Page 63 of Imperfect Player

Ethan laces his fingers with mine and pulls me into the elevator.

“Come on, let me show you what I’ve got.”

“I thought pitchers didn’t bat.”

“They don’t, usually. But I have a damn good swing. I want to keep it that way.”

“A little overconfident, aren’t you?”

“Never.”

When he said batting cages, I assumed he meant at the stadium or the practice field. Nope. Here we are at a family fun center, hands filled with quarters.

“This isn’t exactly what I envisioned,” I tell him.

Not that I’m not loving every moment of it. The sound of the arcade games in the background, the chain-link fenced cages, the miniature golf course off to the side.

“I know. It’s so much better, right?”

His smile is broad and the most genuine that I’ve ever seen it. He looks like a kid in a candy store.

“It’s like being a kid again.”

Something flashes across his face that I can’t quite comprehend. I’m not sure if it’s a sadness or anger, and it’s gone just as quickly as it appears.

“I do it for the kids,” he tells me. “They love getting the chance to watch some major league guy practice just like they do.”

He’s not wrong. We’ve only been here five minutes, just enough time to park and get all these quarters for the batting cage, and yet quite the crowd has gathered around us already.

Kids with their jaws practically hitting the ground, parents with their phones out.

For a moment, I worry. About what this might look like. About what it might mean for my career. Then I look at Ethan, standing there in all his glory, and for some reason I just don’t give a damn anymore. I love the way he’s looking at me, love the way he makes me feel. Not just when we’re together, but when we’re apart too.

Isn’t that what really matters? Not what the rumor mill says or what people think. I’m damn good at my job, and my work should speak for itself. My clients should speak for themselves. And Ethan, he isn’t my client.

“Well then, give them what they want.”

Ethan shakes his head. “Ladies first.”

“We came here for you to bat, not me.”

“True,” he says, making his way around me. His fingers run along my stomach as he moves behind me. He rests his chin on my shoulder, his lips near my ear. I hiss at the feel of him against me like this. I can hear a soft chuckle before he speaks. “I would hate to be the one having all the fun.”

“All these people are watching.”

I’m not sure if I say the words out of the nervousness rising in me about batting or because people might see us in a less than professional or friendly stance.

He shrugs. “So?”

So? That’s his response? So?

“What has gotten into you today?” I ask him, both liking this switch and fearing it because clearly he’s up to something.

Something besides just torturing me by making me bat in front of a large group of people when I can’t even recall the last time I swung a bat.

He takes a step back, crosses his arms over his chest, and just smirks at me.

“Fine,” I grumble, turning toward the batting cage.

---