Page 12 of Double Play

I’m not privy to where all the players and coaching staff reside, although I have a general idea based on personal discussions and teasing banter. Apparently, Declan has a place close to the ballpark that he claims he selected because of the proximity. The irony of him having an apartment in a high rise is that Declan hates tight spaces. Having grown up in a small town, he isn’t a fan of a crowded metropolis. He loved visiting us in Colorado where fresh air and vast mountains felt less constricting than skyscrapers and smog.

The second we enter the elevator for the eleventh floor, I question what Declan is doing here. Not here in Nashville. Not even his position with the Terrors. Just here, in this downtown neighborhood.

Once again, I take in his features. The weathered lines near his eyes, signs of both age, concern, and years in the sun. The tightness of his mouth surrounded by that thick layer of autumn scruff powdered with snowy flecks. He’s both rugged and refined . . . and I’ve missed him.

When we arrive at his place, the view of the river gives me a clue as to his reason for picking this place. From his balcony, the curve of the Cumberland River is apparent and the setting sun spectacular. The day has been warm, and the night continues the trend.

When Declan passes me for the sliding glass doors of his balcony, I don’t miss the slight brush of his hand on my lower back. A familiar shiver ripples through me. While the air conditioning is on to cut the humidity, he opens the wide doors, allowing a rush of warm air into the space.

Declan’s apartment screams that a bachelor lives here. Dull gray furnishings and simple decorations are stark, uninviting, and standard, like they came with the apartment. The only bright spot is a smattering of photographs on a shelf suspended near the large-screen television. Black frames contain photos of a young girl.

Declan’s daughter.

I’ve never been the maternal type. Never dreamed that one day I’d have kids or felt particularly upset that I don’t have children. Too late, I’d learned that Malakai wanted kids when I didn’t feel comfortable having them. What if they had what I’d had as a child? What if I lost one to a childhood disease, and it’d been my fault? I’d never forgive myself.

But when I’d learned Declan was having a child, how I learned he was having one, something inside me yearned for a baby. For a blip of time, I’d hoped he’d reach out and invite me to join him in parenting. Through Isaiah, I’d learned Declan was not marrying the mother of his daughter.

Declan was in Chicago by then and our weekend together had recently passed. On a rare assignment to visit the Windy City, I’d reached out, cautiously expressing my interest and availability to see him. I didn’t want to seem overeager.

After our weekend together, it wasn’t like we said we’d never speak again. Promises also weren’t spoken that we would, though, but I’d been craving another Declan fix. The casual text messages that had infrequently passed between us were not enough.

My shock, and subsequent disappointment, came when he told me by text that he was having a child.

Part of my disappointment wasn’t that he was having a child, but he was having one with someone else, which made no sense. I hadn’t wanted children, right?

Even stranger was that I’d been willing to help him raise his.

He never asked.

“That’s Montgomery.” Declan clears his throat behind me. He’s close enough I can smell him. A mixture of cinnamon gum, sunflower seeds, and lingering ballfield. The heat of his chest radiates toward me although I’m certain I’m imagining the effect. He couldn’t possibly be so close that all I’d need to do is lean back and he’d brace me.

A level of love and pride fills his voice when mentioning his daughter’s name. A sound I’m not certain I’ve ever heard my dad use when referencing me.

“She’s beautiful,” I admit about the images before me. A toddler in a pink bathing suit. The same child as a young girl in a softball uniform, kneeling for a formal picture. Her hair is brown with hints of red. Her eyes are bright and blue. Her smile is all Declan. A more recent photo shows her in a short, bright sapphire-blue, strapless dress. Her hands wrap around her father’s arm, and she pops her foot in the air behind her.

“Fourteen?” I question, unable to recall her age. The teenager in the photo still has a girlish face despite the subtle curves and grown-up formal wear.

“Fifteen this fall,” he answers, his breath tickles the side of my neck as I’ve scooped up my hair into a knot on the top of my head.

The age of his girl makes sense. Isaiah got married sixteen years ago.

Well aware that Declan and I had no commitment to one another, the news about his daughter still came as quite a shock. Of course, he most likely slept with other women before and after being with me. He was in his early thirties then, young and attractive, and a hot commodity. A rising star in baseball. I hadn’t been a saint either.

But in the back of my head, I always hoped that Declan and I would reunite in some manner. Seattle had been a missed opportunity. A foul ball. But Chicago was clearly a strike. He couldn’t entertain a new relationship amid the uncertainty of his impending fatherhood.

Crossing my arms, I stare into the eyes of a child that isn’t mine, forcing away a pinch of regret. I’m forty now. Motherhood is an opportunity I won’t ever have, but I always thought I’d make a great bonus mom.

The thought catches me off-guard as much as another whisper taunts me.

You’re so career-driven. My ex’s voice in my head nearly chokes me. As if having determination and a goal were somehow wrong, when my drive was something he always said he admired about me. Admired, not loved.

“First base?” I question, pointing at the photo of Montgomery in a softball uniform, wondering if she plays the same position Declan once did.

He chuckles, low and sweet, behind me. I can hear the smile in his voice. “No. She’s a pitcher.”

“Yikes. Not a pitcher,” Isaiah mocks, turning both our heads in his direction, and reminding us of his former position on the field. Somehow, Isaiah already holds a glass of amber liquid. He takes a hearty sip, then exaggerates a full-body shudder.

“Tennessee whiskey,” he sighs, holding up the glass in a short salute before taking another drink.