Keeping Score Read online

  “Ahhh, there it is.” Opening my eyes, I shift to face the screen she’s turned toward me. I have no clue what I’m looking at until she points at the little peanut-looking thing in the middle of the screen. “That’s your baby. Looks like you’re about eight to nine weeks along. I’d put your due date right around the beginning of February.”

  Math isn’t my thing; that’s always been more Kendall’s job. But I do the calculations in my head. Before I can ask, she says, “You most likely conceived around early May, I’d assume.” She moves the wand around a little bit more then pushes a button on the machine, allowing a small fluttering sound to fill the room. “That’s the baby’s heartbeat. It all sounds and looks good.”

  I’m too stunned to say anything, honestly, and considering my shock, my doctor realizes this and reassures me that I have options, but I already know I’m keeping this baby.

  “Wait!” I shout before she leaves the room. “Did you say early May?”

  “Yeah, somewhere around there, according to the measurements.”

  “Thank you.”

  Once I’m alone in the room, I look down at my flat stomach, placing my hand there.

  A baby. Holy shit.

  17

  * * *

  BRAXTON

  I miss Sophie.

  We have only been on the road a week, and in that time, she and I have texted a few times, but still, when I crawled between the sheets each night, she consumed my thoughts. Friends. She’s made it clear that is all we are. Yet, I’m realizing I want more.

  It’s been years since I’ve had someone in my life to miss. Somehow, in the short time we’ve known each other, Sophie has become that person. Although we’ve texted a handful of times since I’ve been on the road, I haven’t heard her voice. Each night, I’ve thought of calling her. But I resisted. Maybe this long stretch of away games has sucked the life out of me, and I just want a piece of home.

  Maybe I’m also lying to myself. As much as I try to resist wanting her, I can’t help it.

  “Hello?”

  Sophie’s voice is gravelly, like I’ve woken her from a deep sleep. The sound settles me instantly.

  “Crap, did I wake you?”

  “Braxton?”

  “It’s me. Did I wake you?

  “No?”

  I laugh at her question instead of statement, to which she says, “Shut up. There’s nothing wrong with a little nap. Besides, I haven’t felt that great all week.”

  All week. She’s not mentioned anything in her texts. I also didn’t ask how she was. I’ve kept it light, not wanting to push her.

  “Are you okay? Did you get a stomach bug or something?” I ask as I settle back against the pillows on my bed.

  “Something like that,” she says through a long yawn. “So, how’s LA?”

  “LA is crazy, like always.”

  Sophie is quiet, but I hear water running in the background and then the telltale sound of her taking a drink.

  “Do you need anything? I can have some food delivered or even medicine if you need it.”

  Her giggle is a welcome sound. I hate that she’s ill and alone. Living solo can suck, especially when you’re under the weather. Last winter, I had a hell of a cold and couldn’t even drive myself to the store for supplies. I had to order an Uber.

  “You’re sweet to offer, but I’m good. Kendall has me stocked with every beverage on the market that contains electrolytes. Plus, she may have bought all the crackers the grocery store sells.”

  “Say the word and I’ll put her shopping skills to shame.”

  Another yawn-giggle combo makes me feel guilty for waking her. Clearly, she needs to rest.

  “I’m going to let you go. Besides, I have to get camera-ready for my interview on Late Night with Mike.”

  “I’ll try to watch over at Kendall’s when it airs. I have her DVR set just in case I miss it though.”

  When we end our call, my soul feels lighter. Something about the simplicity of our conversation is what I needed before facing this interview. After being pulled up from the minors, I did a few stops on talk shows, but it was mostly local morning shows and one cameo on a late-night show after my first game in New York. It was surreal to know my parents were probably watching me on their television being interviewed by one of their favorite hosts. Especially my mom. She has some list of “hall pass” celebrities, and he’s her number-one spot. At least, that’s what she told me in the five voicemails she left, freaking out.

  I really need to get going. Karen will have my ass if I run late. It’s rare that she’s been with me for the interviews on this damn “Fix Braxton Lee’s Reputation” publicity tour, but this stop isn’t like the others, and I have a feeling she’s going to control every moment of the rest of my day.

  “Next up, we have the Aces’ star first baseman with us tonight. Please welcome Braxton Lee.”

  The live audience begins to clap and cheer. Of course, a few boos sneak out above the cheers. When I come into view of the camera, I hold my hand flat to my chest then point up toward the audience, making them think it’s for them, but hoping Sophie is watching. It isn’t a move I’ve done before, but in the moment, it feels right.

  After shaking Mike’s hand, I take a seat next to his desk. The boos linger, and I plaster on the smile photographers love, and say, “Yeah, boo to you too.” The audience laughs.

  When the crowd calms down, Mike opens up the conversation. “Braxton Lee. It’s a pleasure, man. How’s it going?”

  “Good, good.” Exhaling, I keep a casual smile on my face and lean back. I’m just a guy hanging out with another guy. “Even though I’m currently in enemy territory, I can’t complain.” The audience laughs again. “How about you, Mike?” I ask, following the cues for conversation the staff gave me before the show started.

  “I’m great,” he replies with a chuckle. “So tell me, when did you start playing baseball?”

  Baseball. This is a topic I can talk about with ease. There’s no drama or bullshit to skirt around. No tabloid fodder or rumors on integrity. Mike and I banter back and forth about the sport, and the audience eats it up.

  “You seemed to really ease into the majors and your role as starting first baseman.”

  Shrugging, I look down sheepishly. I did settle into my role on the field seamlessly. It was off the field that my life took a wrong turn. I know this transition is going to be where we hit the approved talking points. I’m ready. Karen has prepared me, and the interviews I’ve survived thus far were the perfect rehearsal for this.

  Mike clicks his tongue while looking at the cards in his hands.

  “So, Braxton, is there a lucky lady in your life?”

  That is not a question on the approved list. Far from it. If anything, it’s at the top of the “hell no” list of questions. My smile has shifted from the natural one I’ve been sporting to another that mimics a great white shark’s. All teeth and just enough edge to hopefully warn Mike this line of questioning is not appreciated.

  “Now, Mike, we all know I keep my private life private.” Fuck, Karen should have quizzed me on how to respond when the host goes off-script.

  “Yeah, ‘private.’” He throws air quotes around the word and continues. “That wasn’t an answer.”

  “You can say there’s someone special in my life,” I reply, hoping that appeases him enough to no continue asking more. It doesn’t.

  “Oh, have you and Amber reconciled? Put the family back together?”

  Fuck. My. Fucking. Life. Is this asshole for real? My mom better be updating her list, because this motherfucker is about to get his ass kicked.

  “No.” My response is curt, and the look I shoot Mike is a clear indication this interview is over. My eyes shoot offstage, where I catch Karen standing. Her back may be to me, but I can tell by her stance that the person she is speaking to is getting their ass chewed out.

  “Gotcha. Well, good luck with that special someone and the rest of your season.” Mik
e turns his attention to the camera and teases the next segment. One I’ll be far away from.

  As soon as I have confirmation we’re off the air, I stand and stride off stage, shedding my jacket along the way. I know better than to show emotion in front of an audience, but I’m livid. As I approach Karen, she turns to speak to me, but I keep walking. The sound of her heels clicking on the cement as we exit the stage and move down the empty hallway toward the green room is like nails on a chalkboard.

  “I’m so sorry—”

  “You were supposed to make sure questions about my current or past relationships were not brought up, Karen.” I’m seething.

  “They had been briefed. Mike went rogue. It isn’t completely out of character for him. I’ve already spoken to the producers, and they apologize profusely.”

  When we enter the green room, I turn to face her. “Apologies don’t fix what happened out there. This is supposed to help my reputation. How exactly is this helping?”

  Sighing, her face falls. Pity. I can practically hear her thoughts. Poor hotshot baseball player was embarrassed on television, boo-hoo.

  Yeah. Boo-fucking-hoo.

  Grabbing my things, I leave Karen behind with one destination in mind. The privacy of my hotel room. One more day left of this damn series, and then I’ll be on a plane home. While I sit in the back seat of the car, I shoot a text to Sophie, telling her to skip tonight’s show. I should have probably talked to her first before mentioning I was seeing someone on the show. Plus, the thought of her watching what a fool I made of myself, letting my temper get the bet of me, is more than I want to explain.

  Maybe it was my frustration from the interview, but our double header in LA was one of the best days of baseball I’ve played this season. Marion says he thinks I had something to prove after losing my cool. No matter the reason, it feels damn good to know I left the city on top.

  As the bus pulls into the stadium parking lot, I text Sophie.

  Me: How are you feeling?

  Sophie: A little better. But still not 100%

  She must have the worst flu bug ever. Anything over twenty-four hours makes me a whiny bitch; I can’t imagine multiple days. Thankfully, I have a little something up my sleeve. It feels great to be behind the wheel of my truck. After a quick stop by my house and the short drive to Sophie’s apartment, I knock three times on her door.

  Her smile—I’ve missed it. Hearing her voice the other day was great, but seeing her is better.

  “Braxton?”

  “I came with provisions to help you feel better,” I tell her, holding up a small soft cooler. “My mom’s homemade chicken soup. It makes everyone feel better.”

  “Oh, that was thoughtful of you,” she says as she steps aside, allowing me entrance.

  Heading straight for her kitchen, I begin unloading the containers my mom packed for me. She felt bad for her number-one celebrity crush putting me on the spot, so she was willing to whip this up and have everything ready for me. Truth be told, she loves cooking and filling my freezer with my childhood favorites when she’s visiting me and my sister.

  “You really did all this?” she asks, awe in her voice as I spoon soup into the bowl and pour ginger ale into a glass.

  “Well, my mom made the soup, but I stopped and grabbed the ginger ale and crackers on the way here.”

  “Thank you.”

  Shrugging off her gratitude, I place the meal in front of her and lean a hip on the counter. “I know you said Kendall had you stocked on supplies, but nothing beats homemade soup. Eat up.”

  Smiling, she lifts the spoon to her mouth. “I haven’t been able to keep anything down for days. This smells delicious.”

  “Have you been to the doctor?”

  “Yeah, she prescribed me some anti-nausea meds, but nothing seems to be helping. Kendall has been coming over multiple times a day to force me to drink water and some nasty stuff she claims has electrolytes.”

  “Well good, I’m glad someone was here to take care of you while I was gone.”

  Sophie doesn’t even question why I think it’s my place to be here or care for her. But I do. Why do I feel compelled to take care of her?

  “Seriously, your mom could sell this and make a killing. I hope it doesn’t make a reappearance later.”

  Laughing, I pour myself a glass of ginger ale and wait for her to say something about the interview or my text. I prefer she mention my text. Instead, she says, “I would offer to turn on a movie or something, but I haven’t had a chance to buy a TV yet.”

  “What have you been doing the days you’ve been sick?” I’d die without a TV.

  “I’ve been sleeping and catching up on my TBR list, but honestly I’d kill to watch those cheesy movies on Netflix right now,” she answers. “Buying a TV is the next thing on my list.”

  “What’s a TBR list?” I ask as I take her empty bowl from her and move to the sink.

  “Oh, it’s a to-be-read list. A never-ending, impossible to complete in a lifetime list of books I want to read.”

  As she speaks of reading, her voice rises in pure excitement. Placing the clean dish in the drainer, I turn to face her. Gone is the exhausted woman, and in her place is my bright-eyed, smiling Sophie. An idea pops into my head, and I pull out my phone and begin scrolling.

  “Thanks again for the soup and checking on me. I’m sure you have things to do.”

  “Soph, I like being with you.” I smile softly at her and push a loose lock of hair behind her ear.

  A light shade of pink tinges her cheeks. The caveman in me stands tall, proud to have brought not only color back into her face but, cared for her when she needed it. Tugging her by the hand, I guide her to the couch. When she settles into the cushions, I prop her feet on my lap. Quietly, she picks up her device and taps on the screen. Meanwhile, I lean back and do the same with my phone.

  It isn’t long before she’s asleep. When I’m certain she’s not going to stir, I slip out from under her legs and step outside to make a call. I’ve not been the kind of guy to find joy in surprises, but the idea of doing something special for Sophie feels natural.

  Hopefully, she’s settled in for a long nap, because this surprise may take a few hours.

  18

  * * *

  SOPHIE

  He’ll be here any minute. Oh my goodness, I’m running so far behind. This isn’t a surprise, since I decided to exfoliate and buff every inch of my skin. A girl has to be prepared for a night of passion with the sexiest man in Texas—maybe the country—who she hasn’t seen in weeks.

  The way his hands slide across my skin. How his stubble sends a shiver through my body that causes my skin to pepper with goose bumps. More importantly, the way his tongue on my—

  Startled awake by a pounding at the door, I shoot up into a sitting position. Braxton is here to surprise me. I’m ready for him; I just need—

  “Hey, sleepyhead.”

  He’s here. Not outside. Dammit. That was a dream. Sniffing, I can smell the spices of his mom’s soup in the air and spot the glass of ginger ale on the table. Standing, I adjust my shirt and assess my nausea. Like most days since my visit with the doctor, my late-morning nap seems to have helped. Thank goodness I have a job with flexibility. Mornings have not been my friend.

  “Was that someone knocking at my door?” I ask, rounding the couch.

  “I’ll get it.”

  Before I can argue, he’s already opened the door, greeting a man in a blue, collared shirt. I watch speechless as two men carry in a large rectangular box while a third carries a toolbox. My eyes jump from the men to Braxton and back to the men as they open the box to reveal a massive television. Well, massive by my standards. After seeing Braxton’s television, this one is a baby in comparison.

  “Braxton, what’s going on?”

  “Just getting your television installed so you can watch all the cheesy movies your heart desires.”

  My heart? Yeah, that thing is beating triple-time. He is the sweetes
t man ever. My heart swells… but then my brain takes over. Opening my mouth to argue, I’m cut off by his finger on my lips.

  “Don’t argue. It’s my housewarming gift for you.”

  “It’s too much, Braxton. Most people just buy candles or wine. Plus, you already bought me a housewarming gift, remember?”

  “I’m not most people, darlin’.”

  Oh no he didn’t just southern charm me. Damn him. That drawl and damn smile have probably gotten this man out of more awkward situations than I’d like to admit. It seemed to work with that late show host before things went a lot off the rails, and I think it’s working with me. Besides, I really do want to do a cheesy movie binge.

  About half an hour later, the guys have finished setting up the television and giving us both a quick rundown on how to operate the thing. Thankfully, there is only one remote. I don’t know that my mind could remember all they explained and how to work multiple controllers.

  Braxton escorts the men to the door as I scroll through the various apps. Out the corner of my eye, I watch as he pulls his wallet from his pocket. Turning to face him, I cross my arms and smile as the men thank him multiple times before leaving.

  “What?” he asks, his grin matching mine as he releases the door handle.

  “Did you just tip those guys or something?”

  Shrugging, he crosses the room to where I’m standing and snags the remote from my hand. “I did,” he replies sheepishly while not making eye contact. Is he embarrassed? “Is that okay?”

  “Of course it’s okay,” I comment, bumping him with my shoulder. “They walked away with huge smiles on their faces like you made their day.”

  This man is amazing. He’s so much more than the press has portrayed him to be. Not only the way he is with me, but watching him with others, it’s hard to recall the man I met at the photo shoot. I may or may not have snuck a peek at the article itself and was happy to see that the man he is was portrayed accurately. I know it was my idea to put him in the friend zone, but in moments like this one, how he came here to take care of me, it’s difficult to remember why.