Page 16 of Pitcher Us
Rolling her eyes. “You put the fire out already.”
“I was talking about you.”
And just like that, the fire ignites in her eyes. Her hands circle my wrists and pull my hands down. “I might have cried first, but I’ll still cuss you out.”
I take a step back and smirk. “Oh, I’m well aware, Blaze.”
After running back over to my place to grab some batteries, I come back and immediately make my way over to her chair-stool combo and sigh. She could have seriously hurt herself. As I move the stool over, I can’t help but notice the tension shift. Neither of us has said anything yet and the silence is starting to feel thick.
An extra layer of tension gets added when we catch each other staring. I might have been busted first…I couldn’t help it. She was pulling her long red hair up in a ponytail. She’s a fucking blaze, alright. It’s like I’ve been caught up in her flames and I can’t find any oxygen.
I catch her looking when I started to replace the batteries in her fire alarm. I could have gone down to the super’s office and made someone else fix it, but call it caveman of me, I wanted to be the one to fix it for her. Maybe this is just me being able to fill the void of taking care of someone again. Back in Seattle the most I got to do during the season was send money back to my mom and sisters, but I like doing stuff like this. I like being the one to take care of things…and the people I care about.
“You know, I’m pretty sure I’ll lose my job if you fall and can’t pitch this season.” Callie leans on her elbows on the small island in her kitchen. She’s holding out a box of Velveeta Shells and Cheese, pretending to read the instructions, but I’ve noticed her eyes darting to me a few times.
Sliding her alarm back in place, I laugh. “Please don’t even get me started on the setup you had here.” I step off her chair and slide it back in place at her small dining table. My eye catches on her pink stool again. “Scared of riding on my bike but makes makeshift ladders and climbs them in the middle of the night.”
Callie stands up straight. “Hey, it worked out just fine, didn’t it?”
“I feel like ‘fine’ is up for debate.”
She scoffs. “Hey, a fall from that would have hurt my pride more than anything. A fall from your motorcycle would likely kill me.”
“You were perfectly safe with me, but I’m not saying anything else at the fear of being cussed out.”
Rounding the corner of her island, Callie hums with a tight-lipped smile pulling at her lips. “Listen, I know I seemed like a hot mess this morning.”
When I raise my eyebrows and nod in agreement, she hits my shoulder. “Will!”
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. Please continue.”
Rolling her eyes, she huffs, “I was just saying I was a little overwhelmed, and I appreciate your help, but…” She trails off as her eyes lock with mine. This is the second time I’ve seen Callie nervous, and I can’t decide if it makes me feel good knowing I get to see this other side or if it makes me feel like shit that I’m the one making her uncomfortable.
“I can leave if you want me to, Callie.” I let any playfulness I’ve had in my tone from earlier leave my voice. I don’t understand much about this attraction to Callie, but I would rather die than make her uncomfortable.
Breaking our staring contest, she crosses her arms. “I just thought I could do it myself, that's all.”
Ow, that hurts a little bit. It shouldn’t, but it does. “Okay, the fire alarm is working now, so I’ll head out.”
Callie’s mouth opens, then shuts. Not wanting to make things worse, I walk out without another word.
Chapter 9
Callie
I am the dumbest girl in all of Boston.
I had one of the hottest guys I’ve ever seen in my apartment fixing stuff and wanting to help me cook and I sent him away. Why? Why did I do that? I mean, really, who would it have hurt if Will stayed?
The thought of Will in my kitchen…shirtless… Okay, I know he wouldn’t actually be shirtless, but this is my daydream, so whatever.
It’s probably best that he left. I’m not interested in dating another baseball player. And this meal is about me and my brother. He’s done a lot for me over this past year, and I want to prove to him—and myself—that me showing up on his doorstep a few months ago wasn’t a bad thing.
Turning back to my kitchen I’m more determined than ever to actually cook this fucking food. It might not be the extravagant meal our personal chef would make growing up, but it would be good. Wyla sent me recipes. I can do this. I can do hard things!
Getting everything out on the counter I think I’ll start with the mashed potatoes. The idea seems simple enough. I put a poton the stove to boil—turning on the right burner this time—then go back to Wyla’s text. Step one: peel potatoes. Fuck.
I don’t have a peeler here. I didn’t think to buy one. I’m pretty sure I’ll lose a finger if I use a knife.
