Rounding Third - Michelle Lynn Page 0,8

fury swimming in those blue eyes. “Crosby, you’ve had how long to prepare yourself for seeing me?” Her eyes turn to pleading.

“Two months,” I deadpan, suddenly feeling as small as a mouse with a cat looming overhead.

“I had no time. Not even one second. So, please”—she steps forward, pressing her palm right below my heart, only spurring a repeating video in my mind when her delicate hand would cover my heart—“give me a little bit of time. We need to talk, but please, I’m begging you, give me some space.”

“I think you’re convincing yourself more than me.” The right side of my lips turn up.

Her soft eyes flip back to anger. “Don’t, Crosby. I’m asking nicely. Do not do it.”

“Do what?”

“You know exactly what. Let me process this. My mind is like a hurricane. Every wave is crashing to shore with another damn thought or question drowning me before I process the first one. I need to work this out.”

I want to scream that there’s nothing to work out. I’m back, and we both know we love each other. I don’t see the problem.

“Okay,” I relent.

She doesn’t give me another heart melting smile. Instead, she turns on her heels and heads for the house.

I jog a few steps to catch up. “I said, okay. I’ll give you some time. We can be friends.”

She stops right before the stairs to the house, and her eyes pin on me. “Okay.” Uneasiness now pierces her eyes, but she’s going to let the topic rest. She turns back around, climbing up the steps. “Now…to find Jen.” Her voice sounding exhausted.

“Hey, Third Base, I had no idea you knew Ella Keaton, too!” a guy screams out.

I have no idea which shitty second-string player it was. The cockiness in his voice has me suspecting that he knows Ella on a way too personal level. A level I’m not comfortable with. A level that will result in me kicking his ass to the next block.

She stops to look to her right and beelines it right to the culprit. Before I can come back with a reply, she pushes the guy back, making him falter to the edge of the porch. He grips the top railing with fear in his eyes.

“Don’t you dare,” she says through clenched teeth. She pushes him over the edge and into the hedge.

The guys around him laugh. Seemingly happy with herself, Ella turns around, whizzes by me, and walks into the house.

The music is thumping louder than earlier. Brax is sprawled out on the couch with his hands up the same blonde’s shirt. Oliver is watching two girls giving him a lap dance. I haven’t met our shortstop yet. For all I know, he’s one of these other guys. I look around to all the carefree college kids. My teammates are treated like rock stars. An array of girls, ready and willing, lingers on every wall, waiting for their turn. This is a wet dream for most guys. I wanted this once upon a time—until I lived a life without Ella.

As though we can read each other’s thoughts, she turns around, and our eyes lock. For a moment, we’re back there—at a high school party, the prom king and queen, the envy of our classmates. We were the couple who would make it and prove statistics wrong.

“I can’t find her.” She heads to Brax and kicks him in the shin.

He ignores her, swatting his hand at her before it ventures down the blonde’s waistline.

“Brax!” she screams.

He slides his face to the side, allowing the blonde to mark his skin like a damn vampire.

“I’m busy, El.” His head tips back, and his eyes close briefly from the pleasure he’s experiencing.

“Where’s Jen?”

“How the hell should I know? Check the bedrooms.”

The blonde claims his lips again, and he swiftly flips her over to her back.

Conversation over.

“Seriously, go upstairs. No one needs to see you grinding,” Ella remarks. She peeks back at me before I can process the flush of her cheeks, she’s jogging up the stairs.

“Why don’t you stay, and we can spend some more time together?” I argue, following her.

Her eyes glance over her shoulder, giving me a look that says, Not if I were the last living person in a zombie-invading movie. “I need to get home.”

“Where is that?” I ask, continuing to trail her from door to door as she knocks and jiggles each doorknob.

“Nice try.” She gives me a condescending smile and moves to door number three—my room. It squeaks open, and