Then I wonder why I even care.

Some of my teammates give me a supportive pat on the back before I throw my batting helmet down and find a seat on the bench. Then I watch Caden and Spencer each get a single and I’m pissed all over again, knowing I’d be crossing home plate right about now if I hadn’t screwed up. After that, the Yankees turn a double play, ending the inning.

We have a couple more particularly bad innings and I wonder if we’re just snake-bit today. When I get up to bat again, I strike out. I glance up in the stands again. Yes – definitely snake-bit.

After the game, Rick chews our asses out. But nobody complains. We deserve it. It was our worst performance of the year. In spite of that, there is still a large crowd gathered outside the clubhouse when I emerge. I look around for Aspen. She’s supposed to meet me here.

I see a group of reporters huddled off to one side. One of them shouts, “Aspen! Are you going to be the one to settle him down?”

I can’t help but smile when I hear the question. Everything is going exactly as planned.

Question after question gets fired at her. And just as we discussed, she’s not answering a single one. And it doesn’t go unnoticed that they are calling her by her name. One of the reporters calls her ‘Miss Andrews’ so the cat is most definitely out of the bag.

A reporter shifts over and I see her. Bass is hovering protectively, but she looks terrified. I walk over to the head of security and nod to Aspen. “Drew, can you take care of that for me? She and the guy can come through.”

“No problem,” he says, before he signals to someone else on his staff and then they clear a path for Aspen and Bass to come around the barriers that separate us from the press and the fans.

I pull Aspen to my side and put my arm around her. Then I lean down and kiss her hello. I can see in her eyes that she’s still scared, but she looks relieved to be on this side of the gate.

“Drew, this is Aspen Andrews and Sebastian Briggs. They are both good to have access until further notice.”

Drew shakes their hands and pulls some business cards out of his pocket to give them. “Good to meet you. If you have any issues, call or text me at this number.”

“I’m gonna go sign a few autographs,” I tell Aspen. “You can wait right here and I’ll be back in a minute.”

When I head over to the fans, the reporters bombard me with questions.

“Are you dating Aspen Andrews?” they ask.

“Yes,” I say, trying not to make it seem like a big deal as I sign a few hats and programs.

“How many times have you been out with her?” one yells.

Normally I wouldn’t bother to answer these sorts of questions, but in this case, these are exactly the ones I want to answer. “I don’t know. I don’t keep count. A few.”

“How is she different from the others?” one asks.

I look back at Aspen and smile when she gives me an awkward wave. I’m milking this for all it’s worth. Damn, I wish Rick were out here to see this.

“Have you seen her?” I ask.

“Are you in love?” a reporter shouts.

I have to keep from laughing. I couldn’t have scripted this better.

“Come on, guys,” I say, trying to look disgusted that he even asked. I do have to make it believable, after all.

A minute later, I’m back at Aspen’s side. “They are putty in our hands,” I say.

I lean down to give her one more peck on the lips now that I know all the cameras are on us.

“I’m very happy for you,” she says, looking up at me the way we discussed she would. Like she’s a woman in love. She pulls me close and whispers in my ear. “What happens now?”

I throw my head back and laugh, like what she said was funny. Then I brush a hair behind her ear and run my thumb down the side of her jaw.

“Now we’ll go out. Just you and me. Our first solo date. That will have them salivating.”

“What about Bass?” she asks.

“We can’t always have a chaperone,” I tell her. “People will talk. We need to keep this about us. You and me. Not a threesome.”

She nods. “Right. So, where are we going?”

“I hope you didn’t eat too much at the game, because I’m taking you for a late dinner.”

She looks down at her clothing. At the jersey that looks great on her, and her jeans. “But I’m not dressed for dinner.”

“You don’t need to be. You like pizza, don’t you?”

“Sure, who doesn’t? But won’t we get bombarded?”

“That’s kind of the point, Aspen. Consider this our coming out party.”

She looks scared.

“Don’t worry. I won’t let it get out of hand. I know the owner of the place I’m taking you.”

“Okay. Let me tell Bass we’re leaving.”

While she’s talking to Bass, I share a few parting words with some of the other guys who hung around to sign autographs. Then I have Drew get us a cab.

“You do what you have to do to protect her,” Bass says, walking with us to our ride.

“That’s a given,” I tell him. “You don’t have to keep reminding me every time you see me, Briggs. It’s part of the contract.”

“And I’m not about to let you forget it,” he says.

I shake my head and laugh. “Duly noted.”

I put Aspen into the cab and climb in after her. She looks back at everyone who followed us to the street. “Is it always like this, or is this because of me?”

“There are always fans waiting for us outside the clubhouse, if that’s what you mean. They can get pretty boisterous sometimes. But considering we lost the game, there were more than I expected – and that’s because of you.”

“How long do you think they will make a big deal out of it?”

I shrug. “Don’t know. Weeks maybe. Or months. I’m not really sure.”

“What do you think will happen now that they know my name?” she asks.

“Some might find out where you live and hang out in front of your apartment building.”

“The lease is in Bass’s name,” she says.

“That’s good, but I’m sure it won’t be long before they find out his name, too. And everything else about you.”

She puts her head in her hands. “Oh, God. Why did I agree to this again?”

I lean into her so the cabbie doesn’t hear. “Because I’m paying you a shitload of money.”

She looks up at me and takes a deep breath.

I study her face. “That is why you’re doing this, isn’t it?”

“Of course it is. Why?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes the way you look at me, it’s just—”

“Sawyer, I have to look at you like that,” she whispers. “It’s in the contract.”

“Good. Because I realize all this pretending might seem real and I don’t want you thinking … you know.”

“That you like me?” she says, sardonically. “I wouldn’t dare.”

“Come on, Aspen. I do like you. I think you’re a cool chick. It’s just that I don’t—”

“Do girlfriends. Yeah, I know. You’ve said that like a thousand times. I think I got it by now.”

“Are you mad at me?” I ask.

“No. Sorry.” She nods to the street behind us. “I’m just not used to this yet.”

“Do you have any questions I can answer to make things easier?”

She looks at me thoughtfully. “Yeah, why do they call it a clubhouse? Isn’t it just a locker room?”

I laugh. Of all the questions she could ask, she asks such a benign one. “It was a locker room in high school. Now it’s a clubhouse. Makes it seem more professional I guess.”

“What did they call it in college?” she asks.

I shrug. “Don’t know. I didn’t go.”

“You didn’t go to college? Then how are you playing professional baseball?”

“It’s not like football,” I explain. “Plenty of players get drafted right out of high school. Unlike football, we don’t need the extra years to beef up. We’re practically at our prime during the college years, so why waste that?”

“Waste that? You think college is a waste?” she asks, looking all judgmental.

“I guess not for some people. But for me it would have been. I was never an academic.”

“But what about after?” she asks. “You can’t play baseball forever. And what if you get hurt?”

I shake my head. “I’m not going to get hurt. Playing shortstop is not as dangerous as some of the other positions, but it is one of the most demanding positions on the team – and the most important one.”

“I’ll bet Caden and Brady would argue that point.”

I laugh. “They would. But they’d be wrong.”

“Still, even if you don’t get hurt, how long can you realistically play?”

“The average MLB career lasts five years. But that’s only because a lot of guys can’t hack it in the majors. Some guys play into their upper thirties. I plan on going even longer. I’ve got fifteen good years ahead of me. Maybe more.”

“You don’t have a backup plan?”

“Why would I do that? A backup plan assumes you’ll fail. Do you have a backup plan?”

She shakes her head.

“So you were going to Juilliard no matter what? That’s pretty ballsy considering they don’t take just anyone.”

“Not as ballsy as thinking you’ll grow up to play baseball for the New York Nighthawks.”

“So, I guess we’re two confident people then. We know what we want.”

The cab stops, but we don’t break our stare. I’m not sure what passes between us, but it makes me uncomfortable as shit.