Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 85838 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85838 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Zane runs for it, lunging to save the ball, and then spinning around to reach first right as the pitcher’s racing over to cover the bag.
But the pitcher’s got a head of steam going. The rookie’s running like hell too, like they didn’t get the memo to take it easy in the All-Star Game.
Zane calls off the pitcher, and when the guy spins away at the last possible second, Sutton barrels into Zane. I flinch as the runner collides with my guy, then I wince loudly as Zane topples, reaching out his hands behind him to break the fall.
“Oh my god,” Adriana cries out.
My breath stops. My heart freezes.
Please be okay.
Zane doesn’t move, just flicks his wrist back and forth, like the pain is too much.
33
SUPER BOYFRIEND
Maddox
Perched on the edge of my seat, praying silently to anyone, I watch, strung tight. And after thirty awful seconds, Zane rises slowly to his knees. The pitcher—Cohen from the Comets—offers him a hand. Zane waves him off, shaking his wrist instead, then cradling it.
My muscles tense even more. This is bad. He’s hurt in the All-Star Game, so they’re going to pull him any second.
I lean into Adriana, whispering as I pass, “I’ve got to go see him.”
Adriana shoos me away. “Go see your man,” she says quietly.
Zane’s Mister Durable. He’s Mister Steady. He’s not had an injury in more than three years. He’s terrified of getting hurt. He’ll be freaking out whether this is small or big. I have to go to him. Calm him. Comfort him.
The trainer trots from the dugout to Zane.
The Los Angeles trainers—as the host team—will check his wrist. See if anything’s broken or sprained. My sweet, worried man will think the worst.
Pulse rocketing, I bolt, race up the steps two by two, then nearly smack into Vance and Jesse at the top.
Vance’s eyes are wide, his jaw open. He flaps his arm to the field. “Holy smokes. Did you see that?”
“I did,” I bite out. No time for small talk.
“You gonna check on our guy?”
Our guy? No, he’s my guy. He’s my boyfriend. He’s the big love of my life.
Fuck the email. Fuck the process. Fuck everything else in the world but living and loving without fear.
“Yes, I’m going to see him. But not because he’s our client. I’m going to see him because I fell in love with him. You’ll get an email from me tomorrow morning. But I’ll sum it up now—I’m quitting. I can’t represent him anymore or work at CTM because of this. And I need to go.”
Vance blinks. Sputters. Spits out a, “What?”
“Thanks for everything,” I call out as I run, since I’m not waiting to chat more. I bound down the concourse, weaving through crowds, passing the concessions, cutting to the VIP entrance and flashing my access pass to security. I head down the elevator to take me to the clubhouse level.
Once I’m down there, I spot the Dragons PR guy making his way to the training room too. “Owen,” I call out.
The friendly guy with glasses stops, tilts his head. “Hey, Maddox.”
I catch up to him in seconds. “I need to see Zane. He’s my boyfriend,” I blurt out.
Owen’s eyes flicker with surprise. “Oh. Okay. Cool. I’m going too,” he says, then I clap his shoulder and run ahead of him, catching a glimpse of a purple jersey, a pair of strong shoulders, dark hair in the corridor in front of me.
Zane’s turning into the room.
My heart pounds with the fierce knowledge that I want and I need to be the one to comfort him. I jog down the concrete hallway, my footsteps echoing. I pull up in the doorway just as Zane’s scooting up onto a table next to the trainer. He raises his face. Meets my eyes. He’s…mystified. Like I’ve stepped out of a mirage in the opening sequence of a movie or something.
“You’re here,” he whispers across the room.
With quick strides, I close the distance, curl a gentle hand on his shoulder. He sighs into my touch. “I had to see you. Are you okay?”
He frowns. “It hurts, Mad. I hope it’s not broken,” he chokes out.
My throat tightens. I turn to the trainer. “You’ll do an X-ray right away?”
“Of course,” the young man with the mustache says, inspecting Zane’s wrist.
The first baseman leans against me, resting his head against my side. I wrap an arm around him and kiss the top of his soft hair, sweaty and messy from the game.
“Let me get the doctor,” the trainer says, then steps out as Owen walks in. But Owen quickly takes the temperature of the room and says, “Be right back.”
Once he’s gone, Zane looks up at me. “The trainer’s getting the doctor,” he repeats, his eyes wide, his voice wavering.
I run my hand through his hair. “It’s protocol, sweetheart,” I tell him.