Page 46 of Double Play

Soon enough, the girls retire to Montgomery’s room with a giant bowl of popcorn, like they hadn’t devoured every snack available at the Terrors’ concession stand.

After Montgomery wishes us a final good night, and closes her bedroom door, Dasher double-taps his hands on the countertop.

“You’ve got such a good kid there,” he reminds me, hitching his thumb in the direction of her bedroom door.

“Yeah. I’m lucky.” Our matching eyes meet for a second, knowing we both appreciate how well Montgomery has turned out. She knows she’s loved by both her father, her mother and Brent, and her uncle, which is so much more than what Dasher and I had at her age.

We’ve been fortunate in our own right, but mainly because of all Dasher had sacrificed before either of us hit it big. Because he held himself back, taking a little longer to reach the big league, spending time in the minors for a bit before being called up.

“Still liking the Anchors?” I ask about his position as their line coach.

“Ross Davis is a good man,” he says about their newest team manager.

I’d played only briefly for Ross before talks of trades and my decision to leave the playing field for the dugout.

“He doesn’t micromanage,” Dasher adds.

“And you’re saying I do?” I quip. I’ve approached my brother about joining my staff, although we have a solid coaching team.

“You know I can’t let my little brother boss me around. It’d be bad for my reputation.” He snorts before lifting his glass of beer and drinking down the final dregs. “All right, young man. Time for this ancient one to hit the sheets.”

He tips his head toward my daughter’s bedroom door and imitates her eye roll, then stands to his full height.

For half a second, I have a flash of us as younger men. Dasher rushing through his dinner so he could work a late-night shift at the local grocery store before grabbing only a few hours’ sleep and heading back to school the next morning.

Stepping around the counter, I open my arms. “Bring it in, man.”

Dasher chuckles as I’ve always been the more affectionate between the two of us. He doesn’t resist, though, falling against me, offering hard back slaps and an exaggerated kiss to my cheek.

“Give ’em hell tomorrow,” he teases, wiggling his brows, because the ’em is his team. “We’ll try to go easier on you.”

I snort. “Doubt it.”

With a final pat on his back, I follow him to the front door. He opens it on a whoosh, glancing back at me as he speaks. “Okay, man, I’ll see you to⁠—”

The sharp loss of his words causes me to look up when I hadn’t been paying attention to the open door. To the woman standing in the hallway, fist raised like she was about to knock.

“Well, hello, little girl. Are you lost?” Dasher tips only one brow before turning his head in my direction. “Having more than one sleep over tonight?”

“Dasher,” I grind out before my gaze hesitantly shifts to the woman wearing a short trench coat. In July. “This is India. India Baker.”

Dasher’s head swivels back in the direction of the hallway so quickly, I almost hear his neck crack.

“Indie?” He calls her, using a nickname I once used for her. “Holy shit.”

My brother steps into the hallway, embracing the startled sister of my best friend. Then he tips his nose toward her hair. “Damn, you smell good, girl.”

My eyes narrow. Why the fuck is he smelling her?

India chuckles, stroking back strands of her hair which are loose and wild, curly and crackling around her head.

“Thanks.” Her silvery eyes flip up to mine. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I was just⁠—”

In the neighborhood? Doubtful. She lives on the opposite side of town.

While she swipes her hand down her jacket, I appreciate her long legs that are exposed beneath the short hem.

“Is it raining out?” Dasher teases, glancing over his shoulder into my place and toward the sliding glass doors that reflect the darkness of the night back at us. Rain is not predicted. Neither was India’s arrival.