Go Away, Darling - Alexis Anne Page 0,38

lens that day in the bullpen. I saw this entire playoff experience through my camera.

I fully admit that sometimes a picture is just a picture. That I use all my skill and experience to create a technically excellent composition. But that’s where photography and art diverge. When, as the photographer, I see the raw emotion, the subtle contrast, the natural state of my subject and know without thinking, exactly how to capture that moment in time with my camera.

That’s what I’d spent my last few weeks doing and it was exhilarating to look around the locker room and see the conclusion to the story. I snapped picture after picture of hugs, smiles, and singing, of beer cascading in a river over Wes Allen’s forehead and down his cheeks as he grinned, of Chris roaring and chanting with his fellow pitchers.

A hand wrapped around my arm just above my elbow and I felt Chris’s already familiar presence behind me. He whispered against my ear. “Follow me.” His breath and nearness sent a shiver down my spine.

My clothes dripped and my shoes sloshed. He took my hand in his and we rounded a corner and down a hall away from the noise. A door opened and then we were in a darkened training room.

And Chris wasted no time taking my face in his hands and kissing the air from my lungs. “Fuck, I’ve been waiting to do this. I hate that I couldn’t kiss you on the field.” He kissed deeper, his tongue capturing mine.

I didn’t think. I just kissed. And kissed and kissed and kissed. It was natural to get so swept up in kissing Chris that I forgot about everything else. We bumped into walls and banged against a table or counter or both, before I caught a corner on my hip and jumped away in surprise and a little bit of pain.

“Ow!”

Chris reached out and steadied me. “Are you okay?”

I rubbed the bruised spot. “Fine. I’m fine. I just took a sharp angle to the hip.”

He pressed his hand over the spot. “Better?” His voice dropped to a low, protective vibration that made me shiver.

“Yes.” Then I looked up and got caught in the tractor beam of his slightly drunken gaze. “Congratulations.”

He blushed a little. It was one of the things I adored about him. “Thanks.”

“How does it feel to be Most Valuable Player in a World Series Championship?” Even though he was my Chris I couldn’t help looking at him with a little bit of awe. He was, essentially, the best pitcher in the universe.

He blushed again and raked his hand through his wet hair. “It’s a dream come true. Every kid who picks up a baseball dreams of winning a World Series. I used to stand out on the mound and pretend I was pitching a perfect game to win a World Series.” He stopped and stared at me, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open a little.

He was truly shocked to be that guy—the man who everyone dreamed of being.

“Well...you didn’t pitch a perfect game. But you pitched seven scoreless innings with only three hits. For a World Series final game, that’s as close to perfect as anyone can hope for.”

He shook his head a little like he didn’t believe me. “I know I was there. I know I’m the guy who threw all those balls, but I swear, Liv, it doesn’t feel real. I’m going to wake up and this will all have been a dream and I’ll still have to go and pitch.”

I moved back to him, put my arms around his neck and pressed my body against his. “You’re not asleep. The game is over and you won it.” Then I pressed up onto my tiptoes so I could reach his lips. I kissed him slow and deep until my entire body tingled from head to toe. “How do you feel now?”

His eyes were still closed. “Like I have enough adrenaline to run a few miles. Maybe compete in a log toss?”

I laughed because even from the sidelines I was amped up, so I could only imagine the energy coursing through Chris’s veins. “I don’t know of any log tossing competitions nearby.”

His arms tightened around me. “Well then I guess kissing will just have to do.”

All the restraint we carefully applied to our kisses over the last few weeks disappeared. We caught fire. Suddenly kissing wasn’t nearly enough.

“Don’t go to Beau’s,” he pleaded, his hands roaming my waist and finding skin. “Come