Page 65 of Tate
She glanced at him again. His green eyes were in hers, steady, holding them, and for a second, she couldn’t breathe.We need you?
Orheneeded her?
A crack, and Ford focused back on the game. Gunnar had connected with the pitch, and the ball flew up and over the backstop.
“Foul!”
Ford breathed out. “Shake it off, big Gun. Eye on the ball. Connect.”
“I know. And I love my job. Well—I love being involved with what you do.”
The coach from the opposite team had come out to the mound for a conversation.
“Whatwedo, Red. Like save lives and take down global threats and rescue people and pretty much act as the tip of the sword in keeping this world from going to chaos.”
He was sitting on his hands, as if he wanted to gesture wildly and was just holding them in place, trying to keep himself under control. “I can’t imagine going out there without…” He swallowed and met her eyes.
Heat infused her entire body, and not just because of his words, so softly, earnestly spoken, but because his gaze latched on her then, and this time didn’t let her go. As if he might be trying to say something else, but the words were cemented inside his head, unable to break free.
Then the bat cracked, and they turned to see the ball soar across the field into the blue and lavender of twilight.
“Run!” Ford hit his feet and she followed, screaming.
Gunnar threw the bat—somebody ducked—and scampered to first base.
Out in the field, the ball tipped off the outstretched hand of the middle fielder and kept rolling.
Gunnar rounded first and headed to second.
The outfielder took off after the ball and ten feet later, scooped it up. Threw it.
The ball fell halfway to second base, still in the outfield. The second baseman took off to fetch it as Gunnar hit second.
His coach was rounding him to third, and Gunnar slipped, fell, and scrambled back up as the second baseman picked up the ball.
“Run, Gunnar!” Ford hopped down the bleachers to the ground, running along the fencing, his arm swinging. “Go home! Home!”
The coach had the same idea, and Gunnar popped the bag and kept running.
The second baseman threw in the ball to the pitcher.
Scarlett was on the ground now, running beside Ford as they kept up with Gunnar, bouncing along the fence, screaming.
The pitcher turned.
“Slide! Hit the dirt!” Ford shouted.
Gunnar threw himself face first into the plate, diving low.
The catcher grabbed the throw just as Gunnar slid over the rubber.
A breath, and in that moment Scarlett’s gaze fell on Ford.
He was just as fierce as she imagined him out in the field of operation, his expression tight, his pale green eyes on fire, almost daring the ump to call Gunnar out. But that was how Ford lived his life—all in, playing hard, and getting back up when he fell. Even if he had to fight back blindly. He never gave up. And she wanted…no, needed, that kind of man in her life.
More, he’d nearly died—would have died, maybe—if she hadn’t called out the tango on his back.
So yeah, maybe this man did need her.
