Page 82 of Houston, We Have a Problem
“Throw the dang ball!”
He does, and I catch the signs of a curve ball just in time to adjust my swing. The ball collides with the bat with a crack and sails over Houston’s head. Even though I am absolutely not dressed for this, I take off running around the bases. We’ll pretend the diamond is regulation size instead of adapted smaller for the kids. Just to make me feel better.
I’m rounding third and on my way to home when Houston returns with the ball, trying to beat me back. I consider sliding despite what I’m wearing, but I’d rather not have to pay for the damage that would bring to these clothes. Besides, Houston is faster than me.
Instead of simply tagging me out, he slips into my path and wraps his arm around my waist, swinging me around as my momentum keeps me going. We spin twice before settling justbefore home plate, Houston pinning me to his side as he heaves for breath.
“Dang, Park,” he gasps, and he doesn’t seem to be trying to hide how winded he is. It’s like he wants me to know how hard he had to try to catch me.
I don’t care about that. I care that he’s holding me so close, his face only inches from mine. We breathe together, chests rising and falling in unison, and his fingers tighten around my waist as he finds a way to pull me even closer. I feel every part of him that touches me, like my body has become attuned to his. His bicep flexes beneath my fingers, warm and solid through his sleeve, his breath brushes my hair, and his eyes never once stray from mine, leaving me dizzy.
If I wasn’t dressed as Tamlin, I would know exactly how to respond to this moment, but I feel completely lost when it comes to this man. What am I supposed to do?
When his brow dips, his gaze growing confused, I pull from his hold and pick up the bat, holding it out to him like nothing intimate just happened even though the Darcy side of me is screaming. Why am I the confused one when Houston has every right to be completely bewildered?
“Thanks for pitching a slow one for me,” I say, giving him a neutral smile.
That just confuses him more, though he seems to shake his confusion away as he settles on the nearest bench. “That wasn’t slow.”
I roll my eyes, sitting beside him. “Of course it wasn’t.”
“No, really. All of those were my regular pitches.”
I’m about to argue when he lifts his eyebrows. “Wait, are you serious? I hit one of your actual pitches?”
“I’m as surprised as you are.”
I punch him in the arm. “Are you insinuating I wasn’t a good batter in high school?”
“I’m insinuating you haven’t been on a team in almost a decade,” Houston says with a chuckle. “So forgive me for being surprised that you managed to hit the curve that struck out twelve different players last season.”
“Not that you were keeping track or anything.”
“It is kind of my job, so of course I was keeping track.”
“What would you do if you weren’t playing baseball?” The question slips off my tongue before I can hold it back.
I expect Houston to be caught off guard, which he clearly is when his eyes go wide. But what I don’t expect is the way his right hand goes to his left shoulder and grips the muscle for half a second before he brings his hand back to his lap.
“I haven’t really thought about it,” he says.
Liar.
“I mean, I’ll have to think about it eventually. Can’t play forever.” The way he winces when he says that feels like a hand closing around my heart and giving it a painful squeeze. His entire adult life—and most of his childhood—has been baseball, and I can’t imagine it will be an easy transition into something else. But is that transition going to be sooner or later?
“You only have a year left on your contract, right?” I ask.
He shrugs, poorly hiding another wince as if that movement was too much for his shoulder. Hedidjust throw some intense pitches without warming up, but if Connor was right about him not pitching at practice, something tells me this is more than a little discomfort.
Pitchers’ arms go out all the time, but no one has mentioned anything about Houston losing mobility. Unless Houston himself mentioned something? When he answered that phone call the other day, he threw out that scientific word I didn’t understand. I have no idea how to spell what he said, but maybe Carissa could tell me what it is if I remember it right. Super-something?
If Enhance got wind of Houston Briggs being injured before any other news outlets figured it out, our site would explode.
“Yeah, just a year,” Houston says, speaking with his voice carefully controlled. He’s hiding something in that.
“Think you’ll continue playing if the Red-tails want to keep you when it’s over?”
He tries to smile but doesn’t do a great job with it. “When did this turn into an interview? Speaking of interviews, that story you did yesterday with the golfer was awesome.”
