Page 67 of Double Play

“We’re talking about how bad your swing is, old man.” She laughs. “Loosen your arms. Stick your butt out more.” Montgomery imitates the stance, overexaggerating how to bend his arms by wildly wiggling hers and forcing her butt back like she’s twerking.

Declan laughs. All the tension that had slowly crept back onto his shoulders, rolls back off and disappears. I smile as well.

Because Montgomery Wylde opened up to me, included me.

And I have a huge crush on her dad. The forever kind.

twenty-seven

. . .

[Declan]

The last month has been a blur of India and I in my bed or hers when I’m in town. Even out of town once when we played in California with a getaway day between road games. We spent a few, rare free minutes with Isaiah and Penn, where we revealed our relationship and they updated us on their status. Their anniversary trip is planned for the fall, but they have a weekend away in Colorado coming up, sending the kids to Penn’s parents for their spontaneous romantic getaway. Thankfully, fences are mended and love restored in their backyard.

The Tennessee Terrors just finished a week stretch in Michigan and then St. Louis, and we are finally back home. Unfortunately, after our first game against Texas, India isn’t available during or after the game, having a special meeting with her crew.

On Friday, after our day game, I’m nearly bursting to see my best girl and be near her; however, I have a function at the children’s hospital. Contributing to childhood cancer research is one of my fundraising goals every year because of India’s history. In addition to my donation, I make an appearance at the local children’s hospital’s annual fundraising event.

India will be attending as well as a guest speaker and I wish we could be going together.

I love all our private time, for just that reason, it’s private. We’re secluded in our little bubble after hours of being surrounded by my enthusiastic team. But on these rare occasions where I need to be public, it’d be nice to be holding her hand.

Instead, I’m holding a drink, slowly sipping the sharp whiskey and counting down the minutes until I see her, even if it is across a crowded room.

The second she enters the ballroom, it’s as if I sense her presence. My head turns, searching in various directions, until one of my pitching coaches, Eddie Ramirez says, “India Baker sure cleans up nice.”

Glancing in the direction Ramirez’s eyes are trained, I narrow in on my girl.

She’s a vision in red. That wild hair of hers is pinned up, exposing the column of her throat and the edge of her shoulders. Her dress is held up by the thinnest straps while the rest of it flows to the floor, cascading over her body like a crimson waterfall.

“Excuse me,” I say, drawn to her like a ball pitched toward a bat, suspended in midair, gliding across the wind, breaking through the velocity until impact redirects the energy. Only, I don’t want to be a loose ball, hit and repelled . . . from her.

She’s nodding at someone near her when I break through the barrier of people between us and pause. My heart is in my throat. My lungs collapse. She’s stolen my breath. She’s fucking stunning.

“India,” I choke, unable to regain my composure. I’m certain I’m vibrating because everything in me wants to wrap my arm around her, claiming her in the presence of all these donors. I want to kiss her and slip that dress from her and— “You look lovely.”

I step closer and lean in for a polite, societal kiss to her cheek, only her winter-fresh, snowy scent fills my nose, and I stall, inhaling deeper.

I want to fuck you, is on the tip of my tongue. Along with, I love you, let’s get out of this place.

Only a week apart and I’m crazy over her. How could I have missed her so much?

As I pull back and her eyes catch on my face, her lips slowly curl in that lazy way they do, and I have my answer. I miss the way she looks at me. The way she smiles at me.

I miss her laughter and her kindness.

Weeks ago, she suggested Montgomery shadow her in the camera well, something I’ve never seen done before. While my daughter couldn’t be present for the entire broadcast, India gave Montgomery an extended tour and even allowed her to stand in India’s place, in front of the camera, and act out an interview with one of the guys on the team. Montgomery could hardly come down from the high. An idol of hers treating her with so much attention and respect. India was adorably kind to my daughter.

And I wanted to shout: “That’s my girl with my girl.”

But I couldn’t. And as much as I understand the need, the public separation is debilitating at times. Like right now when I want to drag her out of this ballroom and up to a hotel room.

“Coach Wylde.” Her tone is reserved with her typical field reporter distance, a little bit stilted and a lot off-putting as she glances over her shoulder, away from me. She isn’t cold-hearted; she’s anxious. And while I’m hungry to nip at her exposed shoulder or press the softest whisper of a kiss there, I rein in my emotions.

“I need to make the rounds,” she admits, drawing her gaze back to me. Her eyes are cautious, apologetic even.

“Do your thing, superstar,” I whisper, taking a step back, like I’m presenting her forward. Allowing her to shine.