Page 47 of Imperfect Player

It’s not the same man from earlier. This is someone new.

“Um . . . Hi.”

“Is there anything that I can get you to eat? Drink?”

“Oh, uh . . . ”

I’ve been so preoccupied with thoughts of Ethan and that irritating woman in the shop that I haven’t given food much thought.

“If there’s something you would like that we don’t have, just let us know and we’ll make sure it’s available to you.”

“Oh, no, you don’t have to go to all that trouble.”

“It’s no trouble, ma’am.”

“Two beers and two hot dogs,” Chelle tells the man, who happily nods and walks away, returning no more than a few moments later with our items.

I reach into my wallet and pull out some money.

“Oh, no, ma’am, everything is taken care of. Whatever you like, just let us know. It’s on the house.”

“By the house, do you mean Ethan?”

The man chuckles. “Yes, ma’am. Mr. Ambrose gave me explicit instructions to make sure that all your needs are met.”

“I bet he did.”

Warm-ups end and the team begins to walk off the field. Ethan sees me and smiles. Rather than heading for the dugout, he heads straight for me.

Chapter 13

Ethan

My first glance into the stands, the seats I got for Everly were empty.

This time?

Everly’s sitting there, another woman who I assume is her friend Chelle next to her. They’re talking to Dwight. He’s the head of concessions. I asked him to take care of them for me. No expense too high.

Top of the line, top shelf, royal treatment—all for her.

But that’s not what I’m focusing on. It’s her. The jersey she’s wearing. The one with my name on it.

The sight of her, in my jersey, does things to me that I don’t expect. It furthers the things that I’ve been trying to discount for the past week and makes shit . . . real. Like her. Like us.

For a man who never thinks in the plural, who prefers to be on his own because, let’s face it, it’s what’s safe, I sure have been thinking a lot about there being an us. In just a few short weeks, this woman has brought things out of me, made me do things, made me be a person that I don’t recognize, but one that I like, nonetheless. One that I want to be.

“Yo, Ambrose,” Fox calls out to me.

I turn back to face him as a ball comes whizzing by my head.

“Get your eyes off your girlfriend and back into the game,” he tells me.

I turn toward him and send the ball sailing in his direction.

“Watch out or I’ll shove my size fourteen up your sorry ass.”

Fox chuckles as he catches the pitch I just threw him. “Didn’t hear you deny she was your girlfriend.”

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