Page 31 of Double Play

“No one wants soft,” I mutter, as if I have a clue what we are discussing.

“Between second and third.” Declan smiles.

“Spread like a woman’s thighs.” Isaiah smiles as well.

“Hey!” I snap, turning my head from Isaiah to Declan.

“Right up the middle.” Declan forces his hand forward, away from his body. The motion is unexpectedly sexual, especially with Isaiah’s reference.

Isaiah chuckles. “Gets the job done.”

“Homerun,” Declan whispers.

The two of them high five and I glare at each of them. “Are we done with the baseball metaphors and sexual innuendo?”

“That wasn’t sex,” Isaiah clarifies. “That was romance. Aiming the ball in one direction, hope it sails in another. And bam!” He claps his hands so fast and fiercely, I flinch. “Score.”

“Sounds explicitly sexual to me.” I huff, then lift my wine glass taking my first sip, because I suddenly feel itchy all over. Anxious. Strangely turned on. Maybe it’s Declan’s prolonged nearness to me.

“Stop letting the wind dictate the direction of the ball and predict the wind. Use it. Play with it. Lean into it.” Declan explains, but I’m still not certain I understand.

“It’s all about the swing,” Isaiah says to his best friend.

“It’s all about the swing,” Declan repeats, offering him a warm smile, like they understand one another on some level.

Isaiah gulps down the last of his drink while pulling his phone from his pocket. “I’ve got a call to make.” He steps away from the table with urgency and a bit of swagger in his haste, and I follow his retreat a moment before turning back toward Declan.

“I don’t understand a thing that just happened.”

“Isaiah did, though. He can’t keep letting time be his excuse. Busy isn’t a reason. He needs to take charge of the wind, not let the wind take charge of the ball.”

“Ah,” I say, slowly coming to realize what my brother took from that silly metaphor. “Think it will work? He’ll get to rip her clothes off?”

Declan shrugs, then lifts his glass halfway to his mouth. “What do I know?” he says, staring down at the amber liquid. “Apparently, I don’t know anything about romance.”

He closes the distance—glass to lips—and gazes at me over the rim, finishing his bourbon in one swallow. His eyes never leave me, making me suddenly feel naked and raw, and aware I’ve misunderstood a simple gift over the years.

Maybe, just maybe, he’s always been reaching for me.

thirteen

. . .

[India]

Once Isaiah leaves the table, the waitress arrives, asking if we’d like another round. Before I can respond, Declan, points between our two glasses.

“Another bourbon and a Malbec, please.”

I glance at him, taking in the strength of his voice and the confident set of his jaw. He’s perfect as a coach because his game face is unreadable, and right now I’d like nothing more than to be able to read his thoughts.

Have I misunderstood something? Then again, it’s been more than a decade since I’ve seen Declan. Surely, he doesn’t feel the same way he once did about me.

Then I consider last night, when the tension was so thick between us in his dark kitchen. Water alone wasn’t what I needed to quench my thirst.

“India?” The sudden call of my name pulls my attention from Declan toward the pitching coach for the Vegas Victors.

Shit.