11. Eleven

Eleven

"This place is pretty busy," Nell said as Whit pulled his Audi into the parking lot of Fallen Oaks High. "I thought the game didn't start until four."

Whit grimaced, easing the car into one of the reserved parking spaces near the front of the main school building—one of the few spaces that was actually still available. Around him, the low hum of chattering crowds filled the air as he cut the engine. Nell was right. It wasn't quite two o'clock and most of the lot was already packed like it was a giveaway night at the ballpark. But then, his dad had wanted to go all out to kick off the week of festivities, and he'd managed to bribe, badger, cajole, or otherwise enlist some two dozen retired ballplayers into coming to his exhibition game. The majority of them had been out of the show for a decade or longer, but even if the younger kids didn't remember them, plenty of teens had grown up idolizing them. There were a lot of heroes here.

He found his fingers clenching on the steering wheel and forced himself to relax. Given how much money his dad had thrown at advertising the thing, the bulk of the spectators were likely to be tourists gathered from around the state—and probably Wisconsin and the Dakotas—rather than Fallen Oaks locals. The odds of running into anyone he knew were a lot lower than they'd been for the reception last night. And if they did happen across someone he'd rather avoid… well, that was what he had Nell for.

It was bound to happen sooner or later. He accepted that. He'd already had encounters with James and Petey, and he doubted his bad luck would stop there. Fallen Oaks was a small town with a long memory, and most of his former schoolmates hadn't strayed far from home. But if he were going to run face first into the ghosts of his past, he'd rather it not happen here, the site of the haunting.

Whit did a quick survey of the landscape, his gaze skimming along the chrome shine of parked cars and the old gray brick building that hadn't seen a renovation in at least twenty years. More than a decade had passed since the last time he'd stood on this stretch of ground, but the unexpected familiarity of it made all the hairs on his arms stand on end. Back then, a towering oak had grown in the center of the parking lot, jutting skyward out of a raised flowerbed bordered with smooth white stones. It had since been cut down and replaced by a couple of bushes and a wooden sign carved with the words Welcome to Fallen Oaks High School. The entire lot had been repaved at some point, and all the lines marking the spaces appeared freshly painted. Everything else was the same, right down to the flaking metal on the flagpole and the giant bronze statue of a muskrat—the school's longtime mascot—locked in its eternal pose near the building's front doors.

"Let's get this over with," he murmured. He stepped out of the car and put on his aviators, shoving his hands into his pockets as he turned in the direction of the baseball field. The weather was crisp and cool, the sky that deep, clear blue that belonged only to the first two weeks of November. The sun beat down against the pavement and skidded along the grass, making everything gleam. It was a beautiful day for baseball.

Out of nowhere a memory surfaced: the last home game of the season, sophomore year of high school. Whit had been sidelined with a sprained ankle, but he'd been in the dugout to cheer on his friends. Bottom of the ninth, down by one, James had been perched on first base when Sawyer Brewster came up to the plate. Sawyer, struggling with his swing for the past several games, had been given the order to bunt. Instead he'd hit a moonshot straight over the head of the center fielder. Whit had forgotten all about his ankle as he went screaming out onto the diamond with the rest of the team while Sawyer did his victory trot around the bases.

"I thought you wanted to come," Nell said, climbing out after him. She walked around the back of the car to stand beside him, using her hand to shield her eyes from the glare of the sun. "I could've made an easy five hundred bucks."

"Nothing's easy with my dad," Whit retorted, shaking off the memory. He rolled his shoulders to loosen some of the tightness he felt building in the muscles of his neck and back, then turned his attention to Nell. He doubted his dad had been serious in his bribery attempts, but it was clear he'd been trying to charm her. "And I hope you reminded him you're taken."

"It wasn't like that."

"Next time he flirts with you, tell him you're not into geriatrics. That'll shut him up."

"He wasn't flirting with me!"

Whit smiled. "I'd better stake a claim, just to be safe." He opened the trunk and fished around until he found one of his Blizz caps, which he set on Nell's head, positioning it over her ponytail. The hat was too big on her, so he tugged the edges down behind her ears, tucking back a few stray wisps of silky chestnut hair. She glared at him from under the rim.

"Gotta rep the team," he said. He took her hand and laced his fingers through hers, just to piss her off. "You're my girlfriend, remember?"

"Let's get this over with," she echoed sulkily.

She was quiet as they made the slow trek across the grass toward the baseball field, though she didn't try to wriggle her hand free. Whit watched her out of the corner of his eye. Concentrating on Nell was a hell of a lot more fun than dwelling on the fact that he was back on what had once been his home turf, so he studied her as they walked, noting the obstinate set to her jaw and the creasing of her brow. She'd dressed for the weather, pairing a long-sleeved blouse with a burgundy cardigan that fell to mid-thigh—though she wasn't wearing socks, and he could just see the edge of her tattoo peeping out from below the rolled cuff of her jeans. The sun had left a warm rosy glow on her skin, emphasizing her freckles. She looked cute. More than cute. She looked… something that was completely inappropriate for him to be thinking, much less put into words.

Whit had given up pretending he wasn't attracted to her. He was a young, healthy, active, heterosexual male; of course he was attracted to her. It was pure mathematics. Whit thought about sex forty times a day, give or take—and since he'd spent nearly every waking moment of the past two days with Nell, it was only natural he'd fit the two together. She was a young, healthy, active, heterosexual female. Add in the fact she was strikingly pretty, had a softly curved ass that he just knew would fit perfectly in his hands, and those long, slender legs that he could so easily imagine wrapping around him… well, there wasn't any mystery why his hormones had gone haywire. He remembered her bouncing up and down in his arms, the tantalizing friction of her body against his, and thought about how much more tantalizing it would have been without all those layers of clothing.

Proof that his body didn't always agree with his brain, since Whit knew damn well that acting on his impulses would lead to disaster. And he hadn't forgotten her revealing his PEDs usage to the world. Even though he'd long ago accepted that the blame lay squarely on his own shoulders, there had been too much turmoil, too much fallout for it to fade easily.

Gazing at her now, he wondered how different the trajectory of his career would have been if they'd never crossed paths. What would he have done if she hadn't stepped in front of that camera? Would he have had the courage to come clean on his own? Or would he have kept his mouth shut and let the years slip by in silence, the guilt slowly eating away at him?

It was a question he didn't want to ponder. He had the uneasy feeling he wouldn't like the answer .

Crowds were already gathering near the stands, so he steered Nell around the far side of the field to where his father was holding court with the collection of sports journalists he'd flown in to cover the game. Whit recognized a few of them, including a writer for ESPN who had done an in-depth profile on him after he recovered from his surgery. Jerry Garwood was notably absent, but Skip had explained he wouldn't be arriving until later in the week. Whit doubted any of the reporters would recognize Nell, but since he wanted to keep her out of the national spotlight, he left her to chat with Allie—who was under strict instructions to go along with the girlfriend charade—before joining his dad.

He spent the next twenty minutes answering questions while doing his best to remain charming, affable, and evasive as hell. Thankfully, when it came to the piece in Meltdown , Rebecca's press release had done most of the work for him. He laughed off a couple of suggestive comments, and whenever a reporter brought up the video, he deflected by telling them he was there to support his father and that he'd be happy to speak about the O'Rourke Family Foundation and its causes. After disentangling himself from a sports analyst who wanted to book him for an interview on an upcoming podcast, he rescued Nell from his sister and took her on a tour of the facilities.

Despite himself, Whit was impressed. His dad had gone all out. The area had been transformed from a small-time field into a bustling venue with security, concessions, ushers, and a dedicated area for signing autographs and holding photo ops. The bleachers at Fallen Oaks High weren't built to accommodate the numbers Skip had wanted, so additional seating had been constructed for the occasion. The smell of hot dogs and popcorn wafted on the breeze, and the air was filled with that same giddy, restless vibe that could be felt in ballparks across the country. Whit breathed it all in as he led Nell to the visitors' dugout to mingle with the players of the team he'd be managing.

He knew most of those men from his childhood, men with big personalities and the talent to match. Age had softened their edges—along with their bellies—but they were still fierce competitors, and none of them did anything by half. The game was in their blood, and a decade or so off the field didn't change that. When they played, they played to win. Watching them take practice swings as they traded trash talk back and forth made him wonder if maybe his father had arranged this whole thing just for an excuse to play ball with his friends again. He could only hope none of them played themselves into a heart attack.

It wasn't until he saw Bellamy Swan that he realized his dad had set him up.

Swan was only a couple of years older than Whit, but he'd left baseball after a mere four seasons in the majors when he'd run headlong into every athlete's worst nightmare: that mysterious ailment known as the yips. The yips defied logic and understanding and were all but impossible to overcome; when they got you, unless you were stubborn enough and lucky enough, you were done. Swan might have been stubborn, but he hadn't been lucky. For three years he'd thrown straight filth; then, out of nowhere, he'd fallen apart. He had no command, he had no velocity, and when he wasn't walking batters he was belting them.

And Skip had set him as Whit's starting pitcher.

Whit swallowed a curse. Since it was an exhibition game, his team only had two pitchers, and Dusty Gaines had spent most of his career as a closer. Add in the fact that Swan didn't exactly qualify as an old-timer—he was there representing his father, a former teammate of Skip's who had passed away in the spring—and it would be a colossally bad PR move to switch him out. Not to mention cruel. Whit would just have to hope that a few years away from the pressure of the big leagues would help Swan find the strike zone. Otherwise, they were in for a massacre.

"This is for charity, right?" Nell asked, peering at the clipboard he was using to adjust the lineup card. Behind her, some of the guys were going through warm-ups, and Francisco Sánchez was doing his favorite trick of standing a bat on the top of his head. "Your dad said it was only supposed to go six innings."

Six innings followed by a meet and greet where the players would sign autographs and take photos with fans. That was the real draw for most of the crowd, not a shortened game with a bunch of aging ballplayers huffing and puffing their way around the bases. But that didn't mean Whit didn't intend to do whatever he could to win it. "Remember the number one rule of the O'Rourke household," he said, tapping his pen against the clipboard.

Nell rolled her eyes.

He spotted his dad across the diamond in the home dugout barking out instructions to Maggie, who looked completely out of her depth. Technically, Skip had named Maggie as manager of the home team; realistically, it was obvious that Skip was planning to manage it by himself. Whit hadn't exchanged more than a few sentences with his dad's girlfriend—or assistant, as Skip would have it—but from their limited interactions, he'd gotten the impression Maggie didn't know much about baseball. His dad claimed to have hired her a couple of weeks ago to help out with the stadium details, which was as transparent as it was laughable, since Skip had a legion of agents and lawyers making sure nothing slipped through the cracks. What Whit didn't understand was why Skip was bothering to lie about their relationship. Sure, Maggie was young (twenty-seven, according to Allie), but she wouldn't be the first younger woman Skip had tangled the sheets with. Maybe it was sheer force of habit; he'd spent so much time hiding his various mistresses, by now he just did it as a reflex.

Whatever the reason, Whit didn't hold it against Maggie, and he had no intention of embarrassing her if she was the one who wanted their connection kept secret—though he was sorely tempted when his dad jogged over to the visitors' dugout and tried to kick out Nell.

"No girlfriends in the dugout," Skip said, giving Nell an apologetic tilt of the head.

Whit had been planning to seat Nell behind home plate with Allie and Freddie, but there was no way he was letting his dad get away with that little bit of hypocrisy, especially not after Skip had stuck him with Bellamy Swan. He shot a pointed look in the direction of the home dugout. His dad pretended not to notice.

Whit folded his arms, keeping his clipboard tucked under an elbow. "What do you think she's gonna do, go out there and steal signs?" When his dad didn't budge, Whit shoved the clipboard toward Nell, who scrambled to catch it. "She's bench coach. If you'd like to lodge a complaint, send your manager over and I'll discuss it with her."

Skip only grunted.

After they had finished ironing out the last few remaining details and the guys completed their warm-ups, Skip did one final media roundup, the captain of the Fallen Oaks softball team threw out the ceremonial first pitch, and the game was on.

"Aren't you afraid I'll jinx you?" Nell asked, standing beside him while Sánchez stepped up to the plate to face Dee Romero, a first ballot Hall of Famer with two Cy Youngs and a Pitching Triple Crown under his belt.

"I think my dad already took care of that." Romero sent a sinker to the outside corner and Sánchez's bat met air. A low whistle escaped Whit's lips. Romero might not be able to compete with the younger generation of pitchers who threw harder and faster—but damn, that was a sweet pitch. But since admiring the opposition seemed a tad counterproductive, he shifted and sent a sidelong glance toward Nell. "If you want to kiss my ball again, all you have to do is ask."

"I didn't see you kissing it."

"Only before a start."

"You can't really believe that works."

"I believe in hedging my bets." He let his gaze drift down her. The thin breeze billowed her cardigan and tugged at her blouse, providing a brief glimpse of bare skin at her hips as she stretched on her tiptoes to gaze at the action on the field. Her jeans, he noted, were the perfect level of snug, though the cardigan kept all the best parts of her back end out of view. Only the very edge of her tattoo was visible at the moment, a splash of dark ink above the knob of her ankle. "I noticed you didn't mention your tattoo on your list."

She turned toward him, her cheeks tinged pink. "Can we please just forget about that stupid list?"

"Not a chance. What's your tattoo?"

After a quick glance around, she lifted her knee and propped her foot on the lower rail of the dugout, sliding the cuff of her jeans upward. "It's my mother's handwriting. I got it right after I turned eighteen." She let her leg fall. "Paige was supposed to get a matching one, but Grandmother wouldn't allow it, of course."

"Seriously? That thing is tiny. It's not like you're rocking full sleeves."

"Aesthetic is everything to Grandmother," Nell replied. "Forget about tattoos—when I was sixteen, she wouldn't let me go out with a boy because she didn't like his haircut . After she found out I was seeing him anyway, she threatened to make me switch schools. And she definitely didn't approve of you , by the way."

Whit had never even met the notorious Josephine Forrester, so this was news to him. "Why? What's wrong with my aesthetic? I have great hair."

"Something about grown men going to work in pajamas."

"Then it's a good thing she never saw my tattoo."

He was one of the only guys in the major leagues who didn't actually have a tattoo, but that flummoxed look on Nell's face was exactly what he'd been aiming for, and his lips curved upward as he turned his attention back to the game. His smile didn't last long. At the plate, Sánchez had struck out swinging, and Dee Romero made short work of the next two batters. Just like that, the top of the inning was over and it was time for Bellamy Swan.

The crowd got on their feet when he was introduced—son of the late, legendary Patrick Swan, making his first appearance on a mound in over six years. Swan didn't even seem to notice the applause. He was locked in, pure focus, standing in that lonely realm where nothing mattered but the ball in his hand and the guy at the plate. Unfortunately for him, the guy at the plate was Skip. And it wasn't in Skip's nature to give anyone a pass.

"Try not to pull anything, old man!" Whit hollered as his father stepped into the batter's box.

"Your day will come, kid," Skip shot back.

Swan's first pitch was high and inside. The second was a called strike that was enough of a gift it should've come with a bow attached. On the third pitch, Skip ripped a home run into left field .

The crowd roared. The air buzzed. Skip pumped a fist as he made his victory lap. Then, instead of following tradition and pointing skyward as he crossed home plate, he pointed at Whit and winked.

"Remind me again that this is for charity," Whit gritted out as his dad returned to the dugout, greeted by a hail of cheers.

"What about the number one rule of the O'Rourke household?"

"We're moving to the second rule."

"You can't win ‘em all?"

"If you can't get a win, get vengeance ."

"You just made that up."

He pulled his phone out of his back pocket and shot a quick text to Allie. What's the second rule of the O'Rourkes?

Her response took less than a minute.

Payback. Why? Is this about Dad hitting that homer?? If you're plotting something, I want in.

Smirking, Whit handed his phone to Nell.

"I am officially afraid of your family," she drawled.

Whit flashed a grin. "Buckle up, baby. We're just getting started."