Behind the Plate (The Boys of Baseball #2) - J. Sterling Page 0,53
him, but I was tired of trying to fix the things that kept breaking between us. His controlling behavior was exhausting. And I was tired. Not to mention the fact that I was genuinely pissed at him. So, no, I wouldn’t be doing the chasing this time regardless of my role.
Climbing up the stairs, I turned toward the private tutoring offices and spotted Chance already sitting in there, his back to me. He was gorgeous, all broad shoulders and strong arms. And don’t get me started on that chest. Guys in college shouldn’t look that good. They shouldn’t be able to look like men who could slay dragons for their women, just to keep them safe.
But Chance Carter did. He’d looked like he wanted to kill Jared yesterday, and even if it made me a bad person, it’d turned me on. I’d never seen Chance look so angry, and I still had no idea why, but I assumed it had to have been about me.
I paused for a moment when I reached the door and inhaled a long breath before grabbing the knob. The moment my hand touched the cold metal, Chance turned around, his hard green eyes meeting mine and instantly softening. I tried to stop the smile from forming on my face but failed. It was official: Chance Carter made me giddy.
“Hey,” I said as I closed the door behind me.
“Hey yourself,” he said, his tone not as friendly as I had expected.
“You okay?” I asked because I hadn’t thought for a second that things between Chance and me could go back to the way they had been at the beginning. Not after the other night at his house.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” he said, sounding anything but.
I tossed my bag on top of the table with a loud thud and sat down. “Please don’t turn into the old Chance,” I practically pleaded, and he cocked his head to one side.
“The old Chance?”
“Yeah,” I started to explain, “the one who goes back and forth, up and down. The one I can’t read. I thought we were past all that. I thought we were”—I paused for a second—“friends.”
He swallowed hard. I watched his throat bob. “We are.”
“Friends tell each other what’s wrong.”
“Fine.” He relented with a huff. “I heard something”—he shrugged one shoulder—“and it upset me.”
Color me intrigued. I waved my hand to get him to continue talking. “Tell me more.”
“Did something happen to you last year with a football player?” He tried to act composed, but the anger in his tone was undeniable.
I was caught off guard. Surprised. I hadn’t even remotely expected this. I didn’t want to lie to him, but I really didn’t want to relive what I’d already put behind me either. “Yeah. How’d you hear?”
“One of my old teammates said something about it last night,” he said casually, and every word stuck in my head.
He was talking about me to his friends?
“What did he say?”
“That a football player stalked you.” His green eyes pinched together, and he looked like he was in physical pain.
It took everything in me not to reach out and comfort him. I wanted to grab his hand, kiss the top of it, and tell him that I was okay now. That he didn’t need to worry.
“Is it true?” His voice cracked and I felt a piece of me crack as well.
Nodding, I answered, “It’s true.”
The pained expression on his face stayed put as he stared, and it damn near killed me.
“Are you okay?” He reached for my hand, took it in his, and held it, his thumb rubbing across the top.
I’d almost forgotten that he asked me anything. All I could feel was his skin on mine.
“I’m okay,” I answered, but it came out in a whisper.
“Are you sure?”
“I am. He’s gone now. And he stopped before it got really bad.”
“He never should have started.” Chance dropped my hand, and I focused on the empty feeling there instead of his words. “Danika.” Chance’s voice was strong, demanding that I give him my attention.
I looked up, unsure of what he needed from me. “What?”
“I’m going out of my fucking mind, okay? The thought of someone hurting you. Touching you when you don’t want them to.” His eyes closed, and his jaw clenched. His head shook one last time, like he was ridding it of all the bad thoughts and images that lived there. “I can’t handle it. I literally can’t fucking handle it when it comes to you.”