Page 55 of Last Fall

“But like you said, talent doesn’t makeateam.”

“Exactly. I’m good at managing personalities and putting out fires. I’m good at telling people what to do and backing it up with consequences. I’m a steady player. I don’t hit home runs every time I’m at bat, but I can put the ball where it needs to go. Second is my base. I play it well. I’m consistent, they don’t have to worry about me, and I provide our team with unity. That’s mytalent.”

He had no idea how unique it was. Spending time with him, seeing his reactions and the way his face drew up when he spoke about himself, hearing how often he put down his talent as a ballplayer, I realized he was more critical of himself thananyoneelse.

“That’s a pretty impressivetalent,Erik.”

He shook his head and shoved another bite of cake into his beautiful mouth. The same mouth I hadn’t resisted kissing just a fewweeksago.

“It’s advice from Harrison Ford. ‘Work hard and find a way to be useful.’ I had a goal. I wanted to stay. I found a way to be useful. I’m not sure that’s a talent so much as it isdesperation.”

He was so wrong about that. “Leadership does not come naturally to most people. Especially not good leadership. And dedication to your work is another lost art these days. I’d say you are very talentedindeed.”

He frowned, taking his time devouring the last bite of chocolate mousse. I wondered, as I studied the different emotions crossing his face, if Erik was so focused on his skills as a ballplayer that he completely missed the biggerpicture.

I got it. Isogot it. Writers were the same way. Good writing didn’t necessarily translate to success. Many of the most financially successful writers weren’t the best at the craft but were great storytellers hitting the market with the right kind of story at the right time. A lot of my writer friends, myself included, often became so fixated on whether our writing was any good that we lost sight of the more important factor: whether our stories connected with thereader.

Sometimes it took an outsider to knock sense in us. Maybe ballplayers weren’t all thatdifferent.

“You’re still here five years later. I’d say you’re doing somethingright.”

He nodded. “I love it. I like feeling needed.” He shrugged. “Time at the top is limited and I’m trying to make the most ofitall.”

“The city loves you. You’re not goinganywhere.”

He groaned. “Those commercials are killing me. I hate seeing my face on my television everymorning.”

He genuinely looked uncomfortable so—naturally—I decided to make it worse. “You’re not just the Papa Bear of the team, you know. The whole city looks up to you like their favorite bigbrother.”

There was a reason he was the star of the favorite morning television commercial: he made people feel safe andhappy.

He mademefeel safe andhappy.

Which brought me back to my question. “Do you have an angerproblem?”

He reared back, blinking. “What?No.Why?”

“Bear.They say you have this ugly, angry side. That you scare the piss out of people when you get angry.” I slid my hand under the table so he couldn’t see itshaking.

He turned white as a sheet. “No.” He shook his head. “God, no.” Then his shoulders dropped. “This is why you don’t want to bearoundme.”

“No. That’s unrelated. But I do need to understand this part of you if we’re going to spend time together. It’s alsoimportant.”

“Okay.” He nodded several times then pushed back the dishes, suddenly becoming very serious and business-like. He stared down at his hands for several seconds, formulating his response. “I’m firm. I do not put up with shit and when someone crosses a line I make it well known that I will make them move back across that line. I can be scary when I’m making a point and I damn well will hurt someone who hurts anyone I love,” my heart hammered as he paused long enough to meet my gaze, holding it for several beats before he finished his sentence, “but I donothave an angerproblem.”

If he were in one of my books he’d be labeled an alpha. A leader. A defender. A protector. That was exactly who Erik Cassidy was. Not an alpha-hole—an asshole pretending to be in charge while treating everyone around him like garbage—but a trueleader.

Meaning (and this was the key to everything) Erik was nothinglikeTony.

“Family is everything to me, Zoe.” He scooted closer. “Everything. My blood family, our larger family, my team, my friends.” He tentatively slid his hand across the bench to touch my fingers. “Even you. I consider you all my family. I’d die if I was ever the cause of pain to any of you because my family is my entire reason forliving.”

I tangled my fingers with his. Not quite holding hands. More searching than that. I let Tony ruin so much for me. These tiny gestures, these connections, should be lovely, not monumental. Every moment with Erik was a new lessonforme.

“Have you ever gone too far? Done something youregretted?”

“I beat the shit out of Belle’s ex,” he said with a shrug and a frown. “The bastard was hurting her so I hurt him. I don’tregretit.”

“I can’t believe you just told me that.” Here I was asking him to confess to an anger problem and one of the first things he did was tell me he beat the crap out ofsomeone?

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