Perfect Catch(20)

“It’s not a card, it’s my life. I knew you wouldn’t understand.”

“How am I supposed to if you lose your shit and storm off? How is that fair? I like you, Alice. In spite of what you think, I don’t have a girl in every port or whatever. I’m not that guy.”

“I think you are.”

“If you really thought so little of me, I don’t think you ever would have done this. I think you like me, and I think that’s what’s freaking you out right now. Not your kid. Not your job. You.”

“Think whatever you want. I’m going home.” She reached into her car to grab her purse and stuffed her wayward bra into it, holding it to her chest as she turned her back on him to return to the bar. She didn’t want to take to heart anything he’d said, but his words followed her inside. They taunted her as she pulled out her cell and called a cab. Sure, she could have done that outside, but then she’d have had to stand around with him while they waited for it to come. He was the kind of man who would insist on waiting.

And like that, with one passing thought about gentlemanly behavior, she knew he was right. She didn’t think he was a scumbag. She didn’t think he was like Matt at all.

Which scared her ten times more than if she’d been convinced he was a good-for-nothing jerk.

She’d been fooled in the past by a kind smile and a handsome face, and Alex had her pegged. The reason she was running wasn’t Olivia. It wasn’t her job, either, though that was a genuine concern. What she feared the most was being wrong again. Of thinking the best about a man and having her romantic optimism shoved right back in her face when the worst came true.

How was it possible to be a cynic and a hopeless romantic all at the same time?

When her phone buzzed a few minutes later to announce the arrival of her cab, she made her way back outside. She scanned the parking lot, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, but he was gone.





Chapter Ten

Women were nuts.

Alex couldn’t think of anything else to explain Alice going from, well, coming to leaving all in the matter of minutes. The police interruption might have spurred her on, but there was definitely more going on than simple embarrassment.

He knew a lot of women, but that didn’t mean he understood them. Alex accepted that some things in life he would never be able to comprehend. Astrophysics. The metric system. Fun runs. And women.

In the Felons dugout, he chewed the skin around his thumbnail thoughtfully and stared at the outfield. The backup catcher, a spunky Cuban named Angel, was giving Alex a few innings off. Tucker sat on Alex’s left, while Miles flanked his right. Neither of the pitchers—one a seasoned vet, the other so new he was practically green—said anything. They were both watching the team’s closer throw a series of pitches over one hundred miles per hour. Tucker whistled every time. Meanwhile, Miles looked nervous.

Under normal circumstances Alex might have comforted the kid, reminding him his spot in the starting rotation was all but assured. Right then, though, he wasn’t feeling his role as the older-brother figure. Alice was cemented in his brain like a girl-shaped Rubik’s cube, and he couldn’t get any of the sides to match up no matter how he spun the puzzle.

Angel flashed the pitcher a signal, his neon-green-painted fingernails gleaming in the sun. Since he was a new addition to the clubhouse, the pitchers were all adjusting to his way of calling pitches. To help ease the plays along, some catchers painted their nails in bright white, orange or green to make things easier to see. It had been a long time since Alex had needed to employ this technique, having worked with most of the Felons’ pitching roster for several years. Miles had been a quick study, meaning Alex got to avoid digging through his locker for nail polish.

Secretly he kind of missed it. There was something fun about the looks he got post-game when he sported Felons-appropriate neon orange on only one hand.

He shifted his attention to the infield play, trying to get a read on what Angel and the pitcher were plotting together. If he could mind the game instead of getting lost in his own thoughts, maybe he’d forget about the whole messy situation with Alice.

Baseball was something he understood, something that made sense. In baseball you weren’t called out unless you struck out. Or flied out. Or grounded out. Okay, bad metaphor. The point, he rationalized, was that outs in baseball always happened for a reason. There was a set logic to them, a surefire way to tell if you were going to be headed back to the bench or staying in the game.

Women didn’t operate in the same way as baseball rules, and Alex was beyond help in figuring out what kind of system they were working with. If growing up with five sisters hadn’t helped him, there was no damned way he was going to sort it out now.