Page 27 of Double Play

What catches me off guard is the subtle smile he offers me while I approach, when he hasn’t looked in my direction for over five months. I pride myself on being calm and collected on the field, professional in all ways. A strict clause in my contract outlines appropriate and inappropriate behavior toward players and coaches. No favoritism. No flirting. I’ve always considered the warnings non-negotiables, as in, they would never happen. I respect the barrier between interviewer and interviewee.

But that simple curve of Declan’s lips throws me off.

“Coach.” I clear my throat feeling it tighten as I address him. “The Terrors are down two to three in the bottom of the second inning. What does the team need to do to bring us ahead?”

Declan’s smile curves a little larger, like a hook reeling in the catfish I called Isaiah earlier. Only in this instance, I’m the one caught. Declan gives me a quick glance before dropping his gaze to the dugout floor where he often keeps his attention while I interview him.

“Well, India. We need to get on base. Pass home plate. That double play hurt.”

Declan is referring to an easy catch and tag at second before the Vegas Victors’ second baseman tossed the ball to first, causing an out on both bases and ending the inning.

“Best of luck to the Terrors in the second half,” I offer, which isn’t my typical sign off to the team’s manager. Normally, I’d ask a follow up question about a specific player’s strategy or health condition.

But another unusual moment passes between Declan and me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him lift his left hand. His palm nearly grazes my hip and rounds to my lower back. My breath hitches. I feel the heat of his palm although he doesn’t touch me. No connection is made, and I can’t decide if I’m disappointed or relieved.

Another strict policy: no physical touch. I’ve learned to clutch papers in one fist while holding the microphone in the other. I’m not outwardly affectionate anyway, so it’s never been difficult not to touch the sweaty back of a coach or a player in an effort to bring him closer to me. I’ve learned to tip my head upward, speak forward, as most players and coaches are taller than me. I always keep space between us.

But, today, I want to close that distance when I know I shouldn’t.

If Declan touches me or I lean into him, it would be professional suicide for me. I’ve worked damn hard to get here. Sure, I might have had Daddy’s protection working with the Vegas Victors in the past, but I also never had an incident to cause concern or mar my record.

I am impeccably professional.

“Coach.” I add to my final well wishes for a better second half, punctuating the interview with his title like an exclamation point.

Declan and I are separate entities. We are not old friends or former lovers here. He’s the coach. I’m a reporter.

His head whips upward, his eyes briefly meeting mine again, but his face says everything. His brows pinch severely at the sharpness of my voice. His eyes narrow, perhaps questioning the sudden stiffness of my body or my tone.

With a simple head nod, I excuse myself, turning toward the camera well, knowing the cameras are off me for the moment. I close my eyes for only half a second before crossing the dugout and returning to my position, feeling like a trail of red glares follows behind me.

Or more likely, the bursting blue eyes of one too-hot coach.

Certain he’s confused, he can join my team. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore either.

twelve

. . .

[India]

The Rooftop Replay is a post-game hideout for many local professional sports players. On the tenth floor of the Regency Hotel, the place smells like bourbon and barbeque. Or so I’m told, as I’ve never been there. The place is well known within the sporting community because you need to pass tight security and have a swollen wallet to afford the food and drinks offered. I’ve heard many are turned away from the place, but somehow, Isaiah works his charm. Maybe it’s that the door manager recognizes Declan. He might also realize that it is a rare occasion to see the Tennessee Terrors’ team manager out and about.

Perhaps The Rooftop Replay sees themselves as the VIP tonight, graced by the special appearance of Declan Wylde.

Getting out has been rare for me as well, having only moved to Nashville in January. Leaning into the country charm of his city, I don my cowboy boots and a multi-tiered, strapless dress in vibrant red, a color that makes my eyes pop and matches my lipstick perfectly. The bodice is fitted while the skirt is A-line, free flowing, and flirty. Tonight, out of my regular work attire and typical high heels, I feel pretty and get the stamp of approval I desire when Declan does a double take upon sighting me. His blue eyes widen, and he chews his lower lip, letting his gaze linger on me for a few heartbeats.

I’m also wearing a charm bracelet I found in the bottom of my jewelry drawer. One I haven’t worn in years but, for sentimental reasons, put on tonight. If Declan notices, he doesn’t mention it.

We are waved forward until the bouncer’s eyes meet mine.

The beefy man holds up a firm hand, reminding me of an imitation gorilla palm I once saw at the zoo. “No press.”

I’m a little surprised he recognizes me, but a fan of the Tennessee Terrors is going to know who I am, especially as this bar subscribes to The Den.

“I’m not⁠—”