Me, trying to find myself in a sport I wasn’t sure would give anything in return.
And, looking for a place to stay. You can’t fuck the coach’s daughter and not get kicked out of your dorm room.
Okay, he didn’t kick me out. I got myself kicked out of the dorms, not an easy task to do when you’re on a full ride as a star baseball player, pretty much everything is paid for, but regardless, it explains why I’m so tired, the spark of interest in the girl with the cold brew, and why Ez is currently staring at me with curiosity.
“What?”
He sighs, shifting into gear. “Think of curveballs, not your fucking dick, Reins,” he notes, merging into traffic and heading toward campus. “You’ve already pissed Chiasson off enough this season. If you’re late for pitchers stretch, he’ll have your ass.”
He’s right. For once in the last three months, I need to think about something other than the destruction that’s been my personal life.
The dirt area that borders the fences of a baseball field, usually the outfield, that is used to help prevent fielders from running into the fence at full speed. It is intended to help fielders get a feel of how close they are to the fence.
SYDNEY
Cason watches me the entire time I leave the parking lot. And I run over the curb, nearly sideswipe a parked car, and run a Stop sign watching him.
Flustered and freaked out over our interaction, I try my phone once more, just to be sure, and nothing again.
“I’m going to kill my husband.”
Not really, but the thought of suffocating him at night while he’s snoring and I’m up with our toddler has crossed my mind before.
My dad was an avid baseball fan. I know what you’re thinking: What the fuck does this have to do with anything, Sydney? Well, I’ll get to that. Bear with me here. Played his entire young adult life until his senior year of high school. He’d been signed to play for the Los Angeles Angels right out of high school, but the summer before training camp, he was in a horrible car accident that broke both his legs and shattered his throwing arm. They passed on him two days after the accident.
Dad, being the hard worker he was, recovered, did physical therapy for two years, and made it back into the minors. I was ten when he took a job with the University of Arizona in Tucson. We moved from Kansas City to Tucson, where he was the head coach for the Wildcats. In fact, I went to college there. Majored in graphic design, and it’s also where I met Collin in my sophomore year. He was a finance major who fell madly in love with quirky art girl wearing overalls covered in paint splatters. I’m kidding. I’ve never worn overalls a day in my life, but Collin did fall in love with me first. I swear by that.
You’re probably wondering what all that has to do with my current situation of not being able to use my cell phone and the uncertainty hovering over my day. And I’ll tell you.
You see, my dad gave me one quote to live by that got me here, in this shop that I own in downtown Scottsdale and pursuing the entrepreneur career. “Never let the fear of striking out keep you from playing the game.” Babe Ruth said it, and my dad, Syd Kelly, lived by it until the day he died. Massive heart attack two days after my mom passed away from cancer. I know, tragic, and still to this day, six years later, it haunts me. I want to believe it was a fluke thing or romanticize it into him dying of a broken heart, but in reality, for years he’d been worrying about taking care of my mom and didn’t pay attention to the warning signs of a heart attack in the making. Regardless, I remember those words every time I step foot in this shop that everyone said wouldn’t make it.
I’m determined. Just like Syd.
Which is why I left that coffee shop and that hot as fuck college kid who bought my coffee, came to my shop and picked up a paintbrush. It’s how I get lost in a world that doesn’t make any damn sense to me. Art isn’t just for the rich and the famous. It’s for anyone who wants to surround themselves with inspiration.
I’ve been an artist my entire life. Probably since my dad gave me my first calligraphy set when I was eight. From there, I designed wedding invitations all through high school and paid for myself to go to college that way. Well, part of it. I went to school to become a graphic designer and worked at a local advertising firm creating signs after I graduated college. I hated it and went back to designing invitations and those cute wooden signs you see at Hobby Lobby.
While I was pregnant with Tatum, I started an online shop and an Instagram account displaying everything I made. Soon it went crazy, got the attention of bigger accounts, and before I knew it, I was being called an influencer. Nobody should be influenced by me. It’s a fact. Regardless, I have my own shop in town now and love it.
I won’t bore you too much with what I do for a living, and as hard as I try to get lost in my work, I can’t ignore the fact that everything around me seems to be falling apart. Along with the weather. Every time I look outside, the sky is darker, the rain heavier than before. Hell, even my painting is dark. Deep shades of purple, pinks, and chalky gray in juxtaposition. It’s moody winter textures like a chunky knit blanket wrapped around darkness. I layer acrylic, watercolor, oil pastels, and channel that grumpy inside me.
You know what I blame all of this on? It’s Friday the thirteenth. It’s the worst day of the year. Damn you, Jason! That was who killed people on Friday the thirteenth with a chainsaw, right? Or maybe I’m messing up my horror movies because I’m the biggest baby ever and can’t watch anything scary after 10:00 a.m., or I’ll have nightmares.
A sudden gust of wind hits the shop as the front door opens with a creek. “Where have you been?”
Ah, yes, back to reality. I look up from my easel and to the prying cinnamon-colored eyes of the one standing before me. Collin. My fucking husband that I haven’t been able to get a hold of all morning. You want to know the real reason I told you all that shit about my life and how I got started at this shop? Because after I left the coffee shop, I went by Collin’s office. He wasn’t there. His secretary had no idea where he was and confirmed, in fact, our cell phones had been shut off.
So where was he? Judging by the haughty expression he wears, I’m not sure I’m getting the truth from him. I’ll tell you something about Collin. He’s a narcissist. He fits the mold. Excessive need for admiration. No regard for other’s feelings. Inability to handle criticism. Sense of entitlement. Yep, he has all that and lacks fucking empathy. But here’s the thing and why I fell for those adoring cinnamon eyes and crooked smile. I’m empathic. I’m what they call an emotional sponge, and it doesn’t take a psychology degree to realize what a cluster fuck of an unstable relationship we have.
“Seriously, Syd.” Collin plants his hands on my desk, his red tie hanging loosely from his neck. “Where have you been? I called you so many times.”
Drops of water cascade down his nose and roll off, plunging to the floor like my heart does every time I see this man and the look in his eyes lately. Can you tell when someone has fallen out of love with you? I think you can, and it looks something similar to this. “That’s an interesting question considering I’ve been here all morning,” I point out. “And you’ve been, I don’t know, not at work.”