Chapter 37

[Ross]

In the early morning, I leave Vee because of batting practice and warmups. And when I finally catch up to her in the restaurant of her hotel, she's not alone.

"Look who I met." When I lean into Vee and kiss her cheek, seated at the table is my sister and sons.

"Dad, you didn't mention Vee would be here," Harley states, displeasure in his voice, thinking I purposely held back this information. He stands to hug me.

Vee gives me a puzzled look. I hadn't purposely omitted her visit, I guess I just forgot to tell the boys as I hadn't seen them yesterday at my sister's house.

Landon is watching me, and I take a seat at the table set for lunch, between Landon and Vee, squeezing his shoulder as he doesn't stand to hug me. "I think the surprise is you guys being here. What happened to letting me know where you'll be?"

The rule is to tell me if they leave their respective campuses.

"We wanted to surprise you," Landon states, not a bit of menace in his voice.

"Well, I am surprised. In the best way. I have all my favorite people at one table." I turn to Vee. "So, you've met Rena." I nod toward my sister. "How did this happen?"

Harley answers. "Vee told me you were meeting her for lunch, so I asked if we could join you."

I glance at Vee, my head spinning a little bit. "I gave my number to Harley when we first met. Being that you're busy, and away a lot, I told him he could call me if he needed anything local."

Harley is newly moved to Chicago, like me, but unlike me, he doesn't remember as much about living in the city. I should be grateful for the adult contact. For Vee's offering. However, I'm out of sorts that I didn't know .

The restlessness of being in Philadelphia is back. Almost like an itch beneath my skin. I'm off.

Still, I say, "That was generous of you."

I side-eye Rena, feeling her watching me, and catch her pinched expression. She doesn't like my tone, and I clear my throat.

"So, what have y'all been talking about?"

"Vee's career," Rena excitedly states glancing at Vee before looking at me again. "You didn't tell me she is V. C. Hux."

I look from Vee to my sister, a bit surprised that my sister sounds like she knows Vee. I'm reminded that Vee's husband wasn't overly interested in Vee's career, and I'm upset with myself that I haven't bragged more about her success with my sister.

"Are you familiar with her books?"

"Aren't you?" Rena asks, her puzzled expression back. "She's amazing. I've read her Huntley brothers series, and now I'm working my way through her former rock stars collection."

While Vee and I discuss her writing, I still haven't actually read any of her books. We've fallen into more of me asking her if she's written during the day, but not always the details of what she's written. Like someone might ask me if I practiced pitching, back when I pitched, but not asking for an explanation of how I pitched. Only I'm not a pitcher anymore, I'm a coach. And I should have more information about what exactly my girlfriend is writing.

My annoyance with myself grows, feeling selfish and frustrated. How many games has she attended for me? How many times has she let me talk about my issues with players in the locker room? How many times has she swatted my ass to wish me luck?

And what have I done for her? Bought her a couple cups of her favorite calming tea?

I haven't read a single book. Not even asked to see a chapter. I've been so wrapped up in baseball. Again.

The restlessness of being in Philadelphia turns to unease about Vee. Am I doing enough for her? Am I enough for her ?

"She's very impressive," I state, but I sound a bit tightlipped, almost offended, when I'm actually mad at myself. And I feel Vee watching me. I can't look at her, ashamed of myself for not coming across like her biggest fan.

Rena is clearly a fan.

Fortunately, Vee and Rena are both good at making conversation and draw the boys into discussions. I'm not much of a conversationalist today. My mind is all over the place, and too soon, it's time for me to head out.

Dismissing myself, I address the table as I stand. "I'll see you guys at the ballpark." It's not really a question. I bought tickets for Rena and Vee to attend together. Rena purchased tickets for the boys in the same vicinity.

And I pause half a second waiting for Vee to stand and walk me out.

Instead, she offers me a wink. Playful. Flirty. Girlfriendy, but it's not enough. My irritation is back and it's not really at Vee. I'm mad at myself. Upset that I didn't introduce to my sister like I had planned. Harley did. Upset that I don't have time to hang out with my kids, and my girl, and my sister and linger at this lunch. Upset at this uncomfortable prickle, gnawing at me as I'm back in Philly.

I step to Vee and cup her face, looking her directly in the eyes. "Wish me luck, sweetheart."

"Luck," she whispers, her eyes heated before she licks her lips. I want to kiss her senseless. Instead, I settle for a quick kiss, hoping to swallow her wish.

By the time the game starts, I'm a wreck, and the Anchors look more like a bunch of fumbling tee-ballers than professionals making millions of dollars. As I'm not a screamer, keeping that shit in my head, I have a headache by the sixth inning that rivals the crack of a metal bat against a ball on repeat. The constant ting-ting-ting makes my stomach queasy.

Plus, the Anchors are losing.

Rena and Vee are in the stands with my boys, and I'm an anxious mess, feeling the pressure of everyone watching. Me as a coach to a new team. Me as the former coach of our opponents. Philly fans are a tough crowd, and I anticipated the boos. The catcalls of being a traitor. The insults for lost loyalty. From the same fans who demanded my release. Philly is a rough city. Fans love hard; hate harder.

And the tension builds.

When the game ends, the Anchors lose, 0-10, and we hang our heads entering the locker room.

"Guess his lucky charm didn't work this time," someone in the locker room says.

I still as I'm the last to enter the common space.

"Who said that?" I glance around the room of men in various states of undress. Some sit. Some stand. A collective breath is suddenly held. My eyes shift from man to man before landing on a smirking Romero Valdez.

"Want to repeat what you just said?" I sound like a teacher, asking a kid in a classroom to share his thoughts with everyone.

Valdez stands tall. Or at least as tall as his five-eight will allow him compared to my six-three. " I said ," he emphasizes. "Looks like your lucky charm didn't work this time."

"What lucky charm?" I cross my arms, defensive, while also certain what, or rather who, he means.

"The one you're fucking."

"What the fuck?" I take a few steps toward him before Kip and Dalton are in front of me. Not holding me back but blocking any further approach. "What the fuck did you say?"

"I said that piece you're fucking didn't bring you luck after all."

"That's it." I call out, jabbing a finger at my short stop. "You're suspended." He's already endured a suspension for his actions toward Ford earlier this season, but his current comments are insolence against a superior. His fucking coach.

"For what?" Valdez questions, facing off with me, meeting my glare between the shoulders of Dalton and Kip .

"For being a dick." It's the most unprofessional thing I've said as a coach, but I can't help myself. I know who he's insulting, and I don't like what he's saying.

I am not fucking Vee for some superstitious reason.

"You've crossed the line this time," someone states, and Valdez turns his head in the direction of Bolan Adler.

"Fuck you, and your fake wife."

A shift occurs again. Men rustling to catch Adler before he gets to Valdez. Valdez getting pinned back by others.

And just as this happens, photos are snapped, capturing the chaos in the Anchor locker room.

And within hours, headlines read:

Chicago Anchors. A sinking ship.

Rumors of inappropriate behavior and nefarious superstitions .

+ + +

After a lengthy call with the front office, and a detailed discussion with the general manager of the Anchors, Romero Valdez is put on a second suspension for his insubordination. He's also put on the books for a trade when the mid-season gap opens. He doesn't represent the ideals we hold for this Chicago team, and his previous behavior toward Ford, documented complaints from Bolan, and now this verbal altercation with me witnessed by the team are grounds for termination of his contract.

I'm relieved but saddened. I failed him as a coach and failed my team as their leader.

Their top dog. Their alpha male.

When I finally call Vee, it's after midnight. "I think you should go home."

With the headline what it is, I don't want Vee's name to suddenly be linked with the suspicion of "a superstition whisperer" as the news reports have coined her. Ironic, as she called herself the same thing a time or two. I don't believe for a second Vee sold her own story to some tabloid. Even if she loves a good story, she's into the fictional kind, not the sensational ones. And I want to protect her.

"You don't want me here for you?" Her voice is quiet and small when she questions me. I hear her hurt and know that it's because she feels I'm pushing her away when I'm trying to protect her.

Her life will implode if the media gets ahold of her. Glorify her or rip her apart, the media is a double-edged sword, and I don't want that kind of press for Vee. Plus, I'm reminded from our lunch, she is a success in her own right. She has a following and fans, and what would this kind of press do to her? Her career? Her success? Her personally.

Selfishly, I want her here, but I don't want her dragged through even more muck, spouted by Valdez, because he's a vengeful dick. As I'm convinced Vee would never use me, or us, to elevate herself, I'm still curious how Valdez knew about Vee as only a select few know our truth.

Whipping off my ball cap, I scratch my head. I've been wearing the cap almost all day. I'm still partially in my uniform. I need a shower. I'm exhausted, and I just want to hold Vee. But I can't.

"I just think it's best if you go home. Lay low."

"I didn't know I was lying high." Her snarky reply stings as I pace in my hotel room like a caged animal.

I pause, glancing toward the window and walking toward it. The drapes are still open. The city lights glow in the distance. I press my head against the cool glass as if I can see Vee across the vast space.

"Our secret is about to be revealed, Vee." My voice is low and rough. "I don't want the shit that can come with a media surge flung at you."

The phone is quiet a second, and I close my eyes, trying to envision Vee. Maybe she's sitting on the edge of her hotel bed, in the same spot I took her last night. Vee and I have had sex in a lot of locations and positions, but it hits me that we haven't actually made love. Slow and controlled. Taking our time.

I need more time .

And everything feels like it's spinning out of control. This feeling I had entering Philly. Almost like a premonition that returning here, something bad would happen.

"I see." Vee says eventually, but her tone suggests otherwise. She sounds subdued, almost resigned. Not understanding I don't have a choice but to send her home.

"Look, it's been a rough day. Let me help you book a ticket."

"I can book my own ticket, Ross. Thanks." Her tone shifts, sharp and tight.

A heavy pause fills the phone again before she says, "Good luck to the Anchors, Coach."

She hangs up as I'm trying to say, "Please, don't be like that."

I hate that Vee's reaction is eerily similar to Patty before she passed. Bitter. Angry. Hurt.

A wave of nausea churns through my stomach as I glance down at the now quiet phone in my hand. Vee is gone. I'd pushed her away. Perhaps I've pushed her too far.

Fear and guilt collide. Panic settles in next. What if I don't ever see Vee again?

That night, I toss and turn. I don't hear from Vee despite calling again and again, leaving messages, then sending texts. I don't know if she got a plane ticket and went home immediately or if she leaves tomorrow. I don't know where she is or how she's doing with all this.

She sounded so sad, and it kills me that I'm responsible for the pain in her voice. She doesn't understand how much she means to me.

I love her.

Of course, I want her here with me, but it's best for her.

I hardly sleep, worried I might never get to hold Vee again. The restlessness of being in Philadelphia is back in triple force. I wake groggy, feeling like I'm hungover even though I didn't touch a drop of alcohol. Dread is like a thick slug inside me.

In the morning, I finally answer a call from my sister .

"Are you okay? How is Vee?" I imagine my sister and my girl are instant best friends, and it warms my insides that Rena is concerned for Vee. Unfortunately, I don't have more descriptors for Vee.

"She's angry." I sigh, drained and the day has hardly begun. I'm angry, too, underneath my exhaustion. Angry at Valdez. Angry at who ever talked. Angry that I might have lost the only woman I've loved in ten years.

"With the press?" Concern fills Rena's voice.

"With me." I hang my head, cupping my nape as I sit on a corner of the mattress, toes digging into the lush carpeting. God, I wish Vee was here. I wish she would answer her phone.

Rena gasps. "Ross, what did you do?"

"I sent her home. To protect her."

Rena is quiet a minute. The silence is almost deafening. "Ross. I love you, but I don't think Vee needs protection. She needs a man who will stand beside her. Stand up for her."

"How the hell do you think I got into this mess?" I snap, my head lifting as well as I glare at myself in the mirror across the room. I look like I feel. Wrecked. "Fucking Valdez was spewing shit, and I went after him, defending Vee."

The headline and photograph come back to me. The one where I'm being held back by my assistant coaches and Bolan is being held back by others. Valdez has a shit-eating grin on his face while another player has a hand on his chest.

"Did you tell her that?" Rena asks.

"I—" I didn't. I should have started with that. Instead, I started by suggesting she leave.

"Fuck, Rena." I sigh and hang my head again.

"Don't dump your happy chance in the river, Ross."

I know that , I want to snap. Instead, my irritation shows when I say, "Which river?" Certain she means the Delaware River.

"Any of them. Rivers only flow in one direction. Away."

Fuck . I pick up my cap on the bed beside me and chuck it across the room. My sister is right, and I messed up. I want to hop on the next plane and chase Vee. Tell her how I screwed up, apologize properly, and finally tell her I love her.

Of course, I want her with me. Always.

But for now, my stomach curls again. My gut is sick because I don't have a choice here. I have to choose baseball over Vee because I have games to coach. Hell, I even have another away series after we leave Philadelphia. I can't just leave and go after the one thing more important to me than anything else.

Baseball always wins out, but how many more times will I lose my heart?