XXX CHAPTER 11 XXX

Emmett glared down into his middle drawer, pondering which tee-shirt to wear far more scrupulously than he cared to admit. Five rejected choices later, he settled on a plain black tee—not his tightest—one he hoped would appear to have been chosen with extreme nonchalance. Thank Christ the jeans were at least easy, and the fact that they showed off his killer ass was no small factor in Emmett's choice. A simple black leather belt and his favorite low boots, and Emmett was ready for his first non-date with Edward.

A quick glance at the clock told Emmett he had ten minutes before he had to hit the road, and there was little doubt as to how he'd spend it.

ɸ69fanatic: #whatiloveaboutbaseball Hitting a baseball is the hardest single feat in all of sports.

Good morning to you too, Edward, and thanks for the lay-up. Emmett was grinning while he typed his private reply. That's what we pitchers like to call job security.

Emmett wasn't necessarily expecting a response, especially since they were about to meet face-to-face. He scrolled through some of the retweets and replies. There were the predictable comments about the great hitters of all time, but Emmett was certain Edward's tweet was meant to bolster him. He had to admit—it was working.

Eager as hell and nearly as anxious, Emmett grabbed his shades and popped his phone, wallet, and keys into his pocket. This is not a date, he reminded himself all the way to breakfast, though the stutter step his heart took when he walked in and saw Edward waiting for him would have indicated otherwise.

"Hey!" Emmett unleashed his smile because there was no way of holding it back while he extended his hand in greeting.

Edward pulled his right hand out of his pocket to return the gesture. Looking uncertainly between Emmett and the hostess, he said, "I felt kind of silly throwing your name around . . . so I figured I'd just wait."

"Oh, yeah, it's fine. They—"

"Mr. McCarty, right this way."

"—know you here." Edward finished Emmett's sentence with a shy smile.

Emmett shrugged and followed the hostess to a two-top tucked in an out-of-the-way corner with a view of the bay off in the distance. She set down their menus and did her best not to ogle the celebrity before leaving them.

"So, did you have a long ride in?" Emmett asked, hoping it didn't sound too much like, Where the heck do you live anyway?

"Not long. I just never know about traffic. I didn't want to keep you waiting."

Emmett chuckled and checked his watch. 8:20. "I guess we both had the same thought."

They awkward-smiled at each other, and Emmett picked up his menu, relieved to have something to occupy his hands and eyes. What the hell happened to "easy"? he wondered. Emmett's right leg was bouncing a mile a minute under the table. Coffee with a friend, coffee with a friend.

"What's good here?" Edward asked, perusing his menu.

"How hungry are you?"

"Eight out of ten."

Emmett cracked a smile because Edward didn't. "Hmm, if you'd said 'nine,' I would've definitely said to go for the slugger's breakfast, but for an eight, I'd have to say pancakes or French toast."

Edward looked up from his menu and acknowledged the gentle teasing with a little huff. "It's not something I can turn off," he said, "even when I want to."

"You shouldn't. It's"—fucking adorable—"who you are."

"Coffee, boys?"

"Decaf," Edward answered, concentrating on the liquid flowing into his mug.

"Just water for me, please."

"Of course. I'll be right back to take your orders."

Setting aside his menu, Edward asked, "So, how was Cleveland? I've always wanted to get out there and see the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame."

"Yeah, I'd love to see that too. Not exactly on the team itinerary."

"They don't let you guys out to have any fun?"

"We're not getting paid to have fun," Emmett answered, adding, "though some of the guys do manage." Emmett rolled his eyes, remembering Fuller's out-of-breath return to their room just before curfew the last night.

"But not you?" Edward was looking at him with those you're-my-hero eyes again. Would he feel that way if he knew the truth about Emmett—that what kept him in his hotel room at night wasn't some strict adherence to the moral code nearly as much as fear of being caught violating the rules with the wrong person.

"Nah, that's not really my scene."

The waiter came back to take their order. Edward smirked as he ordered the French toast, causing Emmett to chuckle out loud.

"Make that two," Emmett said. "And two sides of fruit."

"Are you sure you're not a nine?" Edward asked. Each private joke was a new thread of intimacy weaving the two of them together a little bit tighter. They were still grinning at each other when the waiter walked away.

"Speaking of nines," Emmett said, "where's my number?"

"Huh?"

"My jersey. It's still baseball season, right?" With his brilliant justification on the table, Emmett allowed himself a nice, long stare at Edward's chest. A striped, short-sleeved button-down with a white tee underneath allowed just a hint of chest hair to peek out at the neck.

Edward followed Emmett's gaze, tipping his chin forward to check what he was wearing. "Oh." His voice had a wistful note, as if he'd really let Emmett down.

"Edward, I was kidding."

"No, I had it on," he said, wringing his hands, "but then I figured maybe it'd be a bit much. Plus, I guessed you might not want to be a spectacle every time you go out to get a bite to eat."

Emmett resisted the urge to reach over and settle Edward's hands. "You were right, and that was really thoughtful of you." Edward looked so relieved that Emmett loosened the tight grip he'd been holding on his words. "I never really thanked you for being so cool about everything. You know, keeping things . . ." Emmett gestured back and forth between the two of them.

"Private?"

The word sounded way naughtier than it needed to, like a secret whispered in bed. And of course, the food picked that moment to arrive. They both sank back to make room for the overflowing platters and syrup and fruit cups.

"Do you need anything else here?" the waiter asked.

Emmett waited for Edward's head shake before answering. "Nope, we're all good."

Edward picked up the syrup jar and drizzled a neat, symmetrical trail up and down the top piece of toast before slicing into it. His eyes rolled back in his head as the first taste hit his tongue. "Ohmygod."

"Told ya," Emmett said with a chuckle.

"Something tells me you can't eat like this very often," Edward said.

"It would probably shift my center of gravity."

Edward's gaze dropped as far down Emmett's body as he could see across the table, and his chewing slowed for a second. "That'd be bad, right?"

Emmett was smirking, but he couldn't help it. "I would think so."

"Yeah, you probably don't want to tamper with perfection. I mean, your pitching . . . gravity . . . all those ratios." The guy was beet red now, stuffing a huge piece of bread into his mouth to shut himself up.

"Right." Emmett searched for a topic that might offer Edward a little bit of relief, something not related to Emmett's body or celebrity or perfection. "So I've been giving some thought to your question about my coaches."

Edward wiped his mouth and gave Emmett a grateful nod. "Yeah, I'd love to hear whatever insights you have—advice that helped, maybe some that didn't?"

"Sure. I want to say first that my parents were incredibly supportive right from the start. It wasn't easy dealing with a kid who was determined to be a major league pitcher when he was seven years old. My head and my body weren't always on the same page, and that got to be frustrating at times. Believe it or not, I was a bit of a hothead growing up."

Edward sipped at his coffee. "What great champion ever lacked passion?"

Emmett chuffed. "Well, passion and temper tantrums are fairly indistinguishable at that age. Anyway, Mom and Dad both had their turns dealing with the tears and the hissy fits. Without their patience, I would never have made it through."

"So this drive to be a pitcher didn't come from them at all?"

"No. My dad would play catch with me in the yard when he came home from work; that was about it. He wasn't a baseball fanatic or anything. They didn't really care what I chose to do; they just wanted me to know I could do anything I set my mind to. I don't think they were expecting me to set my mind to something so improbable at such an early age, but they were good sports about it. Later, when scouts started coming around the high school, my folks made me promise to go to college. After that, they said, it was up to me. UCLA made me an offer I couldn't refuse, and the decision was pretty easy."

"That worked out pretty well—for you and for UCLA."

"It was a nice fit," Emmett replied, breaking a strip of bacon in half and bringing it to his mouth.

"So your earliest coaches, if you can even remember, what were they telling you?"

"Mostly they were telling me to stop being so hard on myself and my teammates. Nobody was taking things seriously, and it pissed me off no end."

"Oh."

"Yeah, imagine a third grader not understanding that defending first base is a life-and-death situation."

"Yikes."

"Exactly. Looking back, I'd say ninety percent of the coaching I received was on my mental game, how to live with the reality of imperfection without losing the fire to be the best. You probably know the odds better than I do. There are only so many spots at the top for all those kids who share the pipe dream. It's pretty cruel to encourage a kid to keep dreaming, don't you think?"

Edward stared down the trick question for a few quiet moments before offering an answer. "Maybe what separates a great coach from the rest is the ability to recognize the champion when he's standing in front of him, even at age seven."

Emmett smiled. "I was a champion at age seven?"

"Sure. You were born with something special, and I don't just mean the physical gift. You can prune a bonsai tree into any shape you want, but you can't turn a pine into a bonsai. Know what I mean?"

"Yes, I know exactly what you mean. I had one coach in high school who was determined to make me a left-handed pitcher." Emmett lifted his left hand onto the table, examining it as if it belonged to someone else. "I couldn't control it at all. By the way, he goes into the 'things that didn't work' category. I'm all for working on weaknesses, but at some point, we have to accept who we are and build on the strengths."

"Yep."

Something about the way Edward offered his understanding on the topic made Emmett suspect there was something more than empathy behind it. "Did someone try to prune you into a bonsai?"

Edward met Emmett's eyes with a flash of surprise. "Me?"

Oh, Edward, did you think I wasn't going to get to know you too? "Yes, you . . . if you feel like sharing."

"It's not quite as dramatic as your story, I'm sure, but there were a few well-meaning teachers who tried to fit me into a round hole."

"Whaaat?" Emmett choked on the honeydew ball he had half-swallowed and snatched up his napkin before things went flying.

"Shit! Are you okay? Here, drink some water . . ." Edward sputtered and perched at the edge of his seat, ready to spring. "Oh God, do you need a Heimlich?"

Emmett held out his hand while he sipped his water. "I'm fine." Edward's words replayed in Emmett's head, and his smile broke out again. "What the hell did you just say about a round hole?"

Edward put two and two together and blushed like a fiend. "I was a square peg. That's what I meant. Not . . ." He trailed off, shaking his head and hiding behind his napkin.

"Got it. So what holes did they try to get you to fill?" He snorted at the imagery, and Edward rolled his eyes.

"Oh, let's see . . . violin, bassoon, soccer, drama . . . Is that enough?"

Emmett was flat-out laughing now. "Can we go back to bassoon for a second, please?"

"No." More head-shaking and eye-rolling followed. "I can't believe I even told you that."

Had they been walking together, Emmett would've thrown his arm around Edward's shoulders and given him a little squeeze. As they were seated across from each other and they hadn't exactly reached that level of familiarity yet, Emmett settled for reaching over and giving Edward's arm a casual pat. "Aw, c'mon. You know pretty much everything about me. It's only fair I get you to spill a few details about your life."

Glancing at Emmett's hand on his arm, Edward blushed all over again, but he didn't pull away. "There's really not that much to tell."

The smile faded from Emmett's face. "You just think that because you already know all the good stuff."

"Whatever."

Emmett eased his hand away from Edward. "That does beg the question though."

Stabbing another forkful of syrupy toast, Edward asked, "Which question is that?" before bringing the food to his mouth.

"Where did your square peg fit?"

The fork stopped in midair; chewing ceased; a flare of the nostrils gave him away. "Excuse me?"

Emmett's smirk was back in full force. So he wasn't the only one with a dirty mind at this table. "What were you suited for? Which activities interested you? What's your square hole?"

"Okay, I think I'm done with this metaphor now."

Damn, he was fun. "Fine, but I'd still love to know."

Edward washed down the rest of his mouthful with a pull on his coffee mug. "Not to brag or anything—"

"Come on, I asked you! That doesn't count."

"I'm fairly decent at chess."

"That doesn't surprise me in the least." Smart, thoughtful, thinking ten steps ahead . . . yes, that sounded like the professor.

Edward grinned, soaking in Emmett's compliment for once, which made Emmett want to get up and dance. "Exactly how decent are we talking?"

With a wave of his hand, Edward dismissed what was most likely a pretty spectacular record. "Went to Nationals a few times in high school."

"Wow! That's amazing! I mean, it sounds amazing. I don't know squat about chess tournaments."

"It was a cool experience."

"Anything else you don't want to tell me about?"

Edward chuckled. "Yeah, a mediocre career in long-distance running."

"Huh."

"What's 'huh'?"

Emmett grinned and ran his fingers across his lips. "I love running, but I've always been more of a sprinter than a marathoner. And you just reminded me of some of the best coaching advice I ever received."

Edward smiled back, looking quite pleased. "What was that?"

"I'm not great at pacing myself. In college, I was especially poor at conserving energy—both physical and emotional. I'd come out fighting and burn my arm out too soon, so they always had to take me out early until I learned to save something for the long haul."

"Don't you think part of that is a factor of youth? Bravado?"

"Probably, but I also think it's just who I am. I'm not great at holding back. What are you grinning about over there?"

"Just about the fact that I'm the complete opposite. Our track coach was always trying to light a fire under me."

"That is pretty amusing. But you don't exactly strike me as the unmotivated type. Hell, you've earned a PhD at . . . what? Twenty-eight?"

"Yeah, talk about a marathon."

"Better you than me, pal."

Edward gave him a knowing nod. "Hey, if you ever need a running partner to slow you down, I'm your man." Now, there was an idea! But Edward was already backpedaling with a palm to his forehead. "What the hell am I talking about? You have a whole team of running partners and a staff of coaches to pace you and time you and—"

"I would love to run with you sometime, Edward."

Again, that incredulous smile graced his face. He looked like he wanted to pinch himself to make sure he wasn't dreaming. "Really? That'd be awesome."

"You mind running along the beach? You don't have any water phobias you haven't told me about, do you?"

"Nope. I think I'll be all right, assuming I can keep up with you."

"Don't worry; I'm flexible." The innuendos were piling up so fast, Emmett couldn't keep track. And through it all, Edward put out this innocent vibe that drove Emmett absolutely wild. He had no idea if the guy had the slightest clue what he was doing to him. What Emmett did know was that he wanted to see Edward again, the sooner the better.

He handed his Amex to the waiter before Edward could even reach for his wallet.

"Hey! I asked you for your advice on coaching."

"Yeah, but I asked you to meet me for coffee."

"Fine, you pay for my coffee!"

Neither of them was stating the obvious, that Emmett was pulling down an eight-figure salary and Edward was a pre-employed math teacher, albeit in a posh private school, not to mention the breakfast was all of forty bucks, hardly worth the argument.

"Tell you what," Emmett said, "the next meal's on you."

Author's Note: Oh, I think that's a very good idea. That means...ANOTHER non-DATE! I hope you guys enjoyed this one. I stole a couple of square holes from my life with three brothers. The bassoon was really THE WORST IDEA EVER!

What did you think of Emmett's coaching advice? What's the best tip you've ever received? I'd love to hear. I might even steal it! *wink* I'm traveling this weekend so I'll catch up when I can, but please know I read and thoroughly enjoy every review. MWAH!
XXX ~BOH