Blackness Within (44 page)

“You’re a good date,” Blake says sweetly and now it’s my turn to snort.

He and I dig in while we wait for the announcers to finish their pre-game talk.

“I can’t fuckin’ believe he’s playin’ for us,” Blake grunts around his sandwich.

“Why?” I ask perplexed.

“Because I beat his ass in high school.”

My brow furrows until I put two and two together.

“That’s Brent McAllister? The Brent McAllister?”

“That’s him.”

I furrow my brow further and look at his image on the screen in his new Kansas City Royals uniform. There’s something familiar about him that I can’t quite place. He’s a good third baseman. He’s a well-known athlete. That’s probably why he looks familiar. I’ve watched his games.

“Tosh told you about that night, right?” Blake’s hard voice pulls me out of my fog.

“Yeah,” I huff.

“I should’ve beat all their asses. I went at Brent because he was a fuckin’ coward. If I hit women, Amy Porter would’ve gotten the taste of my boot in her mouth after I shoved my foot up her bony ass. She was a cunt. Probably still is.”

“I get it, man,” I assure him. I get it.

“I know you do.”

Silence settles over us as we watch the Royals battle the Indians. It’s a good game and douche knuckle McAllister is playing an awesome game. Fucker.

In the top of the fifth inning, a high flying ball heads toward foul territory. McAllister sprints in the direction of the ball and the stands. He dives over the rail, his arm outstretched and snags the ball. The crowd goes insane as he throws it back in play. He jogs down the stands a few feet and stops in front of a group before grabbing a woman. He pulls her to him and smacks a giant kiss on her lips before running back to his position.

The roaring crowd reaches a deafening level as the move is replayed on the screen in the outfield. The same shot running across the TV right now. A cameraman was only a few feet from McAllister’s show and got the candid shot. The camera zeros in on McAllister at first, catching the back of his head as he kisses the chick. Then he pulls away and the camera focuses on the woman. The blonde-haired, grey-eyed woman.

“You’ve got to be fuckin’ kidding me,” Blake whispers, dropping his soda can on the table with a thud.

I don’t respond. I clutch my shorts as I fist my hands and watch the replay over and over. The long angle doesn’t show what I want so I’m waiting for the close up again. When it rolls across the screen after the last Indian is thrown out at first by a cocky McAllister, I hold my breath.

Her fingers are curled around the bar in front of her as he pulls her to him. Her grip tightens when he smashes his lips against hers. I need to see her eyes. Are they tornadic and wanting or are they still and calm? I lock onto them and find…I don’t know. There’s no tornado brewing, but there’s more fire than the stillness I’d like to be witnessing.

That’s it.

I’m on my feet and moving toward the door before I process the movement.

“Beat his fuckin’ ass for me!” Blake shouts as I slam the door.

Fuck the friend zone. That’s the last time I watch another man touch what’s mine. She’s mine! Natasha’s about to learn that, whether she wants to or not. Natasha Reynolds is my woman. My future. My worthy spot in life.

She’s the one.

Natasha

Brent McAllister just kissed me.

No, Brent McAllister just kissed me in front of a sold out Kauffman Stadium crowd of 27,000 people during a nationally televised game.

What. The. Fuck?

I’m not even sure what I’m doing here. Brent called me at eight this morning and told me there would be a ticket waiting for me at will call. I sat in my room for most of the morning after that thinking about my bizarre evening with Sully.

I’ve spent a lot of time with him. A lot. He’s kind and tender. Funny and entertaining. Thoughtful and genuine. How am I supposed to just be friends with him? Take his unbelievable hotness out of the equation. The way he is with me is beyond tempting, it’s making me desperate to experience the full breadth of his wonder.

Unfortunately, I still don’t trust that he won’t hurt me again. I haven’t seen him with another woman since Flannigan’s, but he often goes out after he spends evenings with me. I can only assume that he goes to the pub or a nightclub or wherever he goes with his roommates and finds a random woman to share the night with.

He hasn’t invited me to join him and I wouldn’t go if he did. I don’t need to witness him in all his womanizing glory.

So I tortured myself with images of chocolate eyes gazing at me with heat and passion, strong arms embracing me in comfort, soft warm lips devouring me with fervor and then images of the women that actually get all of those things from Sully.

When I couldn’t stand it another minute, I got dressed and came to the stadium. After I yelled at Blake for smothering me. He is. And yet, he doesn’t deserve my annoyance. I should only be annoyed at myself. I am.

Now I’m here in this place with what feels like the whole world watching me. I tentatively take my seat and watch the game feeling embarrassed and confused.

Why would Brent do that? He was never that forward with me in high school. I’m aware that was over a decade ago and a lot has changed since then. I’ve followed his career a little and I don’t remember him doing that to any other women.

He’s been linked with models and actresses. He’s been in tabloids. He’s been on
People’s
Most Beautiful List multiple years in a row.

I’m just a woman from the Midwest with humble beginnings and a solid work ethic. What the fuck is he doing kissing me like that?

I watch the rest of the game in a daze. By the time the Royals win the game, I’ve decided coming here was a mistake and plan to make a hasty retreat. There was a note with my ticket when I picked it up. Brent asked me to wait for him after the game. He wants to take me out to dinner. No way. I can’t.

I also can’t run out of the stadium because I’m sitting next to the field and the entire stadium seems dead set on beating me out of here. A few guys whistle and say offensive stuff as I wait on the stairs behind a family. My knees start to shake and I feel vulnerable, alone.

I hate this feeling. I had it when I was younger. I beat it away as an adult. And Roman gave it back to me. I want my strength back. I’m finding it, but in moments like this, it’s painfully obvious I have a long way to go.

The speakers crackle throughout the stadium as a reporter begins to ask players questions about the game. My trembling body quakes harder when Brent steps up to the microphone.

“That was a great game, Brent. How does it feel to be home and win your first game in a Royals uniform?” the reporter asks.

“Just about the best homecoming I could imagine. I’m so grateful to have a chance to play for the Royals. I grew up here dreaming of playing for this team and now that dream’s come true,” Brent responds kindly.

I can’t see him on the field, but he’s being projected on the screen in the outfield. He’s handsome and self-assured. There are no nerves present at all as he fields questions and answers professionally, if not a little rehearsed.

“Last question, Brent. Can you tell us about the play in the fifth and your celebration?”

My cheeks flame and I bite my lip, willing the damn line to move so I can get out of here.

“I was glad I could make the play. Diving in the stands is always risky, but worth it most of the time. And as for my celebration…it’s just really good to be home,” he answers coyly.

“I’m assuming you know the lady.”

“I do. She’s a great woman who I’m looking forward to spending a lot more time with now that we’re in the same city.”

“Well, congratulations on coming home and a great win tonight. Ladies and Gentleman, Brent McAllister, our hometown hero!” the reporter finishes with a flourish.

The retreating crowd, along with the fans waiting for autographs, cheer and chant as Brent flashes a gorgeous smile and gives a wave of his hat.

He’s really good at this.

Brent jogs over to some kids screaming his name near where he kissed me and I turn around and climb another stair away from him.

“Natasha!” Brent’s voice bellows from behind me.

I drop my chin to my chest and huff. I’m not getting out of here.

“Damn it,” I grunt before turning around.

I slide past a few people and descend the stairs toward Brent who’s grinning at me as I move. The hair stands up on my neck and I feel the color drain from my face. Someone’s watching me. I stop and scan the crowd, finding a ton of people watching me.

“Of course they are,” I mumble and keep moving.

I still feel uneasy as I approach Brent. I know there are curious gazes following me, but my back feels as though holes are being bored into it. I pause once more and look around. Nothing.

By the time I reach Brent, the kids have dispatched. His smiling face has a little concern on it as I lean over the rail toward him

“You look worried,” he states with unease in his voice.

“I’m fine. Just not used to all of this,” I respond, shrugging it off.

I don’t want him to think I’m crazy.

“Sorry about that. I just saw you and couldn’t help myself,” he mutters sheepishly.

“I’m sure,” I scoff.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Brent, I know you’ve dated woman that I can’t hold a candle to. I don’t believe that you can’t control yourself with me and had complete control with them.”

“Tosh…” He trails off, considering my words. “Can we talk about this at dinner? I need a shower. Meet me down at the player’s entrance.”

“I’m not sure. I think I may just head home,” I say looking at my hands.

“Don’t be like that. It’ll be fun. I promise not to attack you in public again. Let me take you out and make it up to you.”

His green eyes catch mine as I tip my chin up. He looks so sweet and innocent right now. I know that’s not the truth, but I’m not agreeing to marry the guy. It’s just dinner.

“I’ll beg,” he prods. “I will. I’ll get on my knees and beg you to go to dinner with me. I’ll call the reporter over and he can get it on camera.”

“Don’t,” I squeal at the seriousness in his tone and posture. “I’ll meet you.”

“Good. If you don’t, I’ll come lookin’ for you,” he threatens lightly.

“Go take your shower,” I say through a snort.

“See you soon, Tosh.”

I wave at him as he backs away. His eyes leave mine and he looks up into the stadium before taking a small spin, looking at every part of the stadium. When his perusal reaches me, his manly chiseled features look child-like. His dream really has come true. It’s a beautiful thing to witness.

I beam a smile at him and get a bigger one in return. Then he turns and sprints toward the dugout. When I lose sight of him, I reach in my purse and pull out the note and accompanying directions on where to meet Brent.

As I read and look around for where to go, I feel my hair raise again and my stomach drops. Someone is watching me. I put the note in my purse and look around slowly. The stadium is basically empty other than the cleanup crew coming into the stands. None of them are looking at me. There’s a security guard a few sections over from me. I’m safe. No one is here. I’m just losing my mind.

“Great,” I grumble before climbing the stairs and attempting to find my way to Brent.

“I wish you would’ve let me drive,” Brent says, offering me his hand.

I stand up from my car and adjust my shorts before replying, “I wouldn’t have my car if you drove. I have a shift tomorrow.”

“You mentioned that,” he mutters, placing a small kiss on my cheek.

“Where are we going?” I ask stepping away so he can shut my door.

“Gram and Dun. They always make room for players according to some of the guys on the team.”

Brent settles his large hand on the small of my back and leads me out of the parking garage. Just as we’re about to exit, I get that damn feeling of being watched again but shake it off. I’m just nervous.

Brent doesn’t say anything while we walk. He looks around and seems to be soaking in his hometown.

“Been a while since you’ve been home?” I ask.