Page 40 of Imperfect Player

More than a chance, actually.

The sports announcer makes his way onto the field where the Railcats are cheering. He shoves a microphone directly in Ethan’s face.

“Ethan, your pitching in this series has looked better than it has all season. What’s new? What’s changed?”

Ethan looks directly at the camera, dimples in full effect as he smiles. “I have a lucky charm.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in luck?”

“I didn’t—until now.”

Maddox’s arm wraps around Ethan’s neck in a sort of embrace. He pulls Ethan away and they continue to celebrate.

“There you have it,” the sportscaster says. “Ethan Ambrose and his lucky charm.”

Chelle bumps her shoulder into me. “Looks like the feeling is mutual too.”

As I crawl into bed, I keep thinking about the change in dynamics between me and Ethan. The warnings that he’s given me that I deserve better than him. The fact that being with a man like him could blow my career out of the water.

So much is up in the air when it comes to him. So much that I don’t know how to interpret or understand. Chelle’s right, though. I like Ethan. Way more than I want to.

Just as I’m about to set my phone on the nightstand, a text from Ethan comes through.

Ethan: Did you see the game?

Me: I did. It was amazing. YOU were amazing.

Ethan: I couldn’t have done it without you.

Me: Whatever.

I type the word, both wanting to blow off what he’s saying and also looking for confirmation that he actually does mean it.

Ethan: It’s true, sunshine. Having you in my life makes everything better.

Me: I feel the same.

The same and so much more.

Chapter 11

Ethan

What a high.

We dominated this series. I dominated this series.

And I owe it all to Everly.

That’s why the minute I got off the plane, I made a beeline for a florist.

Now, here I am, standing at her door with a massive bouquet of flowers in my hand. Nervous, I run my hand through my hair.

I’m not even sure what I’m doing here or why I rushed right over.

What I do know is that I’ve spent more time thinking about her this past week than I should have. I know that the flowers in my hand weren’t easy to pick because I wanted to make sure to get her just the right ones.

I know I should turn around and leave. It’s what’s best for her—not me. She . . . she is what’s best for me. I’m just terrified that I’m going to destroy her.

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