Pitcher Perfect (Big Shots, #4)

by Tessa Bailey

“Hey,” she said, lamely, unable to meet his gaze. Staring at the slight cleft in his chin, instead. Or was that a dent from a puck? “Hey,” he said, pausing for a moment before taking off his hat, dropping it to his outer thigh. “You going to look at me?” “I can’t.” “It’s bad enough suffering through hour after hour without you, Skylar.” His voice turned gruffer as he spoke. “Knowing you’re in bad shape, too, might be the death blow, you know that? Look at me.” Suffering? Her eyes lifted of their own accord to search for signs of misery and . . . God, she found them. His eyes were bloodshot and sunken deep, creases on his forehead that hadn’t been there before, the corners of his mouth turned down. “Yeah,” he rasped. “You see what life without you does to me?” Her breath caught. “Did you come here to tell me you’re miserable?” “I didn’t know what I was going to do until I got here and saw you.” “And?” His Adam’s apple lifted. Stuck. “You have a ball and a couple of gloves in that bag?” “I always have a ball and a couple of gloves,” she whispered, aching with the barely controlled need to throw her arms around him and inhale his scent. “Why?” “You told me the first pitch is the hardest. That once you throw the first one, you settle into your game.” He toed her fallen bag with his boot. “Why don’t you throw it to me before you go in? Get the nerves out of your system.” I love you. I love you I love you.