On the field, Fletch barks out commands to a couple of rookies, his voice carrying even up here. One kid—barely old enough to vote—asks for an autograph, and Fletch waves him off like he doesn’t even hear.
I glance back down at my phone.
Still nothing.
Disappointment coils in my stomach.
He’s probably busy. He could be training today or visiting his parents before the bar opens. Heck, maybe he’s even helping out there.
I’m not so delusional as to believe the man I married out of convenience really did hop in his truck and drive all the way here, but I am hopeful enough to wish that he were at least waiting by his phone to text me.
Be cool, Kayla,I tell myself.You don’t want to seem overeag?—
The screen lights up, and I stop everything else to read Sean’s text.
SEAN
Miss you too, Boss. More than I probably should.
I feel like someone has opened the blinds in a dark room. I glance down at the phone, trying (and failing) not to grin.
Click.
“Perfect,” Ronnie says, clapping her hands once. “That’s the shot.”
An hour later, we’re in the Owner’s Box.
Ronnie and the photographer keep working, occasionally asking Aldridge or me questions, snapping candid photos like we’re exhibits at a museum.
Aldridge has invited some prominent Nashville musicians and business people to the game today, which I would’ve thought meant he’d be too busy schmoozing VIPs to pay attention to me.
But no.
He’s always been efficient, too.
He manages to work the room and my nerves at the same time, with equal skill—lobbing little digs at me every chance he gets.
Comments about the “downgrade” I made.
The “hobby” I’m running back in Mullet Ridge.
The “bold choice” of marrying into obscurity.
Worse still, Gordon Voss—the VP of Minor League Affiliations, and the architect of this absurd "lovers to rivals" PR push—is also here.
Which means I have no choice but to play nice.
Smile. Nod. Pretend Aldridge’s passive-aggressive comments bounce off me instead of pricking like mosquitoes.
“You know, she’s struggled with mental health in the past,” Aldridge whispers to Gordon, as if I’m not three feet away. “So I was always afraid of something like this happening.”
A cold shudder runs down my spine.
Scottie’s eyes flash like flint striking steel. She looks ready to commit murder.
“It’s not worth it,” I murmur, placing a calming hand on her arm.
“He won’t be worth anything if I get my hands on him,” she growls, her voice low and fierce. Then, quieter, she says, “I wish Sean were here to hear him. I can’t imagine him letting anyone talk about his wife like that.”
