The Catch (The Player Duet Book 2) by K. Bromberg

Author:K. Bromberg [Bromberg, K.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: The Player Duet, Book Two
Publisher: JKB Publishing, LLC
Published: 2017-06-28T18:30:00+00:00

“Where have you been? It’s been four hours since your flight landed, and I’ve been worried sick.”

I rush out to the foyer just in time for him to brush past me without meeting my eyes or saying a word. There’s relief in seeing him safe and sound, but that slams head first into anger when I smell the stale scent of alcohol. I’ve been worrying myself sick while he was in a bar somewhere drinking?

“Easton?” I follow him to the bedroom where he drops his bag on the floor and then walks right past me again on the way out without speaking.

This is bad.

He has to have seen the commentary online. The twitter storm of jerks using shitty hashtags #EastonEatsIt #DumbJockEaston, the memes already circling his wide-eyed stare into the camera. The pundits have had their say from behind their keyboards and harsh is putting it nicely.

I scurry after him despite his obvious desire to be left alone, because that’s what you do when you love someone. You try to help them.

“Please. Talk to me,” I say as he stops at the wall of windows and stares blankly at the view beyond. I reach my hand out, wanting to offer comfort, but hesitate.

“Don’t.” It’s a warning. A threat. A reflection of his mindset.

He wants a fight. It’s in the set of his shoulders. The clench of his fists. The aggression in his posture.

The silence stretches, his anger and malcontent sucking up the air around us until it begins to eat at me too. For being worried when he couldn’t bother to be considerate and let me know he was okay. Because he’s shutting down, shutting me out instead of turning to me like one is meant to do in a relationship.

“Do you know what it’s like to live your whole life as a lie?” When he speaks, the words are barely audible, but the resignation mixed with spite is what rings the loudest.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Tell me, oh Scout who wears the rose-colored glasses, how exactly would you rate my performance last night?” The question is so loaded there’s no way I can answer it and satisfy whatever it is he’s looking for.

“That’s not fair to—”

“That bad, huh?” His chuckle is self-deprecating at best. “So bad you can’t even lie to me and tell me it wasn’t horrible and that I’m not the laughingstock of baseball right now? The dumb jock who can’t manage to put two sentences together?”

“But you did,” I say trying to figure out my phrasing so I don’t light a match to ignite his temper broiling just beneath the surface. “You started out strong. You did an incredible job giving insight and feedback. You were a natural. And then the teleprompter didn’t work and Bud didn’t teach you the controls—”

“Do you know what it’s like being compared to Cal Wylder my whole life?”

“No one’s comparing you to him in this situation.” I’m desperately trying to follow his sudden shifting thoughts. “You’re not your dad, Easton.”

“You’re goddamn right I’m not,” he thunders, every syllable a combative verbal assault.

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