The Love Series Complete Box Set (186 page)

As I sling a bag over my shoulder and Conner tucks a few bases under his arm, I worry that maybe this isn’t what he had in mind. “I hope this is okay?” The trunk slamming closed is the only sound for second.

“It’s more than okay.” A proud smile crinkles the corners of his eyes. Warmth blooms in my chest as his mouth pulls into an appreciative smile—not just because I’ve chosen to include him in this part of my life, but that it even exists at all.

The two-hour practice passes by quickly. Kieran almost nails me in the head during pitching practice because I was too busy staring at Conner. The way the muscles of his strong arms bunched and pulled as he easily hit fly balls into the outfield served as a somewhat mild distraction. At one point, I almost choked on my own tongue as I watched the lean, cut muscles of his calves shift under his weight. Kieran had to repeat his question because I was so busy thinking about those legs wrapped around my waist.

We finish practice with some sprints. “Wanna race, Coach Michelson?” The boys have become more and more comfortable with Conner over the course of the morning and they think nothing of his size as they throw down their challenge.

Life is simple when you’re twelve. You’re invincible and pitting yourself against an athlete like Conner poses no trouble whatsoever. Sometimes I wonder if life will be that simple ever again.

After the last sprint, the boys fall into a heap on the ground, wheezing and catching their breath. “Might want to think twice before you challenge me next time,” Conner brags, laughing as he tosses them each a water bottle. They exchange a few more good-natured ribs before the bus pulls back in to pick the boys up.

We grab all of our gear and walk the boys back. Before Brett gets on the bus, he turns back to Conner. “You’re gonna be back next week, right, Coach Michelson?” The two developed a bond quickly, spending most of the practice together.

Conner quickly glances over at me, silently checking that it’s okay to say yes. I nod and he turns back to Brett who’s watched the brief exchange, hoping for Conner’s return.

“Wouldn’t miss it for anything, Brett.” Brett launches himself onto the bus, excitedly calling out that Conner will be back next week. From the small windows, the boys wave back at us as they pull away, their voices fading as the bus drifts further and further away.

We toss our stuff in the trunk and slide back onto our seats. “So how about lunch?” Despite his “no meal” requirement, I ask anyway.

“Yeah, I’m starved.” We pull out of the lot, the cloud of dust returning as we drive away. We decide on a diner since neither one of us are really dressed for anything that’s more than casual. After the waitress seats us and takes our orders, Conner asks, “So where are their parents?”

I shrug and roll the straw wrapper into a ball. “Don’t know. Some of them are dead, some in jail, some never had any—not that they remember anyway.”

“How’d you get involved?” Genuine interest accentuates his question.

“We did a few seminars there for work. After our contract was up, the boys didn’t want our time to end and neither did I. I had really grown to like them, so when they told me about wanting to join the local little league, I knew I had to help them. I pulled a few strings with the league and covered in costs what the home couldn’t. When they asked me to be their coach, there was no way I could say no.”

“That’s really amazing of you, Dylan.”

I roll one shoulder, deflecting his compliment. “So,” I venture nervously, “was that what you had in mind?”

“Nope.” Curtly, he dismisses me. He laughs before adding, “It was way more than I expected.”

I reach across the small fifties-inspired laminate tabletop, and lightly graze my fingers over the back of his hand. “I’m full of surprises; I promise.” His eyes widen at my suggestive comment and I see his throat work as he swallows; his Adam’s apple bobbing is sexy-as-fuck.

The waitress returns with our meals, not affording him anytime for a lusty comeback. Over a few plates of scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon, we learn about each other’s favorite movies, books, hobbies, and interests.

“Wait a minute, how have you never seen
Field of Dreams?
” Incredulity flows out of my mouth at Conner’s admission. “Every American boy has seen that movie,” I mumble around a mouth full of toast.

“Wasn’t much into baseball growing up, sorry.” His tongue licks along the seam of his lips, catching a drop of coffee before it drips to his chin. “I started wrestling in middle school, and didn’t stop until I had to.”

“Baseball was in my blood.”

“Was?” His confusion is clear. “Don’t you mean is? I saw you out there today.”

Thoughts of Shane haunt my vision. The more time I spend with Conner, the more I realize I’ll end up telling him about Shane, and how his death still affects me, but now is not the time. Deflecting for now, I avoid answering his question and pose one of my own. “What did you want to be as a kid, like when you grew up?”

A loud, full-bellied laugh bursts out of my mouth when he responds, “Superman.”

“Really?” I spit out through my laughter.

“Yes, really.” He crosses his arms in front of him, pushing his cleared plate to the side. “I always wanted to be the strongest, fastest, most unbeatable man out there. Worked my ass off to get there, too.” A sad tone begins to filter through his words. “I was so close, so fucking close and it was all taken from me.” Though he tries to keep it at bay, his anger hovers at the surface.

Channeling my inner Dr. Baker, I ask, “What do you want to be now?”

Anger recedes and is replaced by a flash of light-hearted goodness. “Now? Now, I just want to be happy.” The sudden seriousness of the conversation would have normally turned me off, made me bite my tongue, but not now. So when Conner asks, “What about you?” I grin back at him, more than ready to answer.

“Happy, too.”

“Maybe we can help each other out then.” His face brightens, as does mine, I’m sure.

We exchange a hopeful look across the table as the waitress approaches with our check. He argues about paying, again, but since this is my date, I insist and he defers.

The minutes of our time together tick away as my car approaches his apartment building. I walk him to the door, half-hoping he’ll invite me in, but when he stops in the foyer, turning on his heel, I know extending our time together isn’t his intention.

He eyes the stairs. “Look, I’d invite you up, but Rachel had a late night last night. She gets these really bad migraines.”

A bubble of disbelief flies out of my mouth. “You don’t need to make excuses.” Raking a hand through my hair calms some of the nerves I’m feeling. Angling my head back toward the door, I explain, “It’s okay. I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Dylan,” he calls me back, “I’m not lying.” He walks over, stopping only inches away from me, the heat of his body filling the limited space between us. A work-roughened hand goes to my neck. A calloused thumb traces the neckline of my t-shirt. Conner’s scent—woodsy and fresh from our time outside—curls around me, melting me almost instantly.

His eyes probe mine, begging me to believe him. And I do. My mouth just doesn’t want to work to say that I do. “There’s nothing I’d rather do than spend the rest of my day with you, but I need to check on Rachel.” A warm breath bathes over my cheek before he presses his lips there. “What are you doing tomorrow night?” he asks before moving his lips to the corner of mine.

Words are impossible. My mouth is focusing on one task right now, and it’s not speaking. I shake my head, silently saying “nothing” and he moves to the other side of my mouth, pressing his lips to the opposite corner. “Good, then,” he smiles smugly. “I’ll be in touch.”

Not so patiently, I wait for him to attack my lips, to plunge his tongue into my mouth, to pull my body into his. But he doesn’t. The absence of his warmth is noticeable as he takes a step back. Holding up two fingers, he chuckles, “That was only two.” He wiggles them back and forth, mocking my crazed lust and me.

A deep huff of frustration flies from my un-kissed lips as I scrub a hand over my face. “Oh, it’s on,” I joke. “You’re so gonna get it now.”

He pulls a face at me, one that is at least partially filled with the same desire I know is in mine. “I hope so.”

Chapter Twenty One

June 7, 2015

Making sure to keep my voice low, I greet Rachel with my standard, “Morning, sunshine” as she stumbles out of her bedroom. The curtains are all drawn, keeping out as much of the light as possible. “Medicine help any?”

She holds up two fingers, meaning
no.
“Wow, must have been a bad one if you don’t even want to talk.” One finger flies up, indicating an adamant
yes.
Lamely, we worked out this nearly uncrackable code for when her headaches are really bad. “Coffee?” One finger.

I slide her a mug, and slowly she lifts the rim to her face, inhaling the ribbons of steam. After a few sips, she’s able to open her eyes, blinking me into view. “We really need to get you to a new doctor.” Carefully, she nods in agreement.

Still not capable of speech just yet, I make her the usual day-after-a-migraine breakfast. The only noise that accompanies our meal is the birds chirping outside the window. Kicking back in my seat, I stretch out my legs and fold my arms behind my head. “Date went well?” Her quiet-as-a-mouse voice breaks the silence.

“Yeah.” I clear the table, careful not to make too much noise putting the dishes in the sink.

“So, how come you were home so early? I mean if it went as well as that shit-eating grin on your face suggests, it doesn’t make much sense that you were home before noon.” She shoots me an accusatory, but playful look. “And,” she drags out the word as she leans against the counter, “if it went so well, how come you were home
alone
all night?”

“I see the coffee is working,” I joke, handing her a dishtowel to dry the plates I’ve just washed. She holds up a finger, snagging the towel from my hand.

“Spill it.” Her elbow digs into my side, and she smiles playfully.

“To answer your questions, smart-ass, I was home early because I knew you had a migraine, so I was worried.” Admiration crinkles her brows, and lifts her lips in a soft, thankful smile. “And,” I hand her a coffee mug, “I stayed home last night because you spent all afternoon throwing up because of your headache and I wanted to make sure you were okay.” I pop a quick kiss to her forehead, and she leans against my side, hugging me as tightly as her sore head will allow her to.

“I love you, Con.” She gives me one more squeeze, looking up at me from my side. “I hate that you have to take care of me.”

“Want. I want to take care of you.”

“So, are you going to see him again?” Her eyes light up and I can tell she wants to bounce with excitement, and clap her hands, but her migraine keeps her actions muted. “Oh, can you bring him here?”

Shaking my head, I pull the towel from her hands and toss it at her face. “Yes, I will see him again, and he is not a show and tell project.” Rachel sticks her tongue out, wiggling it back and forth a few times for added emphasis.

Before walking away from her to get ready to work out, I add, “I’m going there tonight, actually.”

“Oh,” she elongates the word, not unlike some teenage girl would. “What do you guys have planned?”

“Not much,” I quip. “He doesn’t even know about it.”

Later that evening, with the takeout and a movie in hand, I press the buzzer for Dylan’s condo, nervous anticipation thrumming in my veins. Hearing the muffled sound of his bare feet approach the door only amps up my pulse. Shadows dance in the thin strip of light filtering from under the door as he looks through the peephole. Cursing the lack of my x-ray vision, I wish I could see the look of shock on his face when he registers it’s me on the other side.

“Am I missing something?” Disbelief affects the tone of his voice, making his words sound rushed, breathless almost. I almost don’t hear his question. The sight of him in low-slung sweatpants and a beat-up old t-shirt freezes all of my senses.