22. Ronan

Ronan

Games that are easy wins are nice and all, a good boost to the ego and team morale, but there's something to be said for a hard-fought battle. One that comes down to the last inning, bases loaded, score tied, and it all rests on one more hit.

Those are the games I love. Those are the wins that fill me with more pride and determination to come back stronger every time.

Today was one of those games. It's fucking cold and damp out here, even with the roof protecting us from the worst of the rain that is so typical for a West Coast spring. Kai pitched the first half, and for a while, it looked like we'd maintain a lead. Then the other team came from behind with two out of the park home runs and some solid double and triple plays. The second half, we were neck and neck, each team coming out to the plate strong and every player in the field on top of the ball.

But the Tridents came out on top, eking out a one-point win.

Coach calls me over as we head off the field. "You're on media duty, Sin." He points to the side, where a reporter and cameraman from a local news station are already busy talking to Rhett. I look around for Willow but don't see her at first. Then some guy in a suit steps to the side and there she is, talking with one of our cameramen — Rudy, I think is his name. She's gesturing to the dugout, and he takes off at a jog. I should be focused on getting to my own interview, but I can't drag my eyes away from her. In grey wide-legged pants and a Tridents teal blouse with her hair in a high ponytail, she's effortlessly beautiful. Put together, in charge, and all professional.

Her head turns, and our gazes meet. But there's nothing. Not even a flash of recognition or any emotion whatsoever. Just the same as it was at the game on Saturday after we saw each other at the park.

I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't this. There are professional boundaries, and then there's cold shoulders. And right now? I feel chilly. And not just from the weather.

"Careful with Maxine, she's a shark. Loves to get deep into your personal life, even if she only has a few seconds for a sound bite." Rhett leans in close as he walks past me, coming from the very reporter I'm on my way over to.

"Thanks, man," I mutter as I make my way over to them. I watch the woman with the microphone in hand plaster on a news-worthy smile as I approach and the camera light turns on.

"Ronan Sinclair, thanks for coming over. Maxine Parker, City News. You're new to Vancouver, new to the Tridents. How do you think things are going so far for you?"

Okay, that's an easier question than I was expecting, given Darling's warning.

"Just great, Maxine, thanks. Vancouver has been very welcoming, and the team is strong. I'm very happy to be here."

She gives a brusque nod before tilting the microphone back toward herself. "And your family? Have they been happy with the relocation?"

What the hell that has to do with the game we just played, I don't know, but I guess Rhett warned me. I've always been circumspect with how much I reveal about my family, and I'm not about to cave under pressure from one reporter.

"They're settling in just fine. Proud to wear Tridents colours."

Maxine nods, and it's as if I can see the wheels turning in her head as she tries to pivot. Jesus, is she a sports reporter or a tabloid reporter?

"It must be tough to have such a demanding career, as well as being a single dad. How do you balance it all and still find time for yourself? For love, perhaps? The women of Vancouver are very excited to have a hot new bachelor in town, I'm sure."

Oh, for fuck's sake.My jaw grinds together as I try to remember every bit of media training Gage has forced down my throat ever since Peyton was born. It's not the first time my dating life has come up in an interview, but not normally on the field when most self-respecting reporters want to talk about the game.

"It's not easy for any parent to juggle a career and their family, but I've got a good support system."

Maxine opens her mouth, probably ready to spew more garbage questions, but I'm saved by an angel.

"Maxine, our players need to get ready for the postgame debrief. I trust you got the sound bites you wanted?" Willow's voice is brittle as she comes to stand beside me, arms folded across her chest, her eyes full of annoyed fire, all directed at the reporter.

"Yes, thanks, Willow. We're done here," Maxine simpers, shooting daggers right back at Willow, making it clear there's no love lost between the two. She and her cameraman turn and walk away to the gate that lets them out of the field.

"Sorry. I should have warned you about her."

I turn to face Willow, but she's not looking at me. Her body position screams back off, with her arms still folded across her chest. "It's okay, Darling let me know she tries to dig up personal stuff. I was ready."

Finally, she looks up at me, but her expression is still guarded. "I guess it's not the first time you've been asked about your personal life."

I shrug. "Nope, but it's not as bad as when the news first broke about Peyton. I keep her out of it as much as possible. Control when and where she ends up in the public eye."

"Well, I'll be sure to follow up with Maxine's boss about off-limits questions. She's a pain in our asses, always trying to be more salacious than sports. Thankfully, City News doesn't send her out often. Their other sports guy is far more professional. I think Maxine thinks she's in lifestyle, not sports."

I chuckle because that's exactly what I was thinking. "Does she even like baseball?"

Willow is fighting back a smile, and I fucking love it. The back off vibes are lessening, and she even drops her arms. Granted, only to hold her phone in front of her, but it's a step in the right direction. She might not want to admit there's something between us, but there is. And subconsciously, she can't deny it forever.

"I wanted to thank you again for Saturday," I say, keeping my voice low so no one else around us hears. "Peyton had a lot of fun with you. And I'm sorry if I crossed a line."

Her eyes flutter closed for a second, and when they open again, she's looking at me with a vulnerable expression. "You didn't. I'm sorry I took off so fast. I had fun, too. But…" she trails off.

I give her a quick nod. "I know. But I want you to know this conversation isn't over. This isn't the right time or place, but I do want to finish what we were talking about the other day." My heart is pounding. Am I pushing too hard again?

Fuck, I don't care. I need her to know I'm not giving up so easily.

"Soon, Cherry. Soon, we're gonna talk. And I swear to you, I'll listen. But only if you do, too. Because this —" I subtly gesture between the two of us "— isn't something you just ignore."

Her eyes flare wide with something I really want to believe is desire, or at the very least, agreement. Just then someone calls her name, and the moment is broken.

"I…I have to go," she says quietly but firmly. "We'll talk later."

She walks away, but with those three words, I feel something surge to life inside of me.

Hope.

A couple of hours after the game and that goddamn interview, Peyton's in bed, fast asleep, and I'm on the couch with a beer. The TV is on in the background, sports highlights playing, but I'm not paying attention to it. Instead, I can't stop thinking about Willow.

I've never been so mixed up about a woman. What we had that night in Hawaii was fucking fantastic. Best sex of my goddamn life. She can be so easy to be around, natural, like breathing. But then she throws up those walls so fucking high, I can't see a way over them.

But I want to. She could be it for me, I know it, even as it feels crazy to admit to myself. What other woman would understand the pressures of my life, love the game that means so much to me, and be so amazing with my daughter?

She says we can't do this, but I need to know why. Because for the life of me, I can't stop thinking that we could. And we should.

Standing up, I walk out to my backyard and knock on the door of the guest house. Mom's got lights on, so I know she's home and awake.

"Hi honey, everything okay?" she asks when she opens the door, concern written on her face. I get it, normally I wouldn't bother her when I'm home unless it was an emergency.

"Yeah, everything's fine, but would you mind coming to the main house for a few hours? I just got a text that some of the guys are getting together at one of their houses to watch some game footage. I figure it would be good to keep building relationships with them." The lie rolls off my tongue far too easily, and I inwardly wince. But I've got to do this. I can't keep going, wondering if I'm crazy, imagining the want in Willow's eyes, the longing that matches my own.

"No problem, I'll be right over." Mom's smile and easy answer doesn't ease my guilt. She's never hesitated to help anytime I've asked. Granted, this is the first time I've asked her to babysit so I could go see a woman. Normally, I'd keep these sorts of things to away games, one night with a random woman I don't have to see again. And even that was infrequent.

But twenty minutes later, I'm cruising down the street to Willow's apartment building. It's started to rain outside, but even the rhythmic sound of my windshield wipers can't dull my anticipation or my nerves. When I pull into a visitor parking stall, I open my text messages and my thumb hovers as I try to figure out what to say. How to get her to agree to see me.

In the end, I opt for being direct. Getting out of my car, I walk up to the front door and send her a text.

RONAN: I'm outside. Will you let me in so we can talk?

The text bubbles pop up immediately, which I hope is a good sign. But it takes forever before a reply shows up.

WILLOW: Buzzer 4052, Unit 414

Moments later, the elevator opens and I find her apartment. My hand raps on the door, three firm knocks, and when it opens, she's there.

Wearing sleep shorts and a tank top, her hair is cascading over her shoulders. Her face is clear of makeup, but her expression is back to being guarded, and it physically hurts not to reach out and cup her face, to smooth away the worry with my thumb and my lips.

"Thanks for letting me up," I murmur, earning the briefest of nods, yet she doesn't move to let me in. The hallway is deserted, but this isn't exactly where I want to be having this conversation. I'm not about to be picky. I know I've already pushed her out of her comfort zone just by coming over and insisting we talk. If things go well, she might invite me in. If they don't, then I guess I'll be riding that elevator back down to my car a lot sooner than I want to. I study her for a minute, because even though I thought about what to say the entire drive here, I can't decide how to start.

But as soon as I open my mouth, it just comes pouring out.

"You keep saying you can't date me. That we can't be together. And I hear you; I've respected that as best I can, even though it's fucking torture being near you and not having you. Here's the thing, Cherry. I want, no I need, to know if it's a can't or a don't want to." I chance a step closer, but still keep enough distance so she doesn't feel crowded. "When I asked you that at the park, I told you it mattered, and here's why. I think you've been told you can't date someone like me. I think something or someone convinced you that being with a baseball player is somehow the worst possible idea. And I want to figure out who or what did that, so then I can figure out how to convince you that you're wrong. But only if you say it's a can't, and not a don't want to."

She visibly swallows as her luminous eyes lift to meet mine. Taking one more step, I slowly raise my hand to rest it on her hip, waiting to see if she'll pull back. She doesn't; if anything, she leans into my touch. Following the cues of her body, I lower my head and run my nose up the column of her neck. When I feel her shiver underneath my hand, my lips crease into a small smile. She might not be able to find the words to say she wants this, but her responses tell me clear enough.

"If it's truly a don't want to, then I'll walk away right now and you'll never have to feel my hands on you again." Taking a risk, I drop a kiss to her soft skin, relishing the gasp I hear from her. "You'll never have to feel my kiss again."

Her pulse jumps under my lips, and I kiss her a second time. Then, even though it pains me to do so, I lift my head and step back, the only contact remaining between us being my hand on her hip.

Your move, Cherry.

Her eyes flutter open, and the heat in them is obvious. But so is the hesitation. I drop my hand and take another step back.

"Wait —" She reaches for my hand, chewing on her lower lip.

"I don't want to force you into anything you're not ready for," I say, my voice gravelly. "You know where I stand. When you're ready to tell me what's in that beautiful head of yours, I'll be here."

"It's not that I don't want you," she whispers, tugging me closer. "If anything, it's because I want you too much. It scares me how much I want you."

Thank fuck.I can work with that. Placing my hands back on her hips, I step in close. "Don't be scared. We're in this together. You jump, I jump."

A short burst of laughter escapes her, and I know the cheesy line was exactly what was needed.

"Did you just quote Titanic?"

I smirk. "Did it work?"

Her answering smile is blinding as she loops her arms around my neck, nodding.

Then, finally, after months of agony from being close to her, and even longer since I last kissed her, I feel her lips on mine again.