Page 10 of Double Play

India?

I shouldn’t be surprised. Isaiah is close to his sister, protective of her. Their father wasn’t always supportive or particularly kind to her. She was his little girl, but it came with stipulations like that annoying warning tag on a new pillow. The same rules did not apply to Richard Baker’s son.

I also should have known that India might be part of this evening’s visit, but I’d put it out of my head. India wouldn’t have allowed us to hang out together. I anticipated her making an excuse and I’m still expecting her to tap out because of the awkward energy buzzing between us in the hallway.

“Can you believe this guy?” Pride laces Isaiah’s voice, oblivious to the cold vibe between his sister and me. He is proud of me. A lot has happened in the past five years. Other than a world pandemic, I had returned to professional baseball.

“I can believe it,” India states, her voice softer than her reporter tone. Her eyes don’t meet mine while a lazy smile curls the corner of her mouth. I’ve always loved the way she smiles. Slow, purposeful, sexy. One side tips up before the other follows and then—bam!—she blinds you with the full wattage in combination with a twinkle in those sterling eyes.

The undertone of her reply suggests pride as well. She never doubted my abilities to make it in the major league. For her part, she had quite the success in the industry as well. Where I have a big divot in my path, India has continued to arch upward like a shooting star.

“So what’s the plan, kids?” Isaiah wraps an arm around his sister’s neck, going in for a knuckle rub to her head like she’s still eighteen and not almost forty.

“No plan,” India grunts, ducking out from underneath Isaiah’s bicep, and smoothing down her wayward curls.

My gaze follows the movement of her hand, fingers slicing through thick, silky waves, spreading them between her fingers like wild rapids over smooth river rocks.

“Come on,” Isaiah whines. “I’m free for three days.”

I’d be concerned if I didn’t know that Isaiah is happily married to the love of his life. His wife, Penny, is awesome, and their two kids, Drake and Jocelyn, are amazing.

“It’s the Fourth of July. And it’s Nashville.” Isaiah claps his hands once and rubs them together. “Okay. The plan is . . . concert by the river. Fireworks. Broadway.”

No way. There is no way I’m getting into the chaotic crowd near the river for fireworks and some good ol’ country music on a holiday weekend.

“Let Freedom Sing! is at a nearby venue. We can walk there.” Isaiah pulls out his phone, hunting down the official Fourth of July concert website, and navigating the map app like we’re kids again, traipsing through college towns, looking for the hottest spots for beer and girls. With the concert location being near the Cumberland River and the Pedestrian Walkway, I’m still out on this plan.

“You needed to purchase tickets in advance,” India states, briefly glancing at me before looking at the screen of her brother’s phone.

A silent agreement is telegraphed between the two of us. We are both a firm not happening on this idea.

“Tickets, schmickets. That’s what scalpers are for.”

My brows lift, knowing that scalpers essentially cheat people. “You don’t really mean that.”

Isaiah sighs. “Okay, maybe not random on the street peeps with fake tickets but let me do a quick search online.”

The impulsiveness of Isaiah is so Isaiah. It’s also a trait of India’s. But as she stands beside her brother, wiggling her ankle back and forth in another pair of impractical-for-a-baseball-field heels, I recognize the anxious tell. She does not want to go to the concert any more than I do.

“PITI,” she begins, reminding me of her nickname for her brother. The initials are a play on PITA, pain in the ass, and can sound like either Petey or pity depending on her tone. “Declan and I both work tomorrow. I can’t do a concert, fireworks, and bar hop, and be in my best form for a game.”

Isaiah glances from his sister to me and back. “That’s what mornings are for. Sleep in. Coffee. And the elixir.” Isaiah wiggles his brows like a mad scientist while exaggerating the name he’d given his personal concoction for hangovers.

Bile creeps up my throat at the memories of ingesting the combination of raw egg, Worcestershire sauce, and a dash of Tabasco.

While I love Isaiah’s enthusiasm to party like he’s still twenty-five, I just don’t have it in me to behave that way. My definition of a good time has changed a bit in the last two decades.

Isaiah’s enthusiasm briefly wanes, when he asks his sister, “You’re feeling okay, right?”

“Stop asking me.” She sounds exasperated by his concern, as if he’s possibly already asked her six other times today. The shift from his easygoing nature to pinched tension is a sudden reminder that India is a survivor of childhood cancer.

India had Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia, ALL, as a child. Even with the high success rate of survival, which my wildfire beat because she is a fighter, the period of uncertainty scared the shit out of the Baker family. It’s one reason Mrs. Baker dotes on her daughter and Mister keeps his distance. At least that’s my observation. Her mother feared losing her; her father didn’t want to get too close to his daughter . . . because he feared losing her.

Isaiah is in the middle. Overprotective of his sister’s health while letting her live her best life.

The staunch reminder of her past health concerns adds to my guilt about my lack of checking in with India. Not pressing the issue to talk but at least remind her I’m here for her. A familiar face in a new city, which she once wished for from me when she’d taken her first job in Seattle. Just as I was traded to Chicago.

When I think of Richard and his behavior toward his daughter, I’m always caught up in the differences between us. I’d never treat my daughter the way he treats his. My fear for her health would be out of this ballpark, and I’d worry about a skinned knee rounding every base.