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She doesn’t smile as her warm curves connect gently to his aging broken body.
His heart stops. She holds her breath.
He doesn’t smile.
x
In the dugout and in the clubhouse, she stops giving him the brilliant butterfly-inducing megawatt patented Ginny Baker grin.
She doesn’t answer his phone calls. He still calls every night.
They’re having chemistry problems. It’s showing up on the field. She never calls him off, but he still can’t catch a damn thing she’s throwing out.
Everyone at the front office think it’s time to bring in Duarte. Every pundit at ESPN agrees. Every back spasm and ounce of pain in his bum knees concur.
His heart disagrees.
He loves this game. He loves this team.
Al brings both him and Ginny into his office. Ginny plasters on a fake smile pretending to be fine and readily agreeing with everything the coach says. He digs his nails into the arm of the chair until it hurts.
She’s been this close since she ignored the first call.
He wants to listen to Al. He wants to fight for his position. He wants to be the Mike fucking Lawson. But right now. He’s just the guy that’s been written off by Ginny Baker and needs to figure out how to go on living like that.
In the end. Al demands that he attend Ginny’s big event to stop any speculation of team discord. He’s the captain for Christ’s sake. He needs to fix whatever this is. He knows he can’t. He doesn’t tell Al that. He just nods his head.
x
She’s feels like heaven. He’s been resigned to hell.
The photographers snap away. Picture after picture.
She doesn’t blink. She doesn’t speak to him.
She’s impeccable. He is flawed.
A few more and snaps then they want pictures of her alone.
He doesn’t want to move. He doesn’t want to go back out into the blistering cold. He craves her warmth.
So he unleashes his most charming smile. The cameras eat it up. Buying him the time he needs.
He leans closer, whispering “Ginny…”
She finally looks into his eyes. His heart breaks at the hurt swirling in her brown irises as she stoically tells him, “Don’t.”
So he doesn’t.
She extracts her body from his, moving further down the carpet.
Then she shifts into a striking posture that resembles an Egyptian goddess with the photographers serving as spellbound peasants at her alter.
He openly stares. He can't help it. He doesn't want to.
Then it hits him like a 100-mile-per-hour fastball that he can’t ever fix what she will never admit is broken.