for brunch, bombarded Travis’s brain. He fell into that category now, didn’t he?
His stomach gave an uncomfortable twist. The kitchen seemed really small and dark all of a sudden. “Shit,” he muttered, shoving a hand through his hair.
The kicker of it all? He kind of wanted to tell Georgie about the possible commentator job. More than he wanted to tell Stephen or Dominic. What the fuck was up with that?
She would tell him the truth with none of the bullshit. That’s what was up. He would get her honest reaction or nothing at all. Right now when nothing in his life made sense, that truthfulness was valuable. He’d had team managers smile to his face while preparing to blindside him with a trade. Had teammates clap him on the shoulder and tell him another opportunity would come, when they both knew damn well it wouldn’t. To know with 100 percent certainty that Georgie would shoot straight with him . . . it made him itch to have her in front of him. Just for a little while.
If he had her phone number, he would have given her a call to reschedule the appointment. But he didn’t have it. And he was not about to ask Stephen to slide him those little-sister digits. There was no doubt in Travis’s mind that Stephen would get the wrong idea. Travis didn’t have any interest in Georgie beyond redoing the fireplace no one else seemed to have time for . . . and maybe confiding in her about things he didn’t plan on telling another soul. Not a big deal.
“Christ. You need your head examined.” He turned and threw open an overhead cabinet, looking for anything that resembled food. He wasn’t totally useless in the kitchen. As a kid, he’d spent a lot of days and nights fending for himself. When his father was too depressed and drunk to cook, Travis scrambled his own eggs and made his own school lunches. Fried his own burgers. His meal choices had been made on the fly until he’d read an article in Sports Illustrated that outlined the daily protein intake of Sammy Sosa. Steaks, vegetables, fish, brown rice. All things he’d been missing.
Convinced he’d never make it to the pros without the proper diet, Travis started a paper route, just so he could buy the right groceries. His route was done on foot, since his parents couldn’t afford a bike, but he’d gotten up earlier than the other paper route kids and made it work. After school, he’d go to the store himself and walk the half mile home, arms wrapped around two paper bags. Travis could still feel his father sneering at him from the kitchen archway while he tested the temperature of his first steak.
Someday you’ll realize it was all a waste of time.
Swallowing the fist in his throat, Travis circled the kitchen table. Yeah. It wasn’t so much that he couldn’t make his own meals. Apart from his lost month after being cut from his last team—when he’d gone on a takeout-and-booze bender—he’d been pretty handy in the kitchen. He didn’t necessarily need Georgie to fill his fridge with tasty goodness.
But it had been really nice opening the fridge and knowing someone cared. Travis never had that in his life. Sure, when he’d become friends with Stephen, the Castles invited him over for dinner at least twice a week. Those nights had been a godsend when his paper route money ran out, but in the later years, Vivian had started splitting duties with Dominic’s mother. Who’s going to feed the Ford boy tonight? Despite their best intentions, they’d inadvertently made him a charity case.
Nothing remained permanent. For those few nights when he’d had someone’s leftovers in his fridge to come home to, though . . . for once, something had seemed constant. Tangible.
Travis didn’t realize he’d moved into the bedroom until he started pulling on some sweatpants. He threw on a gray World Series champs shirt, leaving it untucked, and stuffed his feet back into his work boots. Trying to shake the inconvenient sense of dread, Travis plucked his tools and a legal pad from where he’d left them near the door and headed for the truck. It would take only ten minutes to measure Georgie’s fireplace and then he could get back to enjoying his night alone.
Travis turned the corner onto Georgie’s block and saw the small brick ranch-style house at the end of the cul-de-sac. The sun was setting, outlining it