Jock Row

“You wanted to get the hell out of there, huh?”

“Basically. Growing up in a college town then staying in that college town? They couldn’t have offered me enough to stay, in all honestly. My mom would have been dropping in every damn weekend to bring me care packages and shit.”

“I know, but…” Guh. “Florida.”

My whispered sigh is dreamy and wistful.

Sun and sand and swimsuits…

“When you whisper the word like that, it’s creepy.” He laughs and I bump him with my elbow, teasing. Flirting. “You’ve got coral and dolphins and weird shit on the brain.”

Guilty.

I have him on the brain, too.

“I still don’t understand how anyone could up and leave Florida.” I know I sound a little over the top, but I don’t care. I’d give anything to live by the coast, near the wide open sea, the waves.

“Because it’s hot and crowded, and everywhere you go, it’s filled with annoying tourists or snowbirds in town for the winter.”

He nudges the swing forward when it slows.

“That cannot be the reason you aren’t going there.” I know I’m repeating myself, but who in their right mind passes up a scholarship to FSU?

An insane person, that’s who! I didn’t get accepted anywhere interesting, just Iowa, Iowa State, a school in Wisconsin, and one stuck between Minnesota and North Dakota.

No whales, no water.

“It’s not the only reason, obviously. When I came to Iowa for a visit, I really clicked with the team—their comradery game is strong. The facilities here are new, totally sick, and, I don’t know…it felt like the best decision for me at the time.”

At the time? “And now?”

“Now I only regret the decision when we lose.” He laughs, laying our joined hands on his hard thigh.

I look down at it, study the dark hairs sprinkled across his knuckles, which I can just make out in the light from the porch lanterns.

I swallow, blinking up at the moon.

“The Midwest isn’t exactly an epicenter of activity,” I can’t help pointing out, voice shaking a little. Dammit. “Don’t you get bored here?”

“Maybe a little, but I really love this campus—it’s pretty damn gorgeous. We don’t have buildings like this in the South.”

Quietly, I mentally list all the reasons he should have gone to school in his home state: in-state tuition, the beach, Disneyworld, year-round sunshine, the beach.

“Hurricanes.”

Shit. “Did I say that stuff out loud?”

“Just some of it.” He laughs softly. “You murmured it, really.”

I look toward the house, watching through the windows, looking at everyone inside, laughing and drinking and having fun. A few denim-clad asses are pressed against the glass, and within, people dance to the thumping, upbeat soundtrack.

It’s a loud, bumping bass, and not at all my taste in music.

I don’t miss the party one bit.

I’m rather content to sit out here with Rowdy—Sterling—and learn more about him.

“So what position do you play?”

“Shortstop.”

“Are you any good?”

“I got twenty-three full-ride scholarship offers.”

Holy shit. Does that actually happen to people?

“I haven’t come and watch the team play yet. Baseball is more my dad’s thing than mine,” I confess sheepishly.

Beside me, his wide shoulders give a casual shrug. “Usually girls come to the games for one of two reasons.” He stabs at his forefinger. “One, they’re huge fans of the game.” He stabs at his thumb. “Or two, they’re huge fans of the players.”

“I’ve always wondered what it would be like playing in front of huge crowds like that. Does it ever make you nervous?”

“It used to, back when I was freshman, but not anymore.”

“What’s your favorite part of the game?”

“Winning,” his husky voice informs me, unapologetic.

“That was always my favorite part, too.”

“Do you play baseball?”

“I did—softball, through high school. Honestly, it’s not really my passion, but I play here, too, in an intramural league. It’s something to do.” Like I said, my father is obsessed with the game, and when I was little, he signed me up for every recreational team our town had. Coached a few of them, too.

“No fucking way—what position?”

“Third base, usually, depending on who shows up.”

“Are you any good?”

“Let me put it this way; I was offered zero full-ride scholarships.”

Rowdy’s laugh is loud, punctuating the crisp night air like an exclamation point, his feet pumping the swing below our asses, making the chains creek.

“When does your season start?”

“After the winter break we start practicing, then we have a few pre-season games.”

January.

“Are you really a psych major? You weren’t kidding?” Lord, where are all these questions coming from?

“Yes, I’m really a psych major. If I don’t play baseball professionally, I’ll get my master’s and doctorate.” Rowdy dips his head, almost timidly, inspecting the ground as the swing rocks back and forth. “Maybe you should let me evaluate you—for science.”

I don’t know how he does it, but Rowdy twists his impressive form toward me, curling a leg under himself, unclasping our hands and draping an arm lazily on the back of the swing. Drums his fingers on the wood, green gaze learning all the lines in my face.

This is why I keep coming back—this moment right here. The intense way he’s watching me right now, like I’m pretty and interesting, even in these ridiculous clothes. The way his deep voice vibrates in my chest and awakens those damn butterflies every time he speaks.

His easy laugh. His disarming smile and the delicious way he smells, like aftershave and the shower and fresh air.

God, he’s fascinating. Good-looking and funny, and he makes my heart not just pound, but palpitate. Virile and strong, I spent the better part of last evening watching baseball videos of him online for two solid hours.

Two!

Videos of his hand dipping to retrieve a ball for drills infield before a game.

Video after video of him gripping a ball with three fingers before lobbing it to the pitcher. I watched him study the field under the brim of his dusty, black cap, hair sticking up under the brim. Watched him wipe sweat away, ball clenched in his fist.

Six foot two inches of sweet, homegrown Florida citrus.

Mmm mmm mmm.

“I have a serious question—this is for your psych eval.”

I nod, fiddling with my mittens, stomach doing a slow roll. “Okay.”

“If you suddenly found out your internal monologue from the last hour was made audible, how screwed would you be?”

So freaking screwed. “On a scale of one to ten?”

“Sure,” he draws out, relaxing his chin in the palm of his hand—the one he has perched against the seatback of the swing.

“Um, maybe a…” Twelve. “I don’t know, five?”

I hold his stare, unblinking. Unflinching.

His eyes narrow. “Are you lying?”

I force my mouth into a straight line. It betrays me. “Pfft, no.”

“Yes you are.” His grin is as lazy as his posture.

“I guess you’ll never know, will you?”

He rolls his eyes at me with a grin, and it’s positively endearing. “When’s the last time you had an indecent thought?”

Three minutes ago. “I can’t remember.”

Rowdy shakes his head because he knows I’m full of shit. I smile, big and toothy and fake. “What about you?”

“Guess you’ll never know, will you,” he deadpans, parroting me.

Dammit!

“Just tell me. Please?” I bat my lashes, hoping it looks pretty and not like I have a bug caught in my eye.

“Last indecent thought?” He rubs the scruff on his chin. “’Bout half an hour ago.”