Chapter 22

April

Regular Season

[Ross]

Vee left in the early hours of Saturday morning.

I told her I could take her to the airport, but she had a rental car to return.

But I was desperate for every last minute.

After such an incredible night, Vee was suddenly shy, almost avoiding eye contact while we stood in the dark parking lot.

I'd placed her suitcase in the trunk and finally caught her attention when I cupped her face, forcing her to look up at me. "Are we good?" I didn't want to say goodbye. I wasn't good at them.

A weak smile graced her face. "We're good, Ross Davis. Good luck this season."

The implied finality twisted my gut again. I didn't want to let her go. I also didn't know how to keep seeing her. Spring training was nothing compared to the hectic schedule of a regular season. Sure, we'd both be back in Chicago, but I couldn't figure out how to make us work when I was still the new guy for the Anchors.

Maybe after the season? I didn't like the excuse or the amount of time to wait. It could be almost nine months before the season ends.

So once again, Verona Huxley slipped through my fingers, although I held onto them until I had to shut the driver door and stood in a quiet parking lot, watching her drive away.

As our final spring series ended in a three-game win, the Ws were bittersweet. I'd wanted to call Vee with every success, but I didn't.

She'd already done so much for me. Bolstered my confidence with her pep talks. Given me her time and her tongue. And then our final night, which was special, sacred even. That night had nothing to do with my original proposal. All I'd denied us imploded into an incredible night I'll never forget.

"You alright?" Kip asked as we sat in the airport, waiting on our late-night flight back to Chicago.

"I will be," I lied. Because I'd fallen, hard and fast, and for the first time in my life, I was unsure of myself and whether I was worthy of a woman like Verona. A woman who hadn't asked for anything in return for all she'd ended up giving me.

"Why don't you call her?" he encouraged, concern in his voice.

"And say what?" My superstition was all for naught . Sleeping with Vee had turned into more of a personal mission than a new ritual.

Could I tell her my heart missed her? I'd wanted to feel something again, and I felt it.

Loss.

It wasn't fair to Vee. I'd been so back and forth, so hot and cold. I didn't have a plan for forward when all I wanted was to go backward and relish each of our nights together better.

"No, this is for the best," I whisper, ignoring the phone in my hand, fingers twitching to pull up her number. My screen saver was already the image of me kissing the side of her head and her surprised reaction. I was only torturing myself and I deserved the punishment.

"Man," Kip chuckled beside me. "Whoever said love is a battlefield hasn't been on a baseball diamond."

I had no idea what he meant, but my heart ached nonetheless, like I'd fought in a war, and lost.

If love was a baseball diamond, then my self-doubt just caused me to bench myself.

+ + +

It is said that March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb, but that didn't feel true when Mother Nature had other plans for the final days of the month. A snowstorm hit Chicago, delaying our return flight from Arizona to home. Once back, the team hustled to drop bags, kiss families, and hit the field. We only had two days before we are on the road again, heading to St. Louis for opening day.

Baseball season officially begins.

However, the real celebration happens when the calendar flips to April and opening day occurs in our home stadium.

There's no place like home, or in my opinion, the homelike feel of a place such as Anchor Field. The iconic stadium is one of the few landmark originals remaining among professional baseball teams. Set in a neighborhood north of downtown Chicago, the pride of this stadium is the ivy that lines the outfield wall, plus the bleachers above the twining vines, and a manually monitored score board that soars above the diamond.

And during this first home game, all I can think about is Vee.

Is she here? Has she brought a date? Does she miss me as much as I miss her?

Ten days have passed since our spectacular night together.

When the game begins, my enthusiasm for the season spikes as the Anchors start off strong until a pop fly arches toward centerfield.

Ford Sylver rushes forward from his position. Romero Valdez hightails it backward from his spot at short stop, then he spins to face Ford. Somehow the ball drops between them like something you'd see in a little league game.

Within seconds, Ford is in Romero's face, finger pointed at his teammate in a move that can only be described as aggressive.

My head is already shaking, recalling all the shit that has gone down so far this season between these two men over a woman.

Then, Romero reaches out, captures Ford's hand and twists. Ford's left arm is behind him in a move where I can imagine Romero demanding that Ford cry ‘uncle'. Only his left arm is his bad arm. Ford drops to his knees.

"Aw, fuck," someone yells within the dugout.

"What the fuck?" another cries out, while a few of the guys empty the bench .

The animosity between Ford and Romero has placed a divide of loyalty among the men. Most favor Ford, as one of our captains and a veteran of the Anchors.

"Get back," I yell, clearing the dugout myself while Dalton Ryatt, my bench coach, tries to hold guys off, warning them to stay put.

As I cross the field behind the team trainer because my star centerfielder isn't standing up, my stomach flips. I only have a few seconds to make a decision here.

"What happened?" I snap before asking if Ford is okay. The pinch in his face and the way he's gingerly supporting his left arm, his throwing arm, already answers any question about his condition. He's in pain and has been since training started. I'm cognizant of Ford's medical history. He had extensive rehab over the last season on his left shoulder but he's creeping toward the need for corrective surgery. His age isn't helping either. He'll be turning thirty-eight this summer.

"I shouldn't have gotten in his face," Ford grits through the pain, accepting his responsibility in the wrong that happened. However, the altercation didn't stop with words.

We're men. We get heated, especially under the guise of competition. Typically, that competitive spirit is between teams, not among your own teammates .

I appreciate Ford admitting his fault but more happened on this field than a few harsh words and a pointed finger. Valdez responded.

And his physical reaction needs to be dealt with next. Valdez has been a thorn in my side since this season started. Taking liberties he doesn't have. Treating others with disrespect. Rude comments. Lewd motions. He doesn't represent someone I would consider a team player, nor is he someone I want on my team. However, I didn't make the initial choice to hire him. He was here when the team became mine. Now I'll have a potential investigation into intentional harm to determine if Romero purposely twisted Ford's bad arm.

"Thoughts?" I snap at the team trainer.

"He's out." A simple nod suggests we discuss the damage to Ford later .

With Ford closing his eyes, he knows the truth is as plain as the ivy on the wall behind him. He's finished for this game, and out for the foreseeable future, if not the entire season.

With the assistance of the medical staff, Ford stands and the crowd claps in relief when I'm certain most fans are still stunned.

How often does one see player against player from the same fucking team ?

Trying to keep my head up, I follow behind Ford and the medical team who assist Ford to the dugout before he slips into the tunnel leading to the locker room.

For now, I have eight other guys to focus on and a substitution to make.

"Dane," I call out as I near the bench. "You're up." I hitch my thumb toward the field. We only have a few seconds to warm up the rookie we pulled up from the minors to shadow Ford for this type of incident.

Not necessarily one where his teammate takes him out, but Ford's arm not being at its best has been a concern, especially after a collision between the same two men caused an issue during the training season.

Stedman Dane is as green as they get. Small town kid in a big city. Almost as young as my sons.

"Think he's ready?" Dalton mutters beside me as I take my position in the corner of the dugout, up against the fence.

"He's gonna have to be, isn't he?" We don't have a choice because Ford is finished.

Dalton scoffs. The game recommences and while my heart goes out to Ford, because the older one gets, the harder it is to play this game, my thoughts rush to Vee, wishing I could talk to her about my concerns.

The Anchors are not off to a good start this season.

+ + +

With defeat in our hearts, the Anchors lose the game after the reckless display of poor sportsmanship between teammates .

While I refuse to let panic settle into my bones, panic is settling into my bones.

"Fuck," I mutter as I wait for the team to clear out of the dugout before following them through the tunnel to the locker room. I'd wanted one final glance around the stadium in hopes of locating Vee, but the scan was hopeless in a sea of retreating fans. I had no idea where her season tickets were placed anyway.

In the somber locker room, I address the team with what went well and what we need to work on with a final word of encouragement.

"Let's remember that we're a team." I glare at Valdez who has the grace to lower his head, but his mouth curves into a smirk. I narrow my gaze at him, knowing I'll have to deal with him privately when what I'd really like to do is kick him off the team in front of the other members, making an example out of him and his shitty behavior. His actions are inappropriate and intolerable. "And as such, that means we play together. Our opponent is the other team, not each other."

I don't need to remind them collectively, but as spirits are divided, I want the men to rein in their loyalties.

"Your dedication is to the Anchors." With a heavy exhale, I add, "However, any good thoughts or prayers for our teammate are welcome."

I won't speak out yet about Ford's ability to return or not.

First, I have a contractually obligated press conference to attend.

Then, an ass named Romero Valdez to chew out.

Then I'll be able to check on Ford.

And after all that, what I really want is to find Vee and snuggle in a bed beside her, where she might remind me this is what I wanted—to coach the Anchors—and then she'd give me one of her pep talks.

One that might end with more than just words, but with our bodies tangled together.

+ + +

In the medical room with Ford, a messenger who looks no more than sixteen-years-old knocks on the door. Anxiety is written in his expression and his voice quivers when he says, "Coach, I've got a message for you."

Fuck . I'm assuming the front office wants "a word" about the unsportsmanlike conduct that occurred on the field today. A reminder that they took a risk on me, or I've been given a second chance, blah-blah-blah . Although, I'm not so cavalier about the position I've been granted.

"Yeah," I mutter. "What is it?"

The poor kid swallows hard and lowers his eyes, fiddling with a slip of paper in his hands, before saying, "Tell him nightlight was here."

"What the fuck?" Kip chuckles, having found his way to the medical room as well.

"Women come up with all kinds of crazy shit." Max Bernard, the head trainer, huffs.

I arch a brow at the young messenger. "Was it a woman?"

He nods.

"Nightlight?" Max grunts. "Sounds like a stripper name."

Eyes wide, I glare at Max. He knows I'm not into that kind of thing. Respect to the women who do it, and whatever to the men getting off watching them, but that path isn't my pleasure.

Max clears his throat. "Or like the kind of thing you plug in at night so you can see in a dark room."

With gritted teeth, Ford adds, "My kid needs one of those to sleep at night."

Instantly, Kip and I meet eyes.

"Shit," Kip mutters, lowering his gaze while smiling.

And my heart rate soars when the messenger hands me the slip of paper.

Vee had been here.