Chapter 5

March

Spring Training

[Vee]

"There he is, Vee-Vee," my best friend teases as she sits beside me in the stadium seats.

Shortly after my night with Ross Davis, sports media announced that he had been released from the Flash and picked up by the Chicago Anchors to manage the team. When I heard the news, pride swelled within me. Ross had accomplished what he wanted. He returned to Chicago to manage a team with deep history and passionate followers. He wore red and royal blue once more.

Presently, I'm attending a spring training game in Arizona where the Anchors practice pre-season. The field is full size, but the stadium is closer to the size of an exhibition team setting, with limited rows of seats from left field to right. A grassy berm, appropriately named lawn seats, lines the edge of the outfield. Fans out there bring their own blankets and sit where they can find space. The overall atmosphere in this springtime setting is less chaotic than the grandeur of the home field. This place is more old-school, almost small-town, and all-around full of excitement for another year of baseball.

Maybe this will be our year.

My two daughters, Laurel and Hannah, are on their spring breaks, and we've traveled here with my bestie, Cassandra Culpére. Cassandra is the sister I never had, and my girls lovingly call her Aunt Sassy, which she requested when they were younger. At twenty-three and twenty respectively, my daughters maintain the tradition, while I call Cassandra Cee-Cee complementing her nickname for me, Vee-Vee. Besides, Cassandra does not like her name. She says it sounds too aristocratic and uppity. I've argued it's beautiful and classic, like a historical romance heroine .

"Okay, Cee-Cee, chill." I pat her forearm patronizingly as she sits with her feet up on the back of the seat in front of her while her body slouches down in her own chair. Months ago, I'd made the mistake of telling Cassandra about my night with Ross. Not all the details but the basics.

The elevator stop. The drink in my room. The fact he slept in my bed.

Just slept.

"But he's right there." She waves exaggeratedly toward the dugout and the back of Ross Davis, who fills out baseball pants like no man I've ever seen. The tight curve of his backside and the outline of his thick thighs makes my lower belly flutter. With seats only eight rows from the dugout and no one else immediately present, we have an unobstructed view of the man who has starred in my dreams a little too often over the past few months.

One would think with all the fantasies I've had, the spark to write would ignite, but I'm in a slump again. The current dry spell has been practically desert-like.

"Stop," I groan, cupping my hand around Cassandra's wrist and pressing it back to her lap.

Thankfully, Laurel and Hannah went to purchase snacks and the first round of drinks.

My best friend only chuckles, enjoying how she pokes at the bear— me . The grumpy cub, she calls me. I'm not grumpy. I'm stressed. I need a story. A flicker of inspiration. Just something to get the creative juices flowing again. I'm hopeful the change of scenery in Arizona will spark the flame I need.

"Hmm," Cassandra groans. "He sure is fine at forty-nine."

"He's forty- seven ," I correct, knowing a few too many numbers about him. Six-four. Two-ten. Forty-seven until June. Formerly number thirty-three for the Anchors and the number I wear on my Anchor jersey with his name.

Cassandra hums again. "A slice of heaven at forty-seven. "

The salacious wiggle of her brows causes me to giggle. When we met in college, I didn't know then how much of a ride-or-die sister from another mister Cassandra would be in my life. Watching me embrace motherhood when she didn't have kids. Holding my hand when Cameron died. Supporting my venture to write romance.

Cassandra is my biggest fan, next to my girls, who know what I do, but not exactly what I write. If they've ever read my books I don't want to know. Some things a mother never needs to learn about her daughters.

"You should go talk to him," Cassandra encourages.

"I wouldn't even know what to say." While I've thought about Ross for months, I never considered reaching out to him. We didn't leave things like that. We didn't exchange phone numbers or email addresses. Besides, he'd have people who had people who wouldn't pass on a message from some random woman with a name they wouldn't recognize.

Plus, Ross didn't want anyone to know he'd slept in my room that night. I'd only told Cassandra because I tell her everything, and three margaritas make for loose lips.

"Davis," Cassandra calls out, cupping her hands around her mouth to carry her voice.

"Cee-Cee," I groan, leaning forward and covering her mouth as best I can with her hands in the way. I feel like a teenage girl fighting her friend who is trying to cause a scene so the boy I'm crushing on will notice me. Cee-Cee is that embarrassing friend, although technically, she simply embraces life. She'd be more likely to approach Ross Davis on a whim than me.

That elevator brought us together. Nothing more.

Falling back into my seat, I'm grateful that Ross doesn't turn to the catcalling of a boisterous female in the stands. He's probably heard lots of chants over the years. Had phone numbers slipped into his hand. Had hotel keycards tucked into his pants.

Some nights, I'm still puzzled that he knocked on my hotel room door and asked to come inside.

"Looking good, Gee," Cassandra calls out next, cupping her hands around her lips once more.

My friend is in full-on courage-mode, innocently, but flirtatiously, heckling the younger set on the Anchors. She can't decide who she crushes on more: our newest recruit, Gee Scott; the team captain, Ford Sylver; or our prized hitter, Caleb Williams.

The Chicago Anchors should be good this year. They have youthful players with high talent, but they've just had a week-long losing streak. The start for the new manager and his team has been rocky.

Not to mention there was an altercation between team members roughly a week ago.

While my friend drools over the Anchors having some of the best-looking players in the league, I'm more intrigued by the coaching staff and glance back at Ross. With his legs spread wide and his ass tight, his arms are crossed over his chest, one forearm lifted so his forefinger can circle his lips. I don't need to fully see his face to know his signature move. His forefinger and thumb tracing over his moustache and around his lips is a contemplative tick while he assesses his team. The unseen action reminds me of his fingers stroking over mine the night he stayed in my room.

Finally, Chicago and their opponents from Cleveland head to their respective dugouts. Cee-Cee lifts her arms above her head to clap, then whistles her excitement with two fingers between her lips, a skill I've never mastered. The sharp trill in such close proximity is almost deafening, and the noise makes Ross's head lift as he follows after his team toward the dugout. As he glances into the stands, his feet falter.

The eighth row is low and with several empty seats around us, we're clearly visible from the field.

With her elbow leaning on the armrest between us, Cassandra wiggles her fingers in the air, waving at Ross.

Without looking at her, I grip her wrist and try to press her arm down, as if that will hide us somehow. As if Ross Davis hasn't already looked in our direction and keeps his gaze on us as he narrows his eyes and closes the distance to the dugout .

Then he disappears beneath the roof of the structure, and I exhale.

Whether it's a sigh of relief or a breath of regret is yet to be determined.

Does he not remember our night? Surely, he couldn't forget getting stuck in an elevator with a face-fanning, potty-dancing woman, or the fact he invited himself into her room to share a drink and talk romance and baseball. Then again, maybe he has forgotten.

His breakup with Chandler Bressler appeared to be an on-again off-again thing after last season's end. Last I'd read, they were on-again. And I know all-too-well how someone can forgive and forget often in a relationship.

It was only one night .

Something clearly forgettable for Ross Davis.

A month ago, I mentally scolded myself for continuing to follow Ross Davis on social media, and I unfollowed him everywhere for my own sanity. My editor would tell me I shouldn't be on social platforms anyway. I have words to write.

After the singing of the "National Anthem", my girls return to our seats. Laurel flanks Cassandra while Hannah sits beside me. My blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl is an all American beach beauty with a strong mind, sharp wit, and tough personality. She's my baseball girl, knowing more statistics than I'll ever remember about past and present teams and players. My dad loved the sport and took the girls often to the stadium back home. When he died, I'd inherited his season tickets, and I didn't have the heart to let the tradition pass as well.

Laurel helps me sell the tickets we can't use, earning back the exorbitant fee for eighty-something home games. With brown hair and brown eyes, she's the spitting image of her father with a lean build and average height. She's more of a social fan, attending games to see and be seen, talking through most of the innings and taking a gazillion pictures of herself and her friends in the stands. She adores Cee-Cee like a big sister and tries to emulate her in many ways, including commenting on the cuteness of the players .

"That Caleb Williams is a looker," Cassandra muses, chewing at her lower lip.

"He's a hooker?" Hannah questions over me.

"No one says looker, Aunt Sassy," Laurel chides.

No one says hooker anymore either , I want to chime in.

"He's still fine like a straight line," Cassandra continues.

"Are straight lines fine?" Hannah deadpans.

"Only if that straightness is his—" Laurel abruptly stops, catching her gaze on mine.

Cassandra turns her head, volleying glances from Laurel to me before bursting into laughter.

"Laurel Huxley, have you been reading your mother's books?"

My twenty-three-year-old turns bright red and shakes her head. "Absolutely not."

"Are you sure?" Cassandra scoffs playfully. "Because that comment sounded awfully close to a d—"

"Alright," I cut off Cassandra, squeezing my brows together in warning. I'm not discussing dicks around my daughters.

Cassandra only chuckles harder while Laurel appears to shrink in her seat. My girl props her feet up on the back of the seat in front of her like Cassandra and dips her hand into the popcorn container, filling her mouth to prevent further comment.

"You're such an instigator," I mutter, chastising my bestie.

"And you're a spoilsport," she counters teasingly. Cassandra accepts that while I have an open relationship with my girls, hoping they come to me for anything and everything, that doesn't mean we're going to share cock comments with one another.

"Play ball." The words ring through the stadium, drawing my attention back to the field.

Are there any better words to give me goosebumps?

In the first few innings, our pitcher is on fire and in perfect rhythm with the catcher. However, one of our long-standing stars is our centerfielder, Ford Sylver, who has made one error after another. A pop-up fly hit toward the scoreboard was missed despite his height and an impressive jump. Another time the ball dropped between him and Romero Valdez, our reckless short stop, who made a mad dash to the outfield to assist. The play looked like something from a T-ball game with both men staring at one another. Their body language suggested they were faulting the other.

I glance at Cassandra, whose brows are pinched with concern and curiosity as she stares at the field where the two players are still facing off. With her phone in her hand, she quickly looks up our center fielder.

"Did you know Romero Valdez is dating Ford Sylver's ex-wife?"

Our shortstop, his teammate, is dating his former wife?

"Also, rumor has it, Ford is dating the country music icon, Cadence."

Would not surprise me .

However, my attention snaps back toward the outfield, my eyes narrowing in sympathy. At thirty-eight, Ford Sylver has had a great career, along with a beautiful wife and three of the cutest little girls. And I'm sorry if their marriage ended because of adultery. My sympathy stands with him as I scan the stands as if I'd be able to pick out his ex or his girls in the crowd, which I wouldn't be able to do. Still, I wonder if they are here. Family men on baseball teams often bring their spouses and children with them during spring training season.

Then I consider Ross. Who is here to support him? Do his boys attend games? Does he have additional family? Is Chandler Bressler present?

If my calculations are correct, his boys should be in high school or college themselves.

Glancing over the crowd again, I search for Chandler next. Her dark hair and curvy body would make her easy to recognize. As I don't see her, my focus returns to the game. I interject my opinion on bad calls. Wave my hands in the air in frustration over an error. Jump to my feet when Gee Scott hits a homerun with a man on second for a two-run score.

The eventual win is the first W for the Anchors since spring training started, and I enthusiastically join the fans who sing our winning anthem .

The song ends, and I'm inspecting the space around us for trash, bending to pick up the short stack of beer cups collected in my cup holder, when I hear my name.

"Verona Huxley?"

Abruptly straightening, I peer around Cassandra, down our row, to a man dressed in baseball gear without a stitch of dirt on him standing in the aisle. He isn't someone I recognize and based on the wrinkles at the corner of his eyes and the silver scruff along his jaw, I'd say he isn't a player, but someone affiliated with the team.

"I'm Kip Garcia." He pats his chest as a form of introduction because of our distance.

I haven't identified myself, but he steps into the row in front of our seats, now empty of attendees, and nears me.

"Ross Davis asked me to give you this." The messenger holds out a piece of paper which Cassandra is quick to reach for, but Kip is faster to retract from her. "Said only Vee should take this."

My brows lift, shocked that Ross remembers the nickname. Surprised that he remembers me at all. Then I'm slightly embarrassed he recognized me in the stands. My face heats as I reach out for the slip of paper.

"Thank you," I mutter, taking the haphazardly folded strip that looks like it was hastily ripped out of a small notebook and bent in half.

Kip nods once then steps away.

"Good game," I call after him, talking to his back.

He casually lifts his hand, waves once over his head, and continues on his way.

"Hmm," Cassandra hums beside me. "Who is he?" Her salacious tone doesn't imply she wants his name, but him. His position, rank, and status with the team.

Ignoring Cassandra's blatant ogling, I flip open the paper between my fingers.

Happy chance?

Lifting my head, I glance toward the dugout, now empty of the team. Then, I gaze in the direction where Kip walked away .

The note includes no other words but the simplicity of two in combination makes me smile.

Ross Davis remembers me.