XXX CHAPTER 13 XXX
The elevator ride was too long not to pull out his phone. His heart took an unauthorized hop at the five text messages waiting for him and plummeted when not one turned out to be from Edward. When had Edward ever contacted him first? Never, that's when.
Trey was waiting for him in the gym, and Emmett had never been happier to feel the crack of his trainer's whip. The hateful lunges produced a welcome burn, and Emmett hit the ladder with a gusto he had only faked before today. His kicks were higher, crunches were tighter, and squats were deeper than he could remember achieving in the past.
Huffing his way through the elastic band stretched around his shoulders, Emmett faced Trey's stern glare.
"Are you trying to hurt yourself?"
"No!"
Hands on hips, Trey was clearly in his no-bullshit zone. "Breathe, and ease up."
A choppy breath escaped Emmett as the tension maintained its iron grip.
"Would you care to try again?"
He could try all day, but Emmett knew it wouldn't get any better. Loosening his tight grasp of the k-band, he shook his head. "Sorry."
Trey softened. "C'mon over to the table. Let me have a turn."
Emmett kicked off his sneakers and socks, peeled off his sweaty shirt, stretched out face-up on the massage table, and folded his arms behind his head. Trey started at the bottom, pressing his thumbs into the balls of Emmett's feet with a fervor that had matched Emmett's.
"Let it go, Mac."
There was no hiding from Trey; Emmett was convinced the man could see the oxygen pumping inside his veins. "I'm trying."
Knead, push, poke. "Are you? How about unclenching your teeth?"
Now that he mentioned it . . . Emmett wiggled his jaw free as Trey kept a close eye on him.
"Better. Did you run this morning?"
"Yeah."
"Did it help?"
Emmett chuffed. "Sadly, yes. Would you believe I was worse before?"
Trey shook his head. "Jesus, man. You want to talk about it?"
"Nah. How about if you just continue with the exorcism?"
"Sure thing. Just prepare yourself for the deep dive. I can't wait to see what your hamstrings have in store for me."
Chuckling, Emmett responded. "I'm sure the feeling is mutual."
An hour later, Emmett rolled off the table into his trainer's steadying grasp. "Thanks for the abuse, man."
"Any time," Trey answered, handing him a cup of water. "You know there's nobody I'd rather abuse than you."
"Aw, I bet you say that to all the boys."
"No, actually I don't."
Woozy and dehydrated, Emmett glanced at Trey, surprised to see that the man was dead serious and completely matter-of-fact about it. Okay, then.
Stepping right up in Emmett's face, Trey elaborated. "I know genius when I see it, and you've got it, Mac."
A hot flush came over Emmett, and he dipped his chin to the floor, but Trey wasn't deterred.
"I'm not telling you this to massage your ego," he said, laughing at his own unintended joke. "Probably the only body part I didn't pound on just now. I'm telling you because I want to help keep you on top. It's a rare thrill to work with someone like you, and that's why I crawl all over your ass when I see you pushing yourself too hard. I'm selfish, Mac. I want to be on this happy ride with you for a good, long time. You don't want to tell me what's going on? That's fine. I'm your trainer, not your shrink. But please, whatever it is, work it out . . . without hurting yourself. Okay?"
Trey gave Emmett's shoulder a gentle squeeze and left him alone to ponder the advice. Emmett's muscles may have been untangled, but the same did not hold true for his thoughts. A long, hot shower gave him a chance to at least quiet his mind, if not sift through the mad snarl. He was smart enough to know that emotions set aside weren't neutralized for good, but he'd take the short-term peace for now and deal with the rest later.
XXX
Chicken parmigiana from Arturo's . . . check! Wolf of Wall Street on demand . . . check! A pair of Bud bottles lined up on the coffee table with the rest of the six-pack stored away in the fridge just in case . . . check! Emmett loved it when a good plan came together, so why was he about to sabotage his evening by checking his damn Twitter?
An exasperated groan turned into a relieved sigh as the familiar hash tag appeared on his screen.
ɸ69fanatic: #whatiloveaboutbaseball You can steal a base, but you risk losing everything—just like life.
Okay, maybe the relief was a bit premature. At least Edward was here, and Emmett was hoping to keep it that way. And for now, he made a little deal with himself not to probe into why his ever reliable fan was MIA this morning, especially since Emmett already had a strong suspicion it had to do with being ignored last night.
Sidestepping the obvious interpretation, Emmett sent a response. What do you think it says about our game that cheating is built into the rules?
Taking the ethics out of it leaves the player with a pure risk-reward problem. The professor was back on solid ground, hiding behind his numbers.
I don't have to face down too many moral dilemmas on the mound, thank goodness.
Nor will I in the classroom.
The Police might disagree, Emmett typed back, his heart already lighter than it had been all day.
Not too worried about my sixth graders.
Emmett twisted off the bottle cap and settled in at his desk. Don't be so quick to dismiss the crush.
I don't think I'm the type to inspire such things.
Oh, Professor, you are so wrong about that. Whatever you say. Emmett stayed in that "Don't Stand So Close To Me" moment, placing himself in Edward's classroom, staying after class for private tutoring, teasing and flirting with his shy professor . . .
How's your arm tonight?
Hello, abrupt topic shift. I'm good. Trey beat me up on the table.
I'll bet. You threw your heart out last night.
Gave it my best shot.
Tough luck about the no decision.
That's the way it goes sometimes.
You mind if I'm honest with you about something?
In Emmett's experience, when a person asks that question, you really have no choice but to hold your breath and take your lumps. I'd mind more if you weren't honest about everything.
Okay. Dad was pretty upset during last night's game and asked me to say something to you.
Dad, huh? About my pitching?
No! About the snuff. It's really, really bad for you.
Tell the good doctor I'm aware and thanks for the concern. The pause that followed Emmett's message caused him to reread and rethink his hasty answer. He had to hand it to the guy; it took a serious set of balls to bring up such a touchy topic.
Emmett pictured the scene that might have played out in the stands while he'd stuffed his lip with chaw: Carlisle, compassionate doctor and devoted fan, shaking his head, tsk-tsking to his son, muttering about mouth cancers and gum surgery, and finally dropping the gauntlet. "Do you think he'd listen if you said something?" Edward, cautious new friend to the pitcher, firmly wedged between a rock and a hard place, seemingly rebuffed by his first show of concern after the game, gun-shy about plunging in deeper, finally pulls the trigger only to receive what probably looks like a flip response.
You're an asshole, Mac. Hashtag MacHole. Swallowing a chunk of pride along with a swig of Bud, Emmett sent a new message: Sometimes I wish Twitter had an erase button.
Without delay, Edward responded. I know the feeling.
I appreciate the honesty. Your father isn't the first—or only—to harp on me.
Remember when Dad asked to meet your team doc? He made up that line about wanting to thank him. He was planning on reaming him out!
No shit? About the chaw?
Yes!
Wow.
Yeah. I was afraid he was going to go off on you directly, but I'd made him swear he wouldn't.
Thanks.
Don't thank me. I kind of wish I'd let him. He might've convinced you in person.
Edward beating himself up over Emmett's terrible, disgusting, embarrassing habit was more than he could handle. It's not like I don't know I shouldn't. I only dip when I'm especially stressed on the mound, not every game.
God knows I couldn't handle that kind of pressure. Isn't there anything else you can do though?
What do you suggest? Lavender-scented candles? Stuffed animal? Quick bubble bath between innings?
I was thinking along the lines of chocolate.
There you go again trying to make me fat.
Fair enough. Squeeze ball?
Don't mess with the hands!
Gum? Sunflower seeds? Meditation? Yoga?
Emmett had to chuckle. The guy was trying; he'd give him that. Tell Carlisle he has been heard, but there will be no downward dog in the dugout.
Fine. Shutting up now.
You know, the average stolen base percentage for the league is around 75%.
72.4. What's your point?
Don't stop telling me the truth just because I'm an asshole when you do.
You weren't that bad. It was worth it, but telling you only gets me to second base.
Now you're getting greedy. And there was no denying Emmett liked it, judging by the grin on his face.
Speaking of greed, which should I claim first—the run or the meal you promised I could buy?
If you're game, meet me at Alki Beach Sunday morning at 8:30.
Author's Note: All is well.
I have to admit, many of the review comments on chapter 12 surprised me, which usually means my writing wasn't quite as clear as I'd intended. I realize you're getting everything filtered through Emmett's perceptions, but I was surprised I'd left people believing that Edward was either angry or spiteful about Emmett not replying to his comments. In my mind, Edward was anxious that he'd overfanboyed since Emmett didn't respond, and he was shying away until he heard from Emmett. Lord knows, I've been in that position before. You open the chat box and see that you were the one who sent the last...3 messages *YIKES*...and maybe that person kind of wished you'd just leave him alone? It's a horrible feeling, and the best you can do is shut down the computer and pretend it didn't happen. Also, the chaw- yes, it is gross but yes, Emmett did it in Benched, so here we are seeing the origins of that and imagining how father and son would've responded.
Anybody else having Police fantasies? Have you seen the sexy math teacher-slash-underwear model? Oh holy shit! Links posted with this chapter update in the patch. See you there!
XXX ~BOH