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see him from the side. Stepping closer and bending at his waist, Brady raises a finger to his face and I’m pretty sure Brady’s answer to Mitchell contains curse words that are likely well deserved. The heated interaction between the two catches the eye of the third base ump.
    Walking over to the base, he moves between Brady and Mitchell and says a few words while looking between them. Brady steps away and Mitchell wears that cocky smile on his face I remember so well, thinking he won the exchange because he got under Brady’s skin.
    “Mitchell’s a douchebag,” Taylor says through gritted teeth.
    “He’s also a pro at honing in on people’s weaknesses and kicking them when they’re down.”
    “Another reason why I always hated him.”
    “From the start?” I ask.
    “The first time my eyes landed on him. He’s always rubbed me the wrong way. When he broke your heart, my worst suspicions came true.”
    Taylor never liked Mitchell, but this is the first time she’s confessed to having hated him from day one.
    “It’s not like you to hold back something like this.” Taylor is a good judge of character and intuitive. I could’ve used her insight with Mitchell. My heart might not be so scarred and battle weary.
    “I hoped I was wrong for your sake.”
    “I wished you’d been wrong, too,” I sigh, “but I’m totally over his sorry ass now.”
    Mitchell scores on a single hit from the next batter up, giving the Yankees a five-point lead. This game looks over until the last inning when Chicago starts making a comeback.
    Two Chicago players take a base on single hits to right field, and a third walks to first after getting hit by a pitch. The tension is high after the pitcher’s aggressive throw made contact with the batter’s thigh.
    “Ouch.” I flinch, moving my hand to my thigh. “That had to hurt like hell. Some of those fastballs are over ninety miles an hour.”
    Brady swings his bat in the warm-up area and I fixate on him—or, more like, certain parts of him. I watch the pumping and flexing of his muscled arms. The ones that picked me up off the floor like I weighed nothing.
    When he twists at the waist during a practice swing, I imagine the lean muscles of his abs rippling with the movement. The thought of my own fingers actually touching those hard ridges brings back that same dizzy-swoony feeling from last weekend. At least I’m not puddled on the concrete beneath my feet this time.
    I fan myself with the game program in hopes of cooling off. It’s likely no use, though. It’s my body’s reaction to the serious attraction I have for Brady. There’s just something about men in baseball uniforms—they make me heat up…everywhere.
    Brady starts his walk to the plate by taking slow steps. His long, powerful legs mesmerize me. When his athletic thighs stretch the fabric of his uniform pants, the blue stripes become wavy and I’m even dizzier than before. I really need to get a grip, but I can’t turn my eyes away.
    As I keep staring at home plate, I notice Brady’s shoulders are lower than normal and his head is down. He’s missing the usual confidence he wears like a second skin.
    He takes a couple practice swings before planting his feet in the batter’s box. I grab Taylor’s hand and we hold on to each other as the pitcher does his windup.
    “You know what they call four strikeouts in a game, right?” Taylor says in a hushed tone.
    “Would this be his fourth strike out?” I think back through this game. He’s been up to bat three other times and each time he left the plate on a missed swing. I’ve never seen him play like this in even a small way.
    A drop of sweat trails down my back and the greasy hotdog I consumed makes my stomach do flip-flops. I scan the loaded bases and say a little prayer. This season, Brady’s been Chicago’s go-to guy and has earned the title “grand slam man.” That is, until this past week. His bat has gone cold.
    “They call it a golden