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I want to ask why. Why he doesn’t want me anymore. If it’s the injury or something else. I’m going to ask why but Delgado beats me to it. “I heard that agent of yours is sniffing around the Devils.”
I bristle; I didn’t know Ryan was still on that, since I haven’t heard anything else, but I’m not about to admit that to Coach. “If you’re gonna lecture me on loyalty, I think that’s a little ironic.”
“No lecture,” he promises, frowning. “Just wanted to ask you something.”
“What?”
“Is it really what you want?”
I hesitate.
Delgado nods, like that’s answer enough. “You know, I remember the day you got drafted.”
“Getting emotional on me, old man?”
“You were such a little shit.”
That’s more like it.
“You were a cocky know-it-all and it was so fucking annoying because you deserved to be. I couldn’t call on your bullshit because there was none. You were the best. You worked hard. Every time someone asked what you wanted, you said ‘baseball.’ You never hesitated.”
And I did just now, is what he’s trying to say. God, subtlety has never been his strong suit but I think he’s lost even the tiny sliver of it he possessed.
“There’s more to life than baseball, Cass.”
My gaze strays to the Lanes. “So I’ve heard.”
“So you’ve learned, it seems.”
I don’t get a chance to answer that pensive, provoking comment—I’m not sure I would if I could. With a holler of my name, my attention is called elsewhere, towards the swarm of men crowding around a mother and son. “We’re heading out on the field,” Archie tells me as he ruffles August’s hair. “Gonna check the arm on this guy.”
From where she’s tucked affectionately beneath Oliver’s arm, Sunday frowns. “Is he allowed do that?”
Ezra chuckles, clapping his hands against August’s shoulders. “He’s a Morgan heir, honey. He’s allowed do whatever he wants.”
I practically hear Sunday’s head explode, and I definitely hear her gulp. “Okay,” she brushes off Oliver’s comment. “Let’s—”
“Y’all go ahead.”
Head whipping towards me, Sunday opens her mouth, an argument stewing but I cut her off. She’s got her mom-goggles on so she doesn’t see the oh-so-tween look ofmom, you’re embarrassing methat August is sporting. “We’ll catch up.”
“Give them a few minutes,” I clarify once the room has emptied out, batting Sunday’s hands away from her mouth as she chews on her thumbnail. “The boys’ll take care of him.”
“And what’re we gonna do?”
“Hmm.” Lowering myself onto one of the benches splitting the room, I spread my legs wide and drag Sunday between them. “I have an idea.”
She utters my name in warning for the second time today even as she sets her hands on my shoulders, circles them around to link behind my neck. Her thumbs start drawing absent shapes only to stop suddenly, and then it’s like she remembers something. Tugging until my head drops forward, she reads aloud the dark ink tattooed just below my hairline. “Knock em out.” She traces the letter with a soft touch. “That’s what everyone was chanting earlier, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Right before you kissed me.” My head snaps up so fast, her hands fall away and nervously slink into her pockets. “You haven’t done that since…”
New Year’s Eve. “I know.”
“Is there…” She trails off again. “Is there a reason?”
Several. A couple of foolish, self-preservational ones. The biggest, though? “I asked if it would make you uncomfortable. You didn’t reply.”
