Page 28 of Double Play

“She’s with me,” Declan tells security, slipping his arm around my lower back and resting his hand on my hip. He gently pulls me into his side. The intimate touch messes with my head, especially when Declan’s signature cinnamon gum, sunflower seed, and ballfield scent meet my nose. I turn my head, inhaling more of him, spellbound by this sudden closeness, so I don’t register the tone of his voice at first. The warning.

Like let her in or we leave.

I’m expecting the bouncer to shrug and nod for us to feel free to go. Instead, he holds out his large paw.

“Phone,” he demands of me. Translation: no pictures.

I slip my phone out of my pocket. Yay for dresses with pockets.

To my surprise, Declan reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out his phone, placing it in the security man’s hands as a show of solidarity. If I can’t have my phone, he won’t take his in either.

I chuckle because I don’t get the impression Declan would start fanboying inside the bar. Dressed in a lightweight, hooded shirt with a dark sports coat over it and dark jeans, he’s the one who will be attracting fans.

I’ve heard the rumors. He isn’t a recluse as much as highly dedicated to his job.

Sounds lonely, if you ask me, and I’d know . . . because it’s the same position I’m in.

Once inside, the faint hint of bourbon and barbeque does tickle my nose as we follow Isaiah to a standing table. Walking through the crowd, I recognize several Tennessee Terrors, probably out to celebrate the eventual W of tonight’s game.

Gunnar McNeer is present. The six-one, blond short stop from Texas was a new addition to the team this year. He’s the brother of Gavin McNeer, a famous country musician, which Nashville is teeming with.

Max Murphy, Murph, the star pitcher, is also here.

However, only Damien “Diesel” Donovan, the Terrors first baseman, approaches Declan. The attractive, black-haired, Oklahoma native was once a playboy on the team but now stands beside his new girlfriend, Delilah Monroe, a beautiful, young pop star.

“Wylde Thing.” A soft drawl mingles with the smile on Damien’s face as he claps Declan on the shoulder. Declan scowls at his player causing Damien to clear his throat. “Sir.”

The old nickname hasn’t been used as often with Declan in his coaching tenure as it once was when he was a player. When he was as young as this Terrors’ first baseman and just as spirited as the man.

Isaiah snorts, bursting the weird vibe coming off Declan, softening him.

“Damien. Good game today, kid.” Declan reaches out, offering a single pat to Damien’s shoulder before squeezing it in a show of affection. The former first baseman recognizes the hard work of his current player.

As a field reporter, I’ve had plenty of time to observe Declan around his team. His players admire and respect him. His coaching staff appreciate his fairness and openness for input. Declan is a natural leader.

“Nice catch in the sixth,” Isaiah adds, commenting on the impressive reach Damien displayed with his foot on the bag while stretching his six-four frame forward, catching a close hit. The umpire called the Vegas Victor safe. A challenge from Declan overturned the call. The reel is one of several highlighted replays from today’s game.

“Let me buy you a drink,” Isaiah offers, holding up his hand for the waitress’s attention. Isaiah’s tone has turned into business mode. The sports’ attorney in him switching on.

“Can’t,” Damien says, offering an appreciative smile to my brother before addressing his coach. “Just wanted to pop over and say hi. It’s rare to see you out, old man.”

Declan’s brows hitch. I laugh.

“Behave yourself tonight,” Declan warns.

“I always do.” Damien winks, slips his arm around his girlfriend, and leads them into the crowd with a backward wave to us.

Declan shakes his head while watching Damien walk away. “This is why I don’t go out.”

“Because you’re old?” Isaiah chimes in.

“Because they are so young.” Then Declan points between himself and my brother, “And we are the same age.”

“I’m in my prime. What’s your excuse, Wylde Thing?” Isaiah chuckles, double tapping the table.

“What’s your excuse?” I counter, reminding Isaiah of his behavior last night.

He hangs his head a second, then pops it upward as the waitress approaches. Declan and Isaiah order bourbon while I settle on red wine and become strangely aware of how close Declan is standing to me. His arm brushes against mine when he hands the drink menu to the waitress, and then his hand comes around my back before he seems to rethink touching me. He pulls his hand forward again, resting his loose fist on the high-top table.