Page 58 of Playboy Pitcher
I wait for the response I expect from him, but he surprises me. Instead of giving me some watered-down spiel about how he respects my guts and courage, Ben simply nods and motions to our waitress for another round.
My chest tightens, and I look down while dragging a French fry through a river of ketchup. I don’t know how he did it, but in a few short days, Benson LaCroix has figured me out. He knew throwing out saccharine praise would do nothing but insult me.
Acknowledging my confession, not the fragmented cracks in my wall, means a lot. Maybe too much.
Drumming my nails on the table, I sip my beer, hoping it’ll drown the riot of emotions swirling around in my stomach. “You sing?” I ask, nodding toward the stage.
Ben follows my gaze to where a drunken redhead belts out the words to what I assume is supposed to be “Love Shack.” “Karaoke?” Shrugging, he sits back in the booth. “Nope. Can’t say I’ve ever been drunk enough. You?”
Maybe in another lifetime. One where a box of hair dye, a tattoo gun, and a few obscure outfits wouldn’t have already pushed the limits of attention as far as I can afford. One where I don’t think every eye is judging me.
Ridiculing me.
“We always talk about me,” I say, quickly changing the subject. “I want to know about you.”
“National Headliner.” He snorts, taking a long drink. “Page thirty-four. Knock yourself out.”
“I don’t mean the dick pics and rumors, Ben.” Jesus, this guy’s mood swings are almost as bad as mine. “I mean this whole Playboy Pitcher persona. It started way before Alicia Evans and her viral Facebook fiasco. You crafted it.”
“Image is what people believe, Willow. It doesn’t make it true.” His penetrating gaze doesn’t waver, and the intensity of his words is almost more than I can take. I’m about to switch topics again, when he shrugs. “I’ve always been a rebel, I guess. I got into trouble as a kid. The rep followed me to college and when I got drafted…” The fire in his eyes dulls, and he shakes his head. “Never mind.”
“What?”
A flicker reignites in those baby blues, reminding me of his warning about fire and flames. “The act was a two-fer,” he admits, rubbing his thumb along the condensation coating his glass. “It made me stand out. What’s that saying?‘There’s no such thing as bad publicity.’ For better or for worse, people remembered my name. But mainly, I did it to piss off my dad.”
“Why would being labeled the bad boy of baseball piss off your dad?”
A half smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Obviously, you’ve never met Hollis LaCroix. You think living in the shadow of a man like Roger Mays was tough? Try being the son of a Park Avenue mogul. One who does everything by the book, no fuck ups allowed. He wanted polo shirts and khakis, and I gave him ripped jeans and leather jackets.”
“So, you amped it up to an eleven when you went pro.”
He arches a dark eyebrow. “Try more like a fifty.”
I stare at him, trying to piece together the puzzle that is Benson LaCroix. “All that just to spite your father?”
“Hello, pot. Nice to meet you, I’m kettle.” He rolls his eyes, but my bluntness doesn’t shut him down. “There’s more to it. I’m just not sure you want to know.”
“I moved to another country on a whim. I think I can handle it.”
He leans in. “Even if it’s aboutyourdad?”
Air whooshes out of my lungs. “What?”
Ben opens his mouth to say something, then clenches his jaw, that little line sinking like a crater in between his eyes.
“Ben…”
“I haven’t spoken to my folks in four years, Willow,” he says finally. “Roger was good to me. He always believed in me. That’s why, when Ned came in and flipped the boat upside down, I stayed and went down with the ship instead of jumping into another one.”
That’s not what he was going to say, but I won’t push him. While I think his misguided loyalty sabotaged his career, I can’t help but respect it. That kind of honor is hard to find in anyone, much less a professional athlete.
Maybe we’re both iron-willed masochists.
His palms smack onto the table. “Okay, my turn.”
Oh shit.“Do I need a drink for this?”
“Probably.”
