Sure Bet (Out of Left Field #1)

17. Liam

Chapter 17

Liam

“ W orst fucking timing,” I groaned, throwing open the door with a prepared “fuck off” to follow, but the panicked eyes of my best friend cut me off. I hadn’t expected anyone tonight, let alone him. “What’s wrong?”

“I tried to call. Why are you sweaty?” Brenden held up his phone, his jaw working back and forth as he ground out an apology. “Shit. You’re finally getting laid.”

Brenden had interrupted one of the greatest moments of my life. Given the state of disarray with his wild hair, pale face, and dark bags under his eyes, I couldn’t exactly hate him for it. Besides, I’d intruded on his life plenty.

I held the door wider and mumbled, “That stays between us, asshole. What’s going on? You look a mess.”

Rarely did my best friend venture into the world disheveled. Karen wouldn’t permit such blasphemy, nor would his pride. Shit, maybe this was about her. For a moment, I regretted placing bets with Shana about when his marriage would finally implode. He looked pretty beat up.

“Who’s the—” Brendan stopped abruptly, catching sight of Brooke fixing her clothes and brushing a hand through her tangled hair. “Shana’s best friend.” The widening of his eyes was like a silent exclamation mark. “And your roommate. Hello, Brooke.”

She flipped on the lamp, revealing pink, flushed cheeks. “We were watching a movie.” Her nervous smile was adorable.

“Oh, yeah?” Brenden glanced at me, ruffling his hair and wincing. “Anything good?”

“The Haunting at Shadowvale Manor,” Brooke rushed out, wiggling to straighten her waistband. “It was terrible. Do not recommend that one. In fact, I fell asleep on the couch! That’s why I’m so rumpled. And this couch! Did you know their grandma died on it? How morbid, right?”

“This is the Ikea version,” I corrected. “They took the couch out with the body.”

She was doing that nervous rambling again, and nothing was discreet about the adjustments to her clothing. The hard tips of her nipples peeked through the thin fabric of her shirt. But my best friend kept his gaze fixed on me.

Brenden had the decency to feign ignorance and not address Brooke’s garbled rant. “Sorry to wake you. I called first.” He sucked in a breath, squeezing the back of his neck. “I really am sorry. I just…”

Brooke rose from the couch, placing a hand on his arm. “No need to apologize. I hope everything’s okay.” Her eyes flickered to mine. “Goodnight, guys.”

Without another word, she headed toward her room. Her door snicked shut with a finality that had my stomach leaden with dread.

She disappeared into her room, but she would retreat into her head. I knew Brooke. She would overthink this entire encounter, giving her plenty of time to realize she almost fucked up and then formulate a plan for how to avoid doing it again. I pushed too hard, over-eager that, for whatever reason, she let me touch her.

But Christ, I wanted her to admit it. This wasn’t about a bet or pride. I wanted her to admit that she wanted me.

Me.

“Shit, man. I’m sorry. I think I fucked that up for you.” Brenden shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “How can I make it right?”

I sighed, scrubbing my face roughly. “Nope, I fucked it up all on my own like a big boy.” I faced him with a frown. “What’s going on? You’ve got me worried. What level are we talking?” It wasn’t like him to do anything unannounced, let alone anything disorderly.

He dropped his head in his hands. “Bathroom floor.”

Fuck.

I grabbed my wallet from the junk drawer and shoved it in my pocket, throwing on a hoodie. I knew the drill.

The bathroom floor. The lowest of low points—the kind where something rocks your world so profoundly that you spend days crumpled on a bathroom floor, counting the porous holes in the dirty grout, convincing yourself you have to live just to know the answer.

I had many of those in the last few years. Brenden hauled my ass off the floor after each one. When I got injured. When surgery and physical therapy failed to improve my mobility. When I got dropped from college ball, lost my scholarship, and learned my mom was dying.

When my mom died.

Plenty of those moments had existed in my life, the last one two years ago, just after Brenden was traded to Tampa and moved. His ass flew back to Boston on a rest day and didn’t leave until I scheduled a therapy appointment and finally filled the prescription for antidepressants my doctor wrote me months before.

In a grueling one hundred and sixty-two-game season, rest days mattered for performance, health, and fatigue levels. My best friend sacrificed his to fix something for me. So, the fact that he found himself metaphorically on the bathroom floor?

I wanted to be there for him, the cockblock that he was.

I was kidding myself. Nobody cockblocked me better than me .

After three pitchers and an unsteady walk home, I tucked my best friend into his bed.

“I’m sorry,” he slurred, pulling the sheets higher. “Go home. I’m fine.”

He wasn’t, and I nudged the trashcan closer to him with my foot as a reminder he’d consumed all the alcohol tonight. Brenden opted to drown his sorrows, but despite his posturing, he wanted the company.

“I love sleeping on cinder blocks. It’s great for my back.”

I sat on the chaise lounge, an ornate, regal, and uncomfortable bed for the night. I couldn’t leave my best friend like this, and I refused to sleep on his wife’s side of the bed. It smelled like her perfume.

Brenden snorted. “Want me to kick Eli out of the guest room? Make him vacate?”

Yes, for the simple fact that he was related to Karen, but he was also the only family member of hers that Brenden liked. I’d yet to meet her cousin, but booting him out of his temporary living situation would make a shit first impression.

“This is fine.”

“Karen…” With a sigh, he flung his arm over his face.

I refrained from unleashing my opinion of his wife. She left this morning for a spa retreat with some of the other wives from the team. When Brenden received word that he was getting knocked down to the minors, he called her first. She was more pissed about reputation crisis management when news broke among the gaggle of wives and girlfriends. Her embarrassment that her husband would no longer be a shortstop for the Seattle Steelheads.

Management claimed it wasn’t a punishment for last season’s hardships but rather a strategic decision aimed at balancing the player roster for a more favorable season to come. Typical bureaucratic franchise bullshit.

Coming upon his fifth year in the MLB and with an option year remaining, Brenden could do little about it. His agent had gotten him a shit deal in the first place.

“Karen doesn’t understand the demands of a professional athletic career, only the perks of the lifestyle. Fuck, man. I’m sorry. Plenty of players go back and forth, though. Maybe?—”

“I won’t, and you know it. That’s for players on their way up, not someone maintaining their skills at best. I didn’t even meet my performance criteria last season. I’m lucky they’re not dropping me. But fuck. They gotta ship my ass to Tacoma? ”

“It’s barely a commute—less than an hour. Put on a good audiobook, and you’re golden.” I clapped my hands once. “Have I got a recommendation for you! What are your thoughts about forbidden lovers?”

He peeked at me from beneath the forearm draped over his eyes. “Karen won’t live in Tacoma. It was a fight to get her to Seattle. No matter what I do, I can’t make her happy. I can’t make my playing better. I can’t make my coaches happy. Now I’ll be a goddamn Tacoma Thunderhawk. What the fuck is a thunderhawk?” Silence hung in the room, broken by his whispered, “Fucking bathroom floor, man.”

“Fucking bathroom floor,” I echoed my agreement.

Not great, but Brenden was the kind of guy who got himself out of shit, not put himself in it to begin with. Unlike me.

“It’s going to work out, Bren. Make sure your agent has a solid opt-out clause with clear performance conditions, and then when you exceed those fucking expectations, they’ll have to send you back.” I stretched out on the lounge, tucking my arms behind my head.

I squinted at the ceiling fan. “What did your agent say about the terms of major league service time? What’s the plan for regular communication and feedback from the coaching staff and player development personnel?”

Brenden puffed a laugh. “You sound like Eli. You’re both more of an agent than my shitty agent.”

“Eli is an agent,” I reminded him. “Just not yours. Maybe you should ask him to help. Fire your shitty one.”

He shook his head and groaned something unintelligible. Knowing my best friend, it was some excuse for not asking, rather than acknowledging he thought he had to fix everything on his own. Asking for help made him a burden, a failure.

“Should have you negotiate for me,” he murmured. “You care about the players. Always have. You were the best teammate.”

“I became a cheerleader when I couldn’t be a star pitcher. That’s not the same as being an agent and entrusted with taking care of others.” I shrugged, hating the flutter of interest with Brenden’s suggestion. Hope was a dangerous thing. “I can’t even take care of myself.”

“Reconsider. Maybe you haven’t been taking care of yourself because you haven’t given yourself enough to care about. That’s a choice.” He grunted and flipped onto his side, placing his back to me.

Brenden’s snoring filled the room a moment later, but the flutter in my gut wouldn’t settle.

Reconsider.

Reconsider what, exactly? Giving myself more to care about when I fucked it up, anyway? Seemed a cruel thing to do to myself—and others. The logical thing would be to keep my dirty, fumbling hands to myself.

But my stomach roiled with unease, and my thoughts collided. What if I tried? What if things got better? What if I figured out how to deal with my problems, rather than collapse beneath them?

What if they got worse?

But fuck. The thought of living every day of my life like this, feeling like a human dumpster fire... Something had to change. Starting with Brooke.

Reconsider.

I sent the message at two a.m., and it nearly kill me to do it.

Me: My hands were on you for no other reason than I wanted them there. Claiming anything otherwise is bullshit.

Me: Okay, wait. I have one more reason. I wanted to make you feel good. That was the first reason, by the way. The second was that I’m a selfish pig and wanted them on you.

I blacked out the screen, rested the phone on my stomach, and stared at the ceiling again. I relaxed a little, the knot in my gut easing slightly.

I took action, at least.

The pinging notification cracked through the silent room like thunder.

Holy shit. I blinked a few times, adjusting my weary eyes to the message. This was a dream, right? No way she’d...

Brooke: I assume you don’t want to pack your bags. You play a good game.

I mean, I didn’t want to move out before I set myself up with something better. With no job, dwindling savings, and no submitted application for school, finding a place might be a challenge. And Brenden’s chaise lounge was one step above sleeping in my car.

Steadfast and stubborn, I doubted Brooke would back down from celebrating her win with a boot out the door.

Her next text came less than a minute after the first.

Brooke: Your second reason conflicts with the first. Wanting to make me feel good isn’t selfish.

I sat up, grinning, and reread the text. That wasn’t a fuck off and die—better than I expected.

Me: I’ll admit, you’re an exemplary contender, and I don’t want to pack my bags. I like being roomies. But maybe tonight wasn’t a game.

I sucked in a sharp inhale, hitting send. Then I waited.

And waited.

And fucking waited.

Maybe she fell asleep. It was late. Testing, I sent another message.

Me: You said nothing about my status as a pig.

Brooke: Correct.

I chuckled, cutting myself off when Brenden grunted. Okay, she didn’t want to talk about the bet. That was good, right? Maybe she wanted to move away from it, too. Ease into... a friendship? A truce? More touching? Oh, fuck me, I hoped it was more touching.

Brooke: For what it’s worth, your hands did make me feel good, but I’m not going to beg you for anything, Liam.

Me: Honestly? I never thought you’d beg. A woman like you? Please.

Brooke: A woman like me?

Me: The fairest maiden of them all.

She sent me an eye-roll emoji, and I took it as the win it was.

Hope is a dangerous thing, and Brooke had just given it to me.

When Brenden was conscious again, I dragged him out for pho.

“The carbs,” he muttered begrudgingly, but finished a large bowl. “At least I get the week to sort my shit before I report for training in Tacoma . I’m going to see if Karen will take my call this morning.”

He pushed out of his chair and headed outside the restaurant to pace the sidewalk.

“Audiobooks!” I called as he shoved through the door with a frown.

While he tried to get a hold of his wife, I messaged Brooke—again. God, needy motherfucker.

Me: Happy Monday.

Idiot. I laughed and groaned simultaneously. Smooth. Real suave Casanova over here.

Brooke: How’s Brenden doing? Everything okay?

Me: Yeah, mostly. You good?

Fucking idiot. You good? Christ.

Me: Are we okay, I mean? Are you okay? Did last night…

Freak you out? Fill your heart with regret? Change things? Make you as hot as it made me?

Brooke: Did last night leave me sleeping with a nightlight? Yes.

I dropped my head back and laughed. It wouldn’t surprise me one bit if she still slept with a nightlight.

Brooke: I have to get back to work. Zaza won’t lube herself. I’m having dinner with my mom tonight, but… Happy Monday.

Happy Monday. Did that mean she was happy on this Monday? I smiled at the screen. Did I make her happy? The thought made me happy. Fuck. What a weird and unfamiliar feeling—just as dangerous as hope.

Just as exciting, though.

“I was thinking,” I said when Brenden returned to the table. “Did you mean it last night? About being an agent?” He didn’t mention Karen, so I didn’t mention Karen. I knew my best friend well enough to avoid forcing an emotional confession before he was ready to give it. He knew I was deliberately not asking. I’d bet a million bucks he was grateful for the redirect.

He took his seat and swatted my hand away when the server dropped our bill and I reached for it.

“Are you interested?” A casual tone, light and breezy, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

“Yeah, I want to try, you know? I think I'm ready to try,” I admitted, tearing at the napkin on the table. “I don’t want any more bathroom floor incidents.”

“Ah, did I inspire you?” My best friend smirked.

“Yes,” I said with a firm nod, leaving off the acknowledgement that my feelings for Brooke made me want to do better... be better.

I hadn’t lied to Brooke. She was the fairest maiden of them all, and the fairest maiden deserved a prince—not a pauper peeling himself off the bathroom floor.

“Send in the application.” Brenden tossed down cash for the meal, crossed his arms, and sat back in his chair. “Did you finish your application essay?”

“I’ve almost finished. It’s due the twenty-first.” I exhaled and ran my hand through my hair, glancing out the smudged restaurant window to the gray sky outside.

Brenden nodded. “A week, dude. That’s cutting it close. Get on it.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I rolled my eyes, but it wasn’t the worst to have someone care about the outcome of my life. “It will be a slog of a process. Finishing the last year of my degree and taking an internship to get my foot in the door. Coffee runs and changing printer paper in an agency. Being an errand boy, working my way up, and making contacts. But maybe… maybe it would lead to something better.”

And for once, the words didn’t feel empty.

When I arrived home, it was late. A messy pile of Shana’s belongings spilled over the entryway floor, and music reverberated down the hallway from her bedroom. Whatever she did in there, I had no interest.

Two doors down held my attention, though.

I spent the day with my best friend, helping him with the practicalities of his transfer and brainstorming some conditions his agent could bring to the management team to help him feel better about the transition.

Brenden suggested introducing me to Eli, who could give me more information about a career as an agent and set up a time to meet next week. Fuck me, but I’d been excited all day.

I wanted to tell Brooke about it. Following her around, bugging her, burrowing under her skin, and forcing her to deal with me... totally fucking backfired. She was my rash—no. Cozy sweater. Yes. My big, warm hug.

I kicked my shoes into the closet, ignoring the tightness in my chest with each step closer to her room. I wiped my clammy hands on my jeans and stared at the closed door. I knocked lightly and glanced toward Shana’s room. I doubted she would hear me beyond her music, but I didn’t want to risk it. The self-satisfied smirk she’d shoot me if she spied me lingering outside Brooke’s door…

I pressed my ear against the wood, a thin hollow core that filtered little. Nothing stirred on the other side, no music or conversation, not even a shuffling of feet over the carpet. After a minute, I retreated to my room.

Maybe she wasn’t home from dinner with her mom.

I collapsed on my bed with a huff. Drumming my fingers over my stomach, I stared at the ceiling.

Maybe she was already asleep. She had to work in the morning, ever a responsible adult. Not everyone had the luxury of frolicking through life as an unemployed asshole living off the last of their inheritance with no prospects for improvement.

Catching the unhelpful thought train barreling over me, I pulled my phone from my pocket. Rather than ruminate, I’d take action. I’d be a Brooke.

I considered what I wanted to say to her in the text as I stared at the message thread from earlier. There were a hundred ways to play this.

Perhaps: How was dinner with your mom? How many times did you remind her that my mom had wished she would work fewer hours?

Or: Did you figure out that hydraulic issue with Zaza that I heard you tell Shana about when I had my headphones on but my music off? It’s not as creepy as it sounds. It’s not.

Fine, it is.

But if I was being honest with myself, what I wanted to say to Brooke was: Should we just call off this stupid bet? I wanted to kiss you in that closet, and it hurt my feelings that you didn’t want me back. That you never wanted me. You don’t have to admit anything, I’ll admit it all. Come to my room when you get home.

You’re not home, and it disappointed me. I have so much I want to tell you about.

But of course, what I ended up sending was:

Me: Did you know my sister listens to ska music?

Time for headphones. Sharing a wall with Brooke was one thing. Generally a quiet neighbor, I only overheard her when she was talking to herself—usually when frustrated. But my sister lived life loud.

My phone lit up as I scrolled through my playlists.

Brooke: I do know this, and I know because she’s presently doing so as if she lives alone.

Shit. I sat up and stared at the wall, then glanced at my phone.

Me: Are you home?

Brooke: I am, and I’ve been attempting to listen to my audiobook through the trumpeting for the last hour, but it’s distracting.

I scrubbed a hand over my face. She must not have heard me knock with her book on.

Her book.

Our book?

Me: Forbidden Fruit? Which part? I want to listen, too.

Brooke: Like a pervy book club? I’m actually listening to a biography about Ernest Shackleton.

I raked my teeth over my bottom lip and shook my head. Filthy liar.

Me: Which part, Brooke?

I swear I heard a frustrated sigh through the wall.

Brooke: I just started chapter 18.

Brooke: After I finished my Shackleton read, I mean.

Chuckling, I adjusted my audiobook and hit play. Penelope had arrived at the stables, fresh from her river ablution.

“Under the cloak of twilight, Princess Penelope approached the stables, settling her mare with gentle hushes. The air crackled with electricity as the groundskeeper appeared, causing the princess’s heart to pound with anticipation. Her pulse quickened at the sight of him, silhouetted against the last of the day’s light. A flickering lantern hung from his hands, bathing his rugged features in shadows. He’d become a tantalizing obsession for the princess, a forbidden desire that consumed her every waking thought.

“‘You shouldn’t be here, my lady,’ he murmured, his voice low and husky. With a confident foot forward, Murphy moved closer. ‘Though I must admit, it pleases me.’”

Me: It’s about to please her, too.

Brooke: No spoilers!

What I assumed to be a hand smacked the wall.

Me: Careful with that hand, Lady Brooke. You might need it for indelicate endeavors this evening.

Brooke: I’m keeping my hands to myself tonight.

Please do . The thought of Brooke touching herself made me even hornier than the thought of her touching me.

Me: And my hands? Where should I keep them tonight?

My feet flexed over the blanket as I propped against the headboard, settled into a more comfortable position, and awaited her response.

A minute passed, then another. I licked my lips and glanced at the wall like I could see through it. Had I pissed her off? Taken things too far? Bored her with my lame lines?

Brooke: Careful, Liam. You almost sound desperate. Next thing you know, you’ll be begging.

Wicked woman. I was desperate. I didn’t mind a little degradation.

Me: Begging generally begins on the knees. Are you implying you want me there?

I could have sworn she wanted that last night when she relaxed her legs and taunted and teased.

Brooke: Easier to kick you in the face.

Yeah, okay. Well.

Her cackle sounded through the wall.

Me: You cruel, ruthless woman. You made no mention of kinks. What else do you like?

My mind blazed with curiosity. Until last night, Brooke had always been a little shy and definitely private about her love life. Not that I could blame her. The ammunition that would have provided me over the years…

And maybe I was an asshole for it, but I wanted to know. I needed to know so goddamn badly that I ached for it.

Me: Come on, you can tell me.

She was probably worrying her lip, staring at that message and trying to decipher my intentions and whether I was teasing her.

So, I clarified.

Me: No games, Brooke. Tell me.