it, Dad,” I smile. “Next time you win the World Series, I’ll personally spray champagne all over you.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less, Rory.”

How much longer can I keep acting like this?

Over the past several days, everyone has noticed that I’m not acting like my usual self.

I’m generally outgoing, brash, and a bit flirty. But I can’t talk to anyone, apparently, without it being evident that something is wrong.

And that something is Cole Pierce.

Rather, what I can’tdowith Cole Pierce. Andfuck, the things I want to do to—and with—that man.

I need a clear head.

I haven’t felt this out of sorts in years, so without thinking, I find myself rifling through my hall closet, looking for something I haven’t used in just as long.

“Where is it?” I mutter, shoving random shit I forgot I even had out of the way. “Ah!” I exclaim as I spot the white box on the back of a shelf.

Standing on my tiptoes, I reach for it and pull it out before bringing it to my dining room table.

I take a seat and open the box in front of me, pulling out all of the art supplies I used to use so frequently.

I’ve always loved to draw. According to my dad, I started by drawing on the walls of his house before he started getting me an endless supply of sketch pads and pencils.

Art is my emotional outlet. Through school, my art pad was the only place I could sort through everything I felt.

About the way I’d get bullied for being the only black kid in mysuperwhite private school.

About the way I struggled to make friends because nobody wanted to befriend the overweight, frizzy-haired kid, even if she was the daughter of New York’s star player.

About the way my mom was hardly ever around and how much that hurt me. It still hurts me, but I’ve gotten used to it by now. If she doesn’t want to know me, that’s on her. My therapist really helped with that.

Right now, though, the only feelings I need to process are the ones I have for my best friend’s brother.

With a clean sheet of paper in front of me and an assortment of pens and pencils, I start to sketch on instinct, letting my hand dictate the picture it’s forming.

But even mindlessly, it’s still always Cole I’m thinking of.

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