7. Seven

Seven

His father's office sat on the upper floor of the house, down the hall from what had once been Whit's bedroom and was now a converted workout room. A memory flickered as he picked his way up the staircase, trailing his hand along the banister: the groaning fifth step, betrayer of midnight excursions and teenage rendezvous, silent now, since his father had long since had it fixed. In the years since first Whit and then his sisters had left for college, renovation had become something of a passion for Skip. The office, with its oak panel door and wide back windows that overlooked the lake, was one of the only rooms that hadn't changed in the last decade. The rest, Whit's father had slowly but surely transformed from a rambling family abode into a sort of living museum, filled with old game photos and baseball memorabilia: plaques, jerseys, merchandise, magazine covers, awards; anything that bore Skip O'Rourke's name or the number that had become the most important part of his identity—good ol' Number 15, which his club had retired right along with him. Wall by wall and room by room, he'd made it a shrine to the career he'd felt had ended too early. And eradicated any trace of the woman who had once put her soul into making it a home.

As a child, that home had been idyllic: spacious but cozy, comfortable rather than pristine, the walls cluttered with family pictures and haphazard art projects. Skip had bought the place after signing the deal that cemented his status as not only a rising talent but a superstar in the making. He'd plucked his young family from their Baltimore suburb and dropped them in his beloved Fallen Oaks because he wanted them to have a sense of stability —a true place to call home, he said, instead of picking up stakes with every new contract or sudden trade.

The reality had been much more chaotic. Instead of moving with contracts, they'd moved with the seasons. Each summer, Whit's mother had packed her children up to be with Skip during home games, first in Baltimore, then a year in St. Louis, another two in Los Angeles, and finally Baltimore again for the remainder of his career. When the school year started, it was back to Minnesota's great up north, the sleepy town of quiet forests and long winters. Spring was a toss-up: some years saw them spending a week or two in Florida or Arizona while Skip's team prepared for the upcoming season; more often, Whit went months at a time without seeing his father.

He hadn't minded at first. He'd missed his dad, of course; he'd missed watching the players at batting practice, and hanging out in the clubhouse, and the thrill that ran up his spine each time Skip stepped up to the plate. He'd spent every day at the ballpark willing himself into the future, when he would be the one standing in the flood of the stadium lights with the cheers roaring around him and the crowd chanting his name. But he'd understood that his mother needed him. He was her rock, the man of the house while his dad couldn't be.

It wasn't until he was older that Whit realized his father preferred to keep his family safely out of sight. Skip O'Rourke had wanted to enjoy a particular kind of lifestyle, and having a wife and kids got in the way. Stability had just been an excuse. What he'd wanted was freedom.

His mother's voice drifted to him. You have to let it go, Whit . He's your father. He's the only one you get. She'd told him that a couple of weeks ago, shortly before he'd walked her down the aisle of the little Scottish chapel where she'd held her recent wedding. Rather than ruin her day, Whit had kept his thoughts to himself—but it galled him that she still defended Skip. For eighteen years, she'd had forgiving him down to a science. And every time she forgave him, she'd lost a little bit more of herself. It had taken a near-tragedy to convince her to leave the marriage while there was still some part of her left, and the fact that she was thriving now didn't just erase that.

He paused a few feet from the office door and shot a quick glance at Nell. She was keeping slightly behind him, her body stiff. She looked about two seconds from spinning on her heel and bolting for the nearest exit. He couldn't blame her for being nervous, even if she was at least somewhat to blame for the mess they were in. But strange as it was—and he'd give up baseball before he'd ever admit to it—he liked having her there.

Not that he was afraid of facing his dad. It was just that Nell's presence made him feel… less alone. And he never felt more alone than when he was with his father.

Still, given the mood his dad was in…

"I'd better go in first," Whit said, signaling for her to wait before easing the office door open and moving quietly inside.

The old, familiar scents of whiskey and leather greeted him. He breathed them in a moment, forcing himself to relax. Even as a kid, this had been Whit's favorite room in the house; entering it now was like stepping through a portal into the past. While his father might have rededicated the rest of the place to the legend of Skip O'Rourke, this room was still a tribute to the greats: Ruth, Mantle, Williams, Aaron, Mays; there was a signed Jackie Robinson card framed in loving display above the big cherry wood desk and a Roger Maris home run ball on one of the built-in bookcases. An entire wall had been given over to Skip's personal hero, Tony Oliva, and in the far corner, next to a couple of antique figurines, sat the coveted O'Rourke Family Trophy with its little gold baseball player caught in permanent swing. Nearby, a few photo frames hung slightly askew—presumably from the sudden impact of a fist connecting with the wall beneath.

Whit's father stood behind the desk, leaning forward on the heels of his palms. He was staring down at his phone, but even from across the room, Whit could see the grimace on his face and the tension running through his shoulders. He was sort of twitching, like he was about to either bellow his fury at the heavens or dramatically sweep everything off of his desk. There was nothing Skip hated more than having his will thwarted… except, of course, for having his legacy tarnished. The last time Whit had seen his father this angry, he'd been the one on the receiving end.

Whit studied him, sizing him up like they were staring at each other across the plate—though in this case, his father was the umpire, short-fused and ready to toss him out of the game. A man of rigid rules and stubborn pride, utterly convinced of his own infallibility. It had been almost a year since they'd stood in the same room together, but aside from the faint growth of beard and the fact that he now dressed like a businessman instead of a ballplayer, Whit didn't see that anything had altered. It never did.

Unlike a lot of aging sports heroes, Skip hadn't let his body go after retirement. He was as fit at fifty as men ten years younger, and all that hot sun and hard-drinking hadn't done much but put a little gray in his hair and deepen the lines on his face—a face that was enough like Whit's own that he had a pretty good idea of how he'd look in a couple of decades. But that was where their similarities ended. Whit may have followed his father's footsteps into baseball, but he didn't intend to follow them out of it. He wasn't going to spend the rest of his life mourning his youth. When he could no longer cut it, he'd make a clean break. None of this living in the past, reminiscing about the good old days. Instead of making a museum of his memories, he'd donate whatever he couldn't bear to throw away.

Until that time came, however, he had a reputation to clean up and an image to maintain. One ordeal at a time.

Whit strolled casually forward, the low slap of his footsteps loud on the hardwood floor.

His dad glanced up. No hint of surprise or outrage registered on his face. He just pushed himself upward from the desk and gave Whit a grim, narrow-eyed stare. "I told you to stay home."

And I haven't followed your orders since I was thirteen years old and one of your girlfriends showed up at our hotel in a towel.

But you didn't win with Skip O'Rourke by getting defensive. The only way you won with Skip O'Rourke was if you didn't play .

Whit plucked the signed Maris ball from its stand and flipped it toward his dad. "Catch."

Skip grunted, snagging the ball one-handed. "You break anything in this room, you're replacing it." He tossed the ball back.

Whit caught it, shuffling the baseball back and forth between his hands before throwing it to Skip again. "How's your fist?"

His father's frown deepened to a glower. "I suppose Allie filled you in." He flipped the ball to Whit.

"I don't know why you guys are taking Rory seriously." If there was one person in the family with a temper to rival their father's, it was Rory. Which meant she hadn't pulled this prank merely to win some contest. "You planning to share what it is you did to piss her off?"

"Rory will do whatever the hell she wants," Skip said bleakly. "She always has."

"I take it she's also been uninvited from the week's events," said Whit. Flip.

"At least she's smart enough to keep her private life private." Flip.

"So you've got one kid out of three. Really putting the family in O'Rourke Family Foundation, there." Flip.

His father set the baseball on the desk. A vein in his neck throbbed. " Should I have asked your mother? I hear she's in Scotland with the latest addition to her husband collection."

"You could try being happy for her, you know."

"I give it six months."

Considering his new stepdad was thirty-two years old and dumb as a brick, Whit thought that was a little generous—but Skip was the last person who should ever judge her choices. "Are you sure you want to be casting stones?"

The vein throbbed again. "I'm not the one dragging our name through the mud here, kid."

"I guess that means you don't plan to hear my side of the story before booting me out on my ass."

"Is there a side of the story that isn't a headline on Meltdown ?"

"Then what about a little fatherly loyalty? You can't be completely unfamiliar with the concept. "

"You've been in the game long enough to know you only get so many strikes."

"And you took one look at a sleazy tabloid and decided my guilt."

"Let's cut to it," Skip said, folding his arms and adopting that same, familiar stance from Whit's childhood, Zeus booming out from Mount Olympus to lay down the law on the mere mortals below. "You're not here because you give a damn about the stadium or the foundation. You're here because you want the publicity that comes with it. And that was fine—yesterday. But I have too much on my plate to deal with cleaning up another one of your messes. You want to stay in the press's good graces? Learn to keep your pants zipped."

As though Skip O'Rourke had ever once in his life met a temptation he'd wanted to resist. Whit felt all that old anger surface. "Just following your shining example, Dad."

"I didn't flaunt my affairs to the public."

Only because he'd retired before the rise of social media and smartphones. Skip had managed to come out of the steroid era unblemished, but both of them knew the league had covered up plenty of other sins. Some of whom charged by the hour. Whit curled a lip. "Just to your wife and kids."

Something flickered in Skip's eyes. His nostrils flared. "You're not staying, end of story. You want fatherly loyalty? Fine. As your father, it's time for some tough love. You fucked up. Now you get to face the consequences. Maybe next time you'll think before risking your reputation for a cheap thrill."

The quiet voice from behind him made Whit jerk in surprise.

"It wasn't Whit's fault."

Neither of them had heard Nell enter the room, but as the door closed behind her with a gentle thud, Whit swiveled and Skip slammed his palm against the desk.

"Who the hell are you?" Skip barked.

Nell's chin came up. "The cheap thrill. And before you ask, yes, it was me in the video, no, it wasn't what it looked like, and yes, we are suing. Any more questions? "

His father took one glance at her before shooting Whit a look of sheer disgust. "You brought a groupie here?"

So much for his plan of introducing Nell as a wholesome girl-next-door type, the sort of woman who rescued kittens and organized bake sales and had never so much as said a swear word in her life. This wholesome girl-next-door looked ready to murder someone. Even with the golden afternoon light haloing her, showcasing the smattering of freckles that dappled her nose, she seemed less like an innocent, fresh-faced cherub and more like the archangel of doom.

"Nell's not a groupie, Dad," he said, hurrying toward her with long, purposeful strides. "Give us a minute, would you?" He wrapped an arm around Nell's shoulders to aim her back toward the door and away from his father. Far, far away. She must have realized he'd simply lift her off her feet and haul her off like a sack of potatoes if she tried to resist, because she didn't utter a word of protest.

As soon as he'd maneuvered Nell safely back out of the office, he released his grip and dropped his voice to a whisper. "What are you doing?"

"Exactly what you dragged me out here to do." Her words came out on a huff of air, but her inability to meet his eyes said it all.

"I told you to wait in the hallway."

"Nosy Nellie, remember?"

He glared at her.

"I thought you could use some help," she added, sounding guilty.

"And a fantastic job you're doing of that."

She grimaced, glancing down at her borrowed Blizzards sweatshirt. "The next time I spill coffee on myself, I'm just going to walk around naked."

"Because no one would mistake you for a groupie then."

"This wouldn't be a problem if you didn't have groupies in the first place."

"I don't have groupies," he retorted. When she gave him a pitying look, Whit scowled. "What, you think I encourage them?"

"I don't remember you complaining about that spray-tanned blonde crawling into your lap. "

"That sounds like jealousy to me."

She planted a hand on her hip. "Are we going to do this thing or not?"

Or not seemed like a good idea to Whit, but since he didn't want to give Skip the satisfaction of chasing him off with his tail tucked between his legs, he supposed he'd better do what he could to salvage the situation. "Fine. Just… try not to antagonize him."

"What do you call what you were doing?"

"He's my dad. I was born to antagonize him." He shoved a hand through his hair. It grated to have to explain himself to a man who had once smuggled a stripper disguised as a bat boy into Camden Yards, but Whit's stay in town would go a hell of a lot smoother if he and his father could reach some sort of agreement. "Look. My dad isn't stupid. We're going to need to lay it out to him flat, no bullshit. If he doesn't accept it, that's his problem."

And mine . But he'd cross that bridge when he came to it.

"I still think a phone call would've been better."

"He can hang up a phone call." Which was undoubtedly what Rory had done once Skip started yelling. "Or ignore it. He can't ignore us face to face."

"If you say so."

Shifting, Whit pushed the heavy door open with the heel of his hand and stepped back into the office.

Within, Skip had seated himself behind his desk, tapping his fingers rhythmically against the smoothly polished surface as he frowned at something on his laptop screen. The Maris home run ball had been returned to the shelf, Whit noted, a relic of a bygone era back in its proper exalted place. At the far end of the office, one of the windows had been tugged open to let the cool air roll in off the lake, the scents of autumn mingling with the whiskey-and-leather aroma that clung to the walls. Old leaves and mildew, the hint of wood smoke; heralds of the coming winter. Somehow that felt like an omen. And not a good one.

Whit cleared his throat. "Dad. "

The look on Skip's face when he glanced up was more weary than enraged. His shoulders, normally as rigid as the rest of him, had worked their way into a subtle slump. "I've said my piece, Whitney."

"Then let me say mine."

Skip waited a beat, then gave a quick, curt nod.

Whit's chest felt suddenly tight. He opened his mouth to speak but no words came out.

You remember Nell, Dad. She told the whole world I had cheated at the one thing that ever meant anything to you.

He swallowed.

Funny story. She was on her knees because I told her she had to beg forgiveness for destroying my reputation. Ironic, right?

Somehow, he didn't think his dad would appreciate the irony.

He didn't need to conjure up the disappointment he would see in his dad's eyes. It was already there, had been there from the moment Whit first admitted he'd broken the league's most sacred rule.

He hated that it still mattered to him. Hated that even if he couldn't live up to his father's lofty ideals, he still craved his respect.

"Never mind," he bit out. "Think whatever the hell you want."

He swung around and headed for the door.

It took him half a second to realize Nell hadn't followed him. And another half second to process that she was moving in the wrong direction. Instead of taking the offered escape and beating a swift retreat, she was making a beeline for his father. Whit hurried after her, but before he could reach her—catch her, stop her, anything her—she'd halted in front of the wide cherry wood desk and thrust out a hand.

"We weren't introduced properly," she told his dad.

Whit's breath came out in a whoosh. "Nell, you don't have to—"

"I'm Nell. Whit's girlfriend."

He stopped in his tracks.

Skip's eyebrows slammed together. He turned his stony gaze on Whit. "Girlfriend? "

Since he didn't think telling his father that Nell was a crazy woman he'd picked up on the side of the road would do much to help his case, he lifted his shoulders in a weak shrug. "Surprise."

"I'm sorry to barge in on you like this, Mr. O'Rourke," Nell continued.

Whit tried again. "Nell—"

But Nell was gaining confidence. Head lifted, spine straight, she met the icy gaze of Skip O'Rourke—who had made a career out of intimidating everyone from rookie call-ups to tough-as-nails veterans—without flinching. "I want to set the record straight. Whit isn't to blame for what happened last night. I was on my knees because I was asking his forgiveness. The circumstances of that are private, so I hope you won't ask me to share them. I'll just say that seeing that video was definitely the most mortifying moment of my existence. Followed closely by this one."

She didn't look mortified, Whit thought. She looked determined. And entirely earnest.

A truly terrible idea started to take root in his head.

His dad shot him another glance, but this time his expression was mostly baffled.

Whit leaned a shoulder against one of the bookcases, folding his arms as he cocked an eyebrow at his dad. "I told you she wasn't a groupie."

Skip cleared his throat. He rose from the desk, realized that he'd been ignoring Nell's outstretched hand, and instead of shaking it, enfolded it briefly in both of his. "I apologize for the misunderstanding, Miss…"

"Lacey," said Nell.

"McLean," said Whit.

"Lacey-McLean," Nell corrected quickly. "It's easier for my students if I go by Miss Lacey. But you can call me Nell."

Whit had to admire her quick thinking. For someone who had been so insistent on telling the truth, she sure was good at acting.

That terrible idea of his grew a little.

"Students?" Skip echoed.

"I teach second grade."

His dad seemed more flummoxed than ever. Whit decided to take advantage of it. "See, Dad? Totally blameless."

"I wouldn't say totally blameless." Nell gave him a sidelong glance that told him he'd better not push his luck. "But the article isn't true. The pictures were taken out of context and the video was edited."

"We're letting my publicist handle the media," Whit added. "So no comment, if anyone asks."

Skip had stopped paying attention to him. It must have finally occurred to him that he'd made an ass of himself in front of a young, attractive woman, and he was busy trying to gain her good graces by flipping the charm switch. He stepped out from behind the desk and, to Whit's considerable annoyance, gave Nell that same lopsided aw-shucks smile Whit had tried on her only a few short hours ago. "Glad to meet you, Nell."

"Likewise. Though I wish it were under slightly less embarrassing circumstances." Her laugh came out somewhat shaky, and Whit wasn't certain if that was her playing it up or genuine nerves. She dropped her hands to the hem of her sweatshirt, plucking at the fabric. "Normally, I'd wait a couple of months before doing the whole meet the parents thing, but I guess Meltdown had other plans."

Skip was quick to reassure her. "I wouldn't worry too much about it. The news cycle tends to move fast. Give it a couple of weeks and no one will even remember it."

Whit thought he should win another Cy Young for the sheer level of control it took to bite back a snarky comment. He divided a glance between Nell and his dad. Nell was looking cute and frazzled, all but drowning in his sweatshirt as she nibbled on her bottom lip. His father was clearly trying to put her at ease, transformed now from angry ump barking out orders to genial host.

That terrible idea buzzed in Whit's head.

It would never work. It was crazy. Demented. Absolutely, one hundred percent bonkers.

And yet …

"Teacher, huh?" Skip continued, aiming another one of those lazy smiles at Nell. "How'd you get tangled up with him?" He tipped his head toward Whit.

"Bad luck," said his loving girlfriend.

Skip chuckled.

Since Whit wouldn't put it past his dad to straight up start flirting with his girlfriend—never mind that she wasn't actually his girlfriend—he slipped away from his spot by the bookcase and moved to Nell's side, looping an arm around her waist. She tensed as he drew her against him, but she didn't try to break free, and after a moment she relaxed, exhaling softly.

She smelled good. Like warm vanilla and some sort of floral shampoo.

"Worked out well enough for me," Whit said, sliding his hand to her shoulder and giving her a quick squeeze.

It was dawning on him that perhaps Paige's PR romance scheme wasn't all that ludicrous… at least on a much smaller scale and in the much shorter term. And with a very different woman. If he'd been smart, he would never have planned on coming to Fallen Oaks alone in the first place. He'd have waited to break up with his latest girlfriend until after the groundbreaking ceremony. Lilah had been sweet, easygoing, and gorgeous. Sure, she'd gotten a bit clingy at the end and had taken the breakup harder than expected, but he could've dealt with that for another few weeks if it meant having a plus-one to provide a diversion. Lilah would have been the ideal candidate to keep malicious busybodies at bay and make all his former friends writhe with envy. But Nell…

Sure, she'd professed to hate him not half an hour ago, but if he could set aside the minor issue of her having spilled his darkest secret to the world, she could be convinced to tolerate him for a week or so—given the right incentive.

Maybe that flicker of an idea wasn't so terrible after all. Maybe it was actually just a little bit perfect.

"We really need to get checked into our hotel," Whit said, reaching a decision. "I assume we're invited for dinner. "

Nell stiffened and his dad looked pained.

"If you're not still planning to send us both packing, that is," Whit added.

The lines in Skip's forehead deepened. "You really should've given me some warning, Whit. I already canceled your hotel."

Whit fought back another retort. "No problem. We'll stay here."

"That's really not necessary," Nell answered quickly. She lowered her voice, giving him a dark look from under her lashes. "Remember that urgent business I have? How I need to get back to Minneapolis tonight?"

"Don't worry about it, babe. Didn't I tell you I'd take care of it?" He moved his foot before Nell could bring hers down on it.

"I don't need you to take care of things for me, babe ."

On second thought, the less time Nell spent with his dad, the better. Keeping his arm firmly around her, he steered her toward the door. "You know what, Dad?" he called over his shoulder. "Don't even sweat it. We'll stay with Grandpa. I'll text you once we're settled in."