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Danny swoops her up. “Let’s get you upstairs.” He lifts a chin to the guys. “Excellent game today.”
“Pope played his ass off today. You all should try to do the same tomorrow.” Chloe calls back.
“All right, Miss Shaw, that’s enough.” Danny laughs as he carries her away.
“She’s had a lot to drink.” I chuckle.
“She’s not wrong. He killed it today.” Turner winks at me. “This beautiful woman must be your lucky charm. Hope you bring her to all the games.”
“I’m sure she’ll be at a few, but we have an almost five-year-old who has a bedtime and?—”
“Wait, you have a kid?” Frankie asks.
“He—”
I cut Whit off. “Name’s on her birth certificate and all.”
Turner looks at Whit, who shakes her head. “It’s complicated.”
“Life is complicated. Love should be easy.” Turner smiles at her, then looks at me. “Come on, man. Show me some pictures.”
“He—”
I pull my phone out again, cutting her off. “Whit calls her little slugger, and she’s got one hell of an arm on her.”
I scroll through the pictures, showing my teammates, and then I show them a couple of clips of her railing the ball and throwing too.
Turner chuckles. “So, she’s got your game and her mom’s looks.”
“Her mom has just as much game as I do. She had a scholarship to Arizona to play D1 ball, but went on to nursing school, took care of my mom when she was still here.”
“Women in professional sports don’t get paid to play like you boys do,” York says, bringing all their attention to her.
“York, right?” Frankie asks.
“Frankie Frangula, center field. RBI is 218, but could be better if your follow-through wasn’t piss-poor.”
He holds his hand to his chest as if he’s in physical pain. “Fuck, that hurt. Come on, little lady. Give me some props.”
“You have one hell of an arm.”
“I have other skills I’d love to?—”
I cut him off. “Respect, man.”
York turns and looks at me. “You know I’m older than you, right?”
“Nah, he’s right. My bad.”
I look down at Whit, who’s transfixed on my photos. I look at the screen and see she’s looking at the ones I took of her alone and with her and Nora at the batting cage.
She looks up at me, as if seeking explanation.
“No apologies.”
She looks me over. “You hungry?”
“Starving,” I admit.
