Page 20 of Double Play

Like, if time for me includes time with him. Again.

nine

. . .

[Declan]

Richard Baker never liked me; he tolerated me. I was Isaiah’s best friend, but I wasn’t from the elite of Colorado, I was from low-country Arkansas. And even if I became an All-Star first baseman, Rookie of the Year, and had a lucrative contract from Seattle and then Chicago, I still don’t measure up to his son.

As in, Isaiah was a better player than me and should have gotten a professional deal, according to Richard.

For his part, Isaiah assured me time and time again he never believed all that his father spouted. The overpraise. The underachievement. The disappointment was not with Isaiah, but in the league for not recognizing Isaiah’s talent.

Isaiah was quick to remind his father that the Vegas Victors never offered him a contract.

Nepotism does not look good on you, son, Richard told him.

Senior Baker didn’t hold the same opinion for his daughter. Despite his distant relationship with her, he was protective of her in his own way. After years working at the collegiate level, reporting from the sidelines in Seattle, Richard gave India a position with Vegas, launching her from D2 colleges to the professional league. Like an automatic double, India got to take second base without touching first.

Sadly, I imagine there was resentment among her colleagues. Competition doesn’t only happen on a ball field.

Now, all that matters is India sitting across from me on this rooftop, glowing with pride because she’d gotten a job on her own, without influence from her father. Or demands, because I have no doubt Richard Baker eventually ordered his daughter to work for him rather than some obscure colleges in the Pacific Northwest.

Her confidence is absolutely stunning.

There sat the woman I’d playfully taunted when I slipped into a bathroom. To be close to her, feel the energy of her sureness wavering off her warm skin and lick against mine.

A shiver skitters down my spine at the memory of our first kiss. The heat of her mouth. Her hands on my chest. Our bodies lined up. I was so fucking horny for her, I almost lost it in my sweatpants. And I would have happily let that happen if she hadn’t reached for my waistband and slid her hand inside the loose cotton. Within minutes, her smiley-face flannels were removed, and her hands were on the edge of the pedestal sink, and I was slipping inside her from behind, watching her breath hitch and her breasts heave.

Thunderstruck. That was the sensation.

For another minute, I appreciate this new version of her. Self-awareness radiates from her.

Assuming I’ve been staring at her for too long, and she isn’t going to respond to my declaration about time and Nashville, I clear my throat.

“I should check on dinner.” Hastily, I press off the wooden bench and cross the rooftop for the designated grilling area. After a few flips of the steak and a twist of the corn wrapped in tinfoil, I spin to find India has followed me.

“What made now your time?”

I sigh, hating how her voice has shifted back to reporter mode. I was so close earlier to telling her how I’ve missed her. Missed her voice when it had been soft and pliant, not this hard, edgy sound that’s distant and a little cold. Professional, maybe, because that’s what she is, but I don’t like her stiffness around me.

“Michelle got married six years ago. Her husband Brent is an awesome guy, and he got a job near Nashville. Michelle and I always agreed where she went, I’d go, and vice versa. I started putting feelers out, and the Terrors contacted me.”

My original inquiry was at the collegiate level, having decided a long time ago that coaching in the professional realm would never be a possibility. Even though my brother Dasher had connections in the upper league and suggested coming back to the Anchors in a coaching capacity. The majors also involved a more rigorous time commitment which meant time away from Montgomery.

But when the offer came in, Michelle, and Brent, convinced me this was a sign. I was ready to move upward.

“The Terrors were looking for a new team manager. I started in the 2020 season.” The Terrors wanted a reboot, and I had the history of taking a university program on the cusp of extinction to the outer limits of spectacular. Their baseball program became one of the top in the nation.

“Helluva time to take over coaching a professional baseball team, Coach.” India chuckles.

I can laugh now at the memories of leading a team through half the number of games in a typical season inside empty stadiums. With a worldwide pandemic keeping people home, the year was a blur. But it also was the birth of The Den, the streaming service bringing games to those homebound. A slice of the stadium right in your den. Or as the service name derives, from a den of raccoons, matching the team mascot.

“And here you are,” India states, her gaze roaming down my body in one salacious lick.

The licking might be my imagination running wild.

“Here we are,” I state, including her in the moment, because the last place I ever expected to be was standing on a rooftop in Nashville with her. Watching loose hairs that fell from her twist blow around her pretty face in the heavy breeze. She’s still wearing a sexy-as-fuck dress and those heels that must be killing her feet. With the sun as a backdrop, she’d look almost angelic, but I know a little devil resides inside her.