It Was Me Page 2

  It was like he was reading my mind and I felt more uncomfortable than I had sitting next to him in the front seat.

  “But if we didn't like you already, we wouldn't have asked you to come,” he said. He took his hand off my shoulder, pulled the pump from the machine and inserted it into the SUV's tank. He set the trigger and looked at me again. “There's no pressure here. Just be yourself.”

  “Yes, sir. I'll try,” I said.

  “And stop calling me sir,” he said, smiling, adjusting his sunglasses. “It's Doug. Anything else makes me feel like an antique.”

  I had to laugh at that. “Alright.” I hesitated and then tried out his name. “Doug.”

  He nodded. “Good. Not that you'll totally relax, but at least you know where I stand.” He smiled. “I remember going on a trip like this with Abby's mother and her parents too many years ago. I've been in your shoes. Last thing you want to do is make small talk with Abby's old man.”

  I felt my face color. “No, no. It's just...”

  He held up a hand. “It's fine, it's fine. I remember. And I promise. You'll get time to yourselves when we get to Tucson. We aren't going to make you spend every waking minute with us.”

  I didn't mean to, but I exhaled, like I'd been holding my breath the entire drive from San Diego.

  “We'd just like to spend some time with the guy Abby can't stop talking about,” he said.

  “Oh,” I said, because I wasn't sure what I was supposed to say that. I didn't know what I could say to that. I liked that she talked about me. I liked that I mattered to her as much as she mattered to me.

  “And maybe catch a baseball game while we're here.”

  I leaned against the side of the car but the heat from the metal exterior was like molten lava and I stepped back. “A what?”

  The pump clicked off and he pulled it from the tank, replacing it in the machine. He screwed the gas cap back on. “Tucson has a minor league team. Triple A, I think.”

  “Yeah.” I nodded. I knew all about it. “Padres farm team.”

  “Right. Figured you'd know. Just thought maybe we could all catch a game one night while we're there. Abby has mentioned more than once that you're a baseball player.”

  “Was,” I corrected.

  He waited for the receipt to print out. “Yeah, Abby said that, too. That you had some bad luck with your scholarship.”

  It was more than bad luck. My dad had completely fucked me over and I'd nearly let it fuck me over.

  “But you still like the game, right?” he asked, reaching for the strip of paper inching out of the gas pump.

  “Sure.” It had taken me a while to love it again, to put some distance between what my dad had done and the game itself.

  He folded up the receipt. “So I just thought maybe we could catch a game one night we're here.” He smiled. “I played, but I wasn't any good. Bet you can point out some of the things I missed.”

  It was a nice gesture on his part. He was trying to put me at ease by doing something I'd be comfortable with. It was something he didn't have to do, but he was trying to get me to chill out. Which I clearly needed to do.

  “That sounds great,” I said.

  He nodded again. “Alright, good. And West?”

  Tension filled my shoulders. “Yeah?”

  “Keep your wallet in your pocket the rest of the trip,” he said, squeezing my shoulder again. “The week's on us. Just have fun.”

  I wasn't sure if I could keep anything else in my pants for the whole week, but my wallet? I could try.

  FOUR

  The Hacienda Del Luna was everything Abby promised and more.

  The resort was pushed up against the foothills of the mountains that ringed Tucson, low slung adobe buildings separated by pools and immaculate landscaping. The hotel staff had the doors of the car open before we'd even pulled to a stop at check-in, smiles plastered on their faces as they ushered us into the cavernous, air-conditioned lobby. Our bags were whisked away and already in our room by the time we unlocked the door. But it wasn't a room. It was a two-bedroom casita near the back of the property, a gigantic aquamarine pool visible from the back patio.

  “How much does this place cost?” I whispered to Abby as I stared at the pool.

  “Too much,” she said. She reached for my hand and squeezed. “But we've been coming here for years and my parents say it's their one real indulgence with the money they've made. They'll literally shut down this week and won't take calls or do a single second of work. No joke. They never do that—not at Christmas, not at Thanksgiving. It's like a retreat for them.”

  I looked around the living room. Terracotta floors, cream-colored leather couches, honey pine tables and bookshelves. Splashes of color everywhere – turquoise and leather wall hangings, turquoise and metal sculptures, a collection of Southwestern inspired pottery.

  “Yeah, it definitely has a different vibe than San Diego.”

  “We've stayed in this same casita for, like, six years now, I think?” Abby said. “Something like that. It sorta feels like its ours.”

  I couldn't remember many times my family went on vacation. My dad was always working. I shook my head. Nah, he was always scamming. Messing with the books. Or sneaking off, gambling.

  Abby led me down the hallway and stopped in front of a bedroom. A bedroom with two beds. I stopped in the doorway.

  “There are two beds,” I said. “Your parents are cool with us sleeping in here? Together?”

  She laughed and shook her head. “I wish. You get to sleep in here and I get the pullout sofa in the living room.”

  I frowned. “No. I'll sleep out there.”

  She shook her head again. “Nope. We already talked about it. You're in here. I'm out there.”

  “No. You don't need to sleep on a sofa.”

  She put her hands on my hips, raised up on her tiptoes and kissed me. “Too late.”

  “But Abby...”

  “No,” she said, her voice firm. “My parents would freak if we put you out on the couch. You're our guest. So deal.”

  She was echoing what her father had said to me at the gas station. I wasn't sure if I was comfortable playing the part of guest, but they seemed bound and determined to get me used to it.

  “Now,” Abby said, grabbing her bag off one of the beds. “It's hotter than hell here so I'm going to change into my swimsuit. You should do the same so we can go to the pool.”

  Before I could respond, she disappeared into the bathroom attached to the bedroom and pulled the door closed behind her.

  I sat down on the edge of one of the beds and took a deep breath. I felt completely out of my element. When Abby and I were together, it was normally at my apartment, a place I was comfortable in. It was nothing special, but Griffin and I had lived there for almost two years now and it was mine. I looked around the room, at the fancy décor and plush furniture. I might as well have been in China for how out of place I felt. I exhaled slowly. Griffin had told me to relax and so had Abby's father. I tried to focus on that, but I was finding it hard to do.

  I stood up and reached for my bag. Pool. We were going to the pool. I unzipped the bag and was pulling out my swim trunks when the bathroom door opened.

  “Holy shit,” I whispered.

  Abby grinned at me. “You like?”

  The bikini was nearly the same shade of blue as the pool, with strings the width of dental floss hugging her hips and wrapping around her neck. I'd seen her in a bikini before, but this one was new. And it was hot.

  “I like,” I said, standing up. I walked over to her and pulled her to me, made sure she could feel the growing bulge in my shorts as I rubbed against her hip. “Can't you tell?”

  “I can tell,” she murmured.

  I slipped my hand around her waist and slid it inside of her bottoms, running my hand over her ass. “How the hell am I supposed to swim with you in that?”

  She fitted her body against mine. “You'll have to find a way.”

  My l
ips brushed her ear. “I think you're teasing me.”

  “Maybe.” She slid her hand between us, her fingertips grazing my growing bulge.

  I grunted and slid my hand around her hip, keeping my other hand inside her bikini bottoms. I slipped my fingers inside of her and she gasped. She grabbed onto my shoulder, her nails digging into my shirt.

  “My parents,” she whispered.

  I moved my fingers a little inside of her, feeling her warmth and wetness. She rotated her hips slowly, but she didn't pull away.

  “I can tease, too,” I whispered into her ear.

  She sighed. “I know.”

  I pulled my fingers out slowly and traced my fingers up her bare stomach before putting them in my mouth. Her eyes widened as I sucked my finger, tasting her. “Mmmm.”

  Her hand was still on my shorts and she reached for me, grabbing me hard. “Killing me,” she said, her voice strained, ragged.

  I pushed my dick into her hand and moved my lips back to her ear. “First chance we get, Abs. I'm laying you down on that bed and I won't tease you.”

  She rubbed me before dropping her hand. “You better not.”

  FIVE

  Mr. Sellers peered out from behind the paper in his hand. “You see this?” He held it up in the air.

  We were out at the pool with her parents, Abby and I in the water, her parents stretched out on chaise lounges next to one another. The sun was beating down on us and it felt a thousand degrees hotter in the desert than it did in San Diego. I hadn't been out of the water for more than ten minutes at a time and Abby and I had taken up roost on the steps that led in to the pool, our fingers intertwined beneath the water.

  I shook my head. “No, I didn't look at it.”

  He swung his legs off his chair. For a guy his age, he was in good shape and he didn't look awkward in his red swim trunks the way my father would've. Maybe an extra pound or two around the middle, but otherwise he looked and moved like an athlete ten years younger than he was. Lean and strong with broad shoulders. I wondered if he'd downplayed his baseball skills.

  He crouched down at the edge of the pool and handed me the folded back sports page. He tapped the top of of it with his finger. “Halfway down.”

  My eyes drifted down the page to a small, two-paragraph column in a box with the headline “Open MLB Tryouts.” I read the two paragraphs. Major League Baseball was holding an open tryout the next day over at the University of Arizona fields. Anyone and everyone was welcome.

  Mr. Sellers waded into the water, dropped in up to his neck and then turned back to Abby and me. “You ever thought about doing that? Trying out?”

  I paused, then shook my head. “No, not really. I was set on playing in college.”

  “Can I see?” Abby asked, squeezing my hand under the water.

  I handed her the paper and she held it with her wet fingers. Even with her sunglasses shading her eyes, I could see she was focused on the small article.

  Mr. Sellers nodded. “Sure. I just wondered if you'd ever thought about playing professionally.”

  I had, of course. I couldn't remember when I hadn't thought about it. Ever since I'd spent my afternoons throwing tennis balls against the garage door as a kid, I'd thought about what it would feel like to put on a professional jersey and run out onto a pristine diamond in front of fifty thousand people. But when I'd lost the scholarship to Stanford, those thoughts felt like nothing more than stupid dreams.

  “Yeah,” I said, shrugging. “But I'm not sure I'm good enough.”

  “Can't find out unless you try,” Abby's dad said, his eyebrows bouncing above his sunglasses.

  “You'll have to excuse him, West,” Mrs. Sellers said from her chair.

  I looked at her as she sat up. It was easy to see where Abby got her good looks from. Just like her husband, Abby's mother looked ten years younger than she probably was. Trim, fit and attractive in a more modest suit than Abby had on, I had to admit that I probably would've stolen more than a few looks at her if she wasn't my girlfriend's mother.

  She adjusted the visor above her eyes. “Doug is living vicariously through you. He wanted nothing more than to be a Padre. I'm pretty sure he still thinks he has a chance to make it, even though he's never been able to hit a curveball.”

  “Ouch,” Mr. Sellers said, but he was smiling.

  “So excuse him if he's running off at the mouth about baseball,” she said. She grinned. “He might be more than a little excited to have someone around to talk baseball with other than his wife and daughters, all of whom couldn't care less about the game.” She glanced at her husband. “Leave the boy alone.”

  He threw his hands up. “I was just showing him something I found in the paper. That's all!”

  “It's alright. I don't mind. But I'm not sure I'm in tryout shape.”

  “Yes, you are,” Abby said, still holding the paper.

  “How do you know?”

  “You talk all the time about being in the cage thing at the school,” she said. “And you were just telling me about playing out in the outfield the other day when you guys were working on...something.”

  I laughed. “Relays.”

  “Yes. Those.”

  All I had done was catch flies in center field and thrown the ball to the cut-off man so he could decide where to make his throw to. It was a simple, fundamental drill we did at the academy all the time. And, sure, I'd taken some swings in the cage when we had some down time. But that didn't mean I was ready to go compete. There was a huge difference between screwing around and being sharp.

  “All I'm saying,” her dad said, wading through the water back toward us. “Is that it might be a chance for you to talk to some people. Maybe play in front of them.”

  “And you could tag along and pretend it's you,” Mrs. Sellers said, frowning at her husband, then glancing at me. “He showed me the article before he hollered at you. I told him to stay quiet. You can see how well he listens.”

  “Abby's a lot like her mother,” Mr. Sellers said as he trudged up the pool stairs. “You sure you wanna hang around?”

  He patted my shoulder as he got out of the pool and went back to his chair. His wife swatted at him good-naturedly.

  “Maybe you should think about it,” Abby said, holding the paper out to me.

  I took it from her, read it again, then set it down on the pool deck. “I don't think so.”

  “Why not?”

  I leaned back on the stairs, letting my fingers skim the surface of the water. “I don't know.”

  But I did know. Because I wasn't mentally ready. Because I was afraid I'd make a fool of myself. Because it felt like I'd already failed at baseball and I didn't want to fail again. It felt like the window of opportunity had passed me by when my dad lost all of our money and I'd lost the chance to play at Stanford. It felt like ancient history and I'd gotten it set in my mind that playing pro ball was a dream that had come and gone for me.

  “What would it hurt?” Abby asked. Her hand snaked through the water and came to rest on my stomach.

  I answered her question with one of my own. “Why do you want me to?”

  She didn't answer right away. “Because I know you miss it,” she said finally. “Because I've never seen you play. I can think of a lot of reasons.”

  I squinted into the massive sun. “You know you don't get to choose who you play for, right?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that let's say hell froze over and I got signed,” I said. I couldn't believe I was discussing this kind of hypothetical with her. “It could be for a team in Florida. Or New York. Or somewhere other than San Diego.”

  She didn't say anything.

  “Not like teams would be lining up to sign me,” I said. “And I'd go to some podunk little town in A ball to start. The chances of that podunk town being near San Diego would be pretty slim. Actually, worse than slim. Probably non-existent.Which means I'd have to move.”

  Her fingertips had been trailing
across my stomach and her hand stilled. Slowly, she lifted her fingers and began to dance them lightly against my skin again. “So we'd be apart for awhile. If it was something you really wanted, we could make it work.”

  I glanced at her. “Could we? Really? How would we see each other?”

  She sighed. “Look, I don't want you to move anywhere. Ever. But for baseball? For a career? I think we could figure something out.”

  I tried to keep my voice low. “How would you travel to me? Because I couldn't.” I shook my head, frustrated. “The schedule wouldn't allow for it, you know? In the off-season, maybe. But if I was really trying to get better, move up? There wouldn't be an off-season for me.”

  “So I'd come to see you.” Her voice was firm. Defiant.

  “When?” I demanded. “How the hell would you do that with school?”

  Even behind her sunglasses, I could see her rolling her eyes. “West, I don't know. But you're jumping the gun. I just thought it might be fun to try out and see where you are in the scheme of things.”

  I started to respond but she held up her hand, letting me know she wasn't finished.

  “I don't believe for a second that you're done playing. It's like you're on hiatus. And I don't know how we'd handle all those things.” She dug her nails into my stomach. “But we would. Period.”