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“He can’t get sick from touching bird shit, can he?” Miller asked.
“No, it’s unlikely this little guy has any germs.”
I couldn’t feel my legs.The bird shit in my hand. I needed to get this thing off me. Now.
“Here.” She held her hands out.
Thank fuck. I turned toward her and had to work not to toss the thing to her. Almost instantly, a towel was thrust at me. Hands shaking, I wiped them as best as I could, then dropped the towel to the ground and reached for another. I needed water and soap and hand sanitizer. Hell, I needed a full-body decontamination treatment.
“You okay?” Blondie asked.
It took me a moment to process her words. She sounded like she was in a fishbowl.
Her blue eyes were lit with concern. She cradled the little bird close, careful of his wing. She tilted her head and gave me a reassuring smile. The move made the ends of her ponytail brush along one shoulder. God, she was pretty. I really need to know her name.
A throat cleared loudly behind us. “Avery,” Coach Wilson snapped.
My girl lifted her chin and looked past me.
“Get going. We have a game to play.”
My spine snapped tight at the command. This asshole had no right to speak to her like that. I pushed up to my feet and whirled, glaring at him.
“Don’t talk to her that way.”
Tom Wilson crossed his arms and snorted a breath out of his nose. “Don’t tell me how to talk to my daughter.”
My heart stopped, and I swore the ground opened up beneath me.
No way.
Satan couldnothave produced Blondie.
Tom stood before me, eyes narrowed as if waiting for me to respond. But I had no words.
His daughter. She was his daughter. My attention shifted to the woman who’d spent a night in my bed. I lifted a brow in question. And in answer, she averted those blue eyes and focused on the grass at our feet.
“Wait,” Coach Wilson said, taking a step closer. “Do you two know each other?”
“No.” The words were out of her mouth before I could even blink.
“Good.” Tom scowled at me. “Keep it that way.” Then his attention shifted to his daughter. “You know my rules, Avy.”
Suddenly, the pieces I’d been trying to fit together for months clicked into place. Emerson said she’d freaked out when he mentioned that we played for the Revs.
Slowly, she tilted her chin up again and looked at me. And in her gaze, I saw the truth. She was a daddy’s girl, and the man utterly hated me.
“If you wash your hands, you’ll be fine,” she assured.
The words didn’t compute in my brain, because I didn’t feel at all fine.
It wasodd to see new faces in the team room. Although this one wasn’t all that new. She was the owner’s new wife’s best friend. But we hadn’t officially met.
The all-star break had just ended, and the team had played well. I hadn’t pitched today, but I was up tomorrow. I’d only started once since hitting the bird, and just like then, I didn’t feel on my game. It wasn’t just about hurting the little guy—who, according to the news, was doing okay. No, I was distracted.
“Hey.” I stepped up to Dylan, the fun redhead who was friends with Beckett Langfield’s wife. She was smallish and spunky, like she could be friends with Tinkerbell. “Christian Damiano.”
I preferred not to shake hands, but when she reached for mine, I forced myself to let her touch me. If I made the rules, people would nod in greeting and leave it at that rather than invading each other’s personal space. I’d even tolerate fist bumps. Knuckles were way safer than palms.
