Stealing Home by Tara Wyatt
Eight
Nothing worthwhile ever happened overnight. Life, Dylan had learned, was all about baby steps. His baseball career hadn’t happened all of a sudden—it had happened slowly, one hit, one catch, one game at a time, and by showing up and putting in the work every day. Now, he was taking the same approach with Maggie. And getting her to agree to try to be friends felt like a pretty big baby step in the direction of winning her back. If she was anything like the girl he’d fallen in love with ten years ago, she was stubborn and needed to come around to things on her own time. He’d show her what they could have and who they could be. She’d see it. She had to.
Because, damn, he couldn’t get enough of her. Couldn’t get enough of the feel of her body pressed against his, the sweetness of her mouth, or the smell of her skin. Couldn’t get enough of the sound of her laugh, or the way she breathed softly and deeply in her sleep, or the way she chewed on her lip when she was thinking. She was funny, and stubborn, and smart, and exuded a warmth he’d gotten easily addicted to back when they’d been teenagers—a warmth he still saw glimpses of now. The things that had drawn him to her then were still there, plus all kinds of new things. When he’d told her he wanted to know her, it hadn’t been a line. No, it had been nothing but the complete, naked truth. He wanted all of her. More than that, he wanted her to want to give him that.
A quick road trip to Houston for the battle of Texas had taken him out of town for three nights, but the team had gotten in late last night, and he couldn’t wait to head over to her place after the game tonight. Rule breaker that he was, he’d texted her as soon as the chartered flight had landed, asking if he could come over the following night. She’d texted him back almost immediately, two words that had sent anticipation pounding through him.
You’d better.
He was counting down the seconds until he saw her again. But for now, he had batting practice to focus on.
Finished with his defensive drills, Dylan grabbed one of his bats, slipped a weight on the end of it, and started going through his warm-up swings. He’d already hit earlier in the cage, and while that had gone well, every day when he showed up for BP, it was as though whatever he’d worked on, any progress he’d made, had just vanished. He’d felt good in there this morning, his mind sharp, his muscles loose, his timing on. Now, he just hoped what he’d found would still be there when it was his turn to hit on the field. With Hunter suspended, he knew his position in the lineup wasn’t in jeopardy, but he still needed to get out of this slump. It felt as though a lot of other shit was coming together. He’d found an apartment to rent, he was fitting in well with his new team, and he’d reconnected with Maggie. Now he just needed to actually hit some fucking baseballs.
When it was his turn, he stepped up to the plate, easing into his stance. As usual, Abby stood off to the side, directing the practice.
“Sac bunt!” she called, and Dylan angled his bat at the incoming pitch, making solid contact and sending it dribbling toward third base. “Hit and run!” He smacked a line drive up the first base line. She kept shouting situations—man on third infield in, sac fly infield out, safety squeeze, drop it mid-field, send it out—and Dylan kept hitting the ball. Every. Single. Time. An awareness of his body moved through him, and for the first time in way too fucking long, he felt fluid at the plate, like he was finally firing on all cylinders. A weight lifted from his chest with each hit, making him feel lighter and lighter. By the end of his thirty pitches, he was starting to sweat with exertion, his body tired but soaring with satisfaction.
Before moving on to the next batter, Abby jogged over to him and clapped him on the shoulder. “Great job, McCormick. Told you it’d all come together. Whatever you’re doing, it’s working. Keep it up.”
He grinned, stretching and tilting his face up to the sky.
* * *
“Bottom of the second and here’s Dylan McCormick, who’s yet to have a hit this season,” says Wayne Hopkins. “Last season, before the knee injury, he was plugging away with a .290 batting average, five home runs, and twenty-three RBIs. He struggled before coming over from the Padres, and his woes have continued here in Dallas.”
“Injuries can really derail a guy,” says Ron Whittaker. “They’re hard to bounce back from, not just physically but mentally, especially when you miss nearly an entire season like McCormick did.”
“Here’s the windup and the pitch and…McCormick sends one out to deep left. It looks good…it looks good…And it’s gone! Good golly Miss Molly, that ball is outta here! McCormick with home run number one on the season. With one swing of the bat, he’s ended his 0-for streak and put the Longhorns up 1-0 over the Kansas City Royals. Welcome back to the show, Dylan McCormick!”
* * *
“Fourth inning and the Longhorns are decimating the Royals by a score of 10-2, and up next is Dylan McCormick, who had a solo shot homer in the second inning, ending his hitless streak over a month into the season,” says Wayne Hopkins.
“You have to think that the pressure’s off now that he’s got a hit,” says Ron Whittaker.
“Oh, for sure,” agrees Wayne. “What do you think he’s doing differently tonight?”
“He seems more relaxed, and he’s letting the ball come to him instead of chasing, which has helped his timing for sure. He’s got some swagger out there. He looks confident.”
“Here’s the pitch from Rodriguez and McCormick hits it out to left center…it’s at the wall…and…goodbye! Good Golly Miss Molly, that ball is outta here! Dylan McCormick with his second home run of the night.”
“Hitless streak? What hitless streak?” jokes Ron.
“Fans aren’t going to be talking about that anymore, that’s for sure. What a night for Dylan McCormick.”
* * *
Dylan lay on his back in Maggie’s bed, her head resting on his chest as he stroked a hand up and down the smooth skin of her bare back. The afterglow of his orgasm—not to mention his two home runs earlier that night—still hummed through him, making him feel like a fucking king. Right now, in this moment he had everything. Two home runs, and his woman in his arms, naked and satisfied. A fresh start, in so many ways. Originally, he’d been angry about being traded to Dallas, but now, it felt like a second chance season.
He smiled as he felt Maggie’s lips wander across his chest in a string of lazy kisses. Even though he’d just had her, his cock twitched at the idea of sliding inside her again.
“You know, in ten years, your stamina’s improved. A lot,” she said, angling her head to glance up at him, a mischievous grin tilting up her lips.
“Hey, I was eighteen. Cut me some slack. The fact that I was able to last longer than thirty seconds back then deserves at least a little credit.”
She giggled. “I wasn’t complaining. Now or then.”
The weight of all the time between then and now sat on his chest like a boulder, and he wove his hand into her hair. “What have the past ten years been like for you? I wanna know everything.”
She rose slightly, giving him a look with an arched eyebrow. “Everything?”
He snorted out a breath. Yeah, he didn’t need details on the men she’d undoubtedly been with. He was already struggling to control his inner caveman. “Okay, maybe not everything. But what’s your life been like?”
She settled back down on his chest, drawing idle circles on his skin with her fingertip. “Well, after you left, I mainly just worked, trying to save up enough money to go to school. I got a scholarship, but it only covered tuition, so I still needed to save for books and living expenses and all that. I was all set to go UT Arlington when Mama got sick, so I couldn’t go right away.”
Dylan’s chest constricted, and a little flicker of guilt rose up inside him at the mention of her scholarship. “What kind of cancer did she have?
“Stage four breast cancer. We had insurance, but there were still a lot of medical bills to pay, plus she couldn’t work because she was so sick from the chemo. So I stayed back to look after her and work while she went through treatment.”
A hard lump settled in his throat, making it hard to swallow. He ached for her and what she’d gone through, and he knew there was nothing he could say to make it hurt any less. He wished with a fierce intensity that he’d had the courage to check in on her life, but he’d been too afraid of what he’d find. What if she’d been happily married to someone else? What if looking in on her had only made the pain of walking away from her worse? He hadn’t had the balls to face any of that, so he’d let her be, pretending he didn’t think about her regularly.
Maggie got quiet for a moment before letting out a soft sigh. “That was a really hard time for me. Watching her get sicker and sicker, trying so hard to keep the house and the car and everything going…it was a lot.”
“I’m sorry, Mags. I’m so damn sorry,” he murmured against her hair, regret that he hadn’t been there for her twisting his stomach into knots. He shouldn’t have taken his father’s offer. Even though it had benefited Maggie in the end, it had been a mistake. He’d let the bastard manipulate him.
Never again.
“She fought really hard, but she was never going to win. She died about two years after she was diagnosed.” She glanced up at him, biting her lip. “You want to know something awful? I was relieved when she died. I felt like I could finally breathe again.”
“That’s not awful. You didn’t want to see her suffer anymore. I get it.” He paused before continuing. “It must’ve been hard to be on your own.”
“It was, but it was freeing, too. I went to school, and after graduation I moved into the city.”
“When did you start working for the team?”
“A couple of years ago now. I never thought I’d end up in the baseball world, but I actually really love it.”
“What did you go to school for?”
“After Mama died, I needed a change of scenery, so I ended up going to UT San Antonio and did a degree in Communications. Thankfully, I was able to transfer my scholarship.” She propped herself up on her elbow, looking down at him, her blond hair tumbling around her bare shoulders in messy waves. “Hey, what did you end up majoring in at Vanderbilt? When you left, you hadn’t decided.”
“Never really settled on a major. I tried anthropology, sociology, economics. Bounced around between different faculties.” He shot her a rueful grin. “You know me. School was never really my thing.”
“I might remember something about that, yeah.” She dipped her head. “I remember helping you cram for your biology final that night your dad was out.”
His chest expanded as he remembered the night, very early in their relationship, when she’d come over to help him study. They’d ended up making out until their lips were swollen instead. “We didn’t do much studying, but we learned a thing or two about biology,” he said, tipping his mouth to hers.
“Mmm.” She hummed against his lips as he kissed her, and he wondered if the memories were causing the same tender tug in her chest that he felt in his. She broke the kiss, trailing her lips down his jaw and neck before resting her head on his shoulder. “And what’s your life been like? I mean, I know some of it, the baseball stuff.”
“Because of your job.” A part of him hoped that she’d been deliberately keeping tabs on him.
“Yeah, mostly. And maybe a little curiosity from time to time.”
He smiled, his ego growing at least half a size as he stroked a hand over her hair. “I got drafted by the Padres during my junior year, so I left Vandy and joined their farm system.”
“Do you regret not finishing?”
He shrugged. “Nah, not really. Going to college was always about baseball for me, not school. That probably makes me sound like a dumb jock.”
She made a thoughtful sound, a murmuring hum. “I dunno. You were focused on your goal. I don’t think that’s dumb.”
He kissed the top of her head. God, he could spend every night of his life like this, just holding her and talking to her. It was so easy, so effortless. Like running down a hill, letting gravity pull you to exactly where you were supposed to end up.
“I played in the farm system for two seasons and then got called up, and I played for the Padres for four seasons before being traded. Although I didn’t really play much last season.” A sour taste rose up in the back of his throat as he remembered the shit he’d been through last year.
“It must’ve been hard to have an injury like that.”
“It was. Having surgery, working through physio and rehab…” He shook his head slowly, remembering the pain, the crushing defeat, the frustration he’d felt. “They were dark days. I…” He took a breath, not wanting her to think less of him, but wanting to open himself up to her. Wanting her to see all of him. “I got depressed. Real depressed. All I wanted to do was sit at home and drink beer and watch Netflix. I stopped going out with friends, stopped shaving, stopped caring, just felt so fucking sorry for myself. I felt like if I couldn’t play, everything else was just worthless. I felt worthless.” The words stuck in his throat a bit, but it felt good to force them out.
“I’m sorry, Dylan,” she said quietly. “I had no idea it was so difficult for you. I can’t even imagine facing something like that.”
“I thought my career was over.”
“But it wasn’t.”
“No. I somehow managed to get my shit together. Saw the team psychologist, focused on my rehab program. Did whatever I needed to do to get right. Hell, I even took antidepressants for a while.” He lifted his head and glanced at her, trying to gauge her reaction. When he’d first started taking them, it had felt like giving in to what he’d thought was weakness. He knew now that getting the help he’d needed had taken strength, but even knowing that didn’t lessen the stigma that came with it.
“Did they help?”
“I think they did, yeah. Got me out of my rut. I was just so stuck. I thought my career was over. And then when I came back and couldn’t hit…”
“You felt like your fears were coming true.” He nodded, loving the way she saw right to the heart of him without even trying. She’d agreed to friendship, but tonight felt like more. At least, it did to him.
“Yeah, in a way. But that’s all behind me now.” And then he kissed her, long and deep, anchoring himself in the here and now, with her, leaving the past alone.
