Chapter 6

[Ross]

What are the odds?

I hadn't forgotten Verona Huxley, or that night we spent together. For months, memories of her plagued me, haunting my thoughts and filling my dreams with things that seemed too ridiculous to imagine.

And there she was, sitting in the stands in our spring training stadium, some two-thousand miles from home.

Then again, the odds are one in fifteen thousand which is the number of people this stadium can hold, and it isn't uncommon for fans to vacation in our springtime destination to escape the lingering cold in Chicago and in anticipation for another season of baseball.

Vee is clearly an avid fan of the team.

Wonder how many margaritas she enjoyed today?

The thought makes me chuckle.

"What the hell was that?" Kip Garcia asks. My pitching coach stares at me, a puzzled expression on his face.

Over the years, Kip and I met many times on the field. As rival pitchers, he was my nemesis before he became a friend. He left the ball field for the sidelines long before I did, and he's become a mentor of sorts. He's one reason I have my new position as manager of the Chicago Anchors. He put the bug in the front office's ear to hire me and I'm forever grateful to him.

And because of him and the opportunity the Anchors have given me, I don't want to disappoint him. Our three-game losing streak against Colorado, followed by a losing streak against Cleveland until today, has been embarrassing. I typically don't get rattled by these things. Losses suck but this is spring training. We have an entire season before us. The team in March will not be the same team in October. Still, I need to iron out some kinks now, especially issues between Sylver and Valdez.

"What the hell was what?" I scoff.

"That noise." Kip wrinkles his nose while he watches me .

"What noise?"

"That little puff of air. Was that . . ." He pauses for dramatic effect and scrunches his nose again. ". . . a laugh?" He chuckles himself.

"I laugh," I counter.

"Not often." His brows lift while he observes me.

"There isn't time for laughter in baseball."

"The saying is about crying, and I've seen plenty of tears from you on the mound over the years," he jests.

"You're full of shit." I am not a crying man.

"Better than being full of myself."

The knock takes me down a peg. I never want to come across as arrogant or cocky. Baseball is a team sport, and my position here is a fresh start. I'm home on a ball field. But I'll be missing my boys.

Harley is a freshman at DePaul. Landon is a junior at Purdue.

"We won," I remind Kip, but we have a long way to go with only one win under our belt.

Kip gives me a knowing gaze before tipping up his chin. "What was that with me playing messenger? You know we have people for that shit." His eyes narrow, assuming I passed my phone number to a woman in the stands.

Only I didn't. I should have but that isn't who Vee and me are. We didn't exchange numbers. We didn't mention where we lived. We only briefly brushed on what we did.

She is a romance author, but I didn't find any books with her name on them on bookstore shelves. Heck, I don't typically enter bookstores, but I'd been drawn to one in my new neighborhood once I was hired by the Anchors. When I asked the clerk about Verona Huxley, she couldn't find the name in their database, and I accepted Verona might have been a fake name given to me by the stranger whose room I'd entered and then crashed in her bed.

"What did she say?" I try to school my voice, attempting not to sound too eager to know if Vee remembers our night together.

"She said, and I quote. . ." He pauses while I wait with bated breath. "Thank you. "

"That's it."

"She also said good game." His monotone voice has me arching a brow, teetering with anticipation for more.

"She also mentioned how I shouldn't ever have to deliver a message like a schoolboy passing notes again. And she thought I was hot."

I snort. "Okay. Now you're just being a dick."

Kip chuckles. "Seriously, who is she?"

I shake my head. How could I explain Vee?

"Are you fucking blushing?"

"What? No." However, I slap my hands to my cheeks, feeling a twinge of heat.

"What you are is gullible." Kip laughs harder, picking up his iPad and tapping his finger against it. "And we have tape to watch."

He's right. I need to get my head in the game. We finally have a win and I have work to do.

+ + +

We're about to lose the final game of a three-game series with Arizona.

"What the hell is going on out there?" Kip mutters, staring out at the nine players on the field. Each talented. Each experienced. Somehow out of sync with one another, though.

Ford Sylver is captain of these guys and he's been off since I met him last fall. A certain pressure comes with years in the league, especially for married guys. Couple that with being a single dad with little kids, and the toll is showing on Ford, especially since his ex is dating a fellow team member.

I'm not at liberty to share my true opinion of our shortstop.

I don't know each of the guys on the team well yet, but one of the things I pride myself on is being a mentor for my men. The father they didn't have or the substitute many of them need. A person to remind them to keep their dicks covered and their heads clear.

The three Ds: Devotion. Drive. Determination .

However, I seem to lack those things myself today. We are about to lose another series, and I'm stumped.

And not for the first time this game, I tip my head out of the dugout in hopes to find a certain someone sitting in the eighth row. Or anywhere else in this stadium.

"Who are you looking for?" Kip mutters out the side of his mouth.

Snapping my attention back to the game, I stare out at the field. The pitcher for Arizona is a beast, and if Gee Scott doesn't fix his swing, he's going to strike out. Game over.

When that moment happens, the team hangs their heads while Gee returns to the dugout, swearing under his breath. Only the clatter of cleats fills the dugout as the guys disappear into the locker room.

I take a step up to the field, taking one more survey around the stadium. Unfortunately, I'm not sly or stealthy like I think, and Kip catches me.

"We need to talk."

Fuck .

+ + +

"And you think she's the answer?" Kip stares at me. His questioning eyes caught between you're fucking kidding and you're kidding, right? A joke or an inquisition.

I swipe my ball cap off my head and scratch my scalp. Replacing the hat, I stare back at Kip standing on the other side of the desk in my office.

"I don't know." I've just explained how I met Verona Huxley. And my thoughts about the connectedness between us. "But think about it. I get the call from Chicago, the same day I get let go from the Flash, and both things happened the day after I slept with her."

"Coincidence," Kip groans.

Happy chance, perhaps ?

"Then she shows up earlier this week and we win our first game." My voice rises, cracking on the absurdity, but the possibility cannot be denied. "She's my lucky charm."

"You don't know anything about her." Kip watches me.

He's right. I only know her name, or what I assume is her name, and what she does for a living, if writing books is even true. Either way, I can't ignore that her presence changes things for me.

The job. The win.

"You're taking baseball superstitions to a whole new level," Kip chides, crossing his arms. "You don't know how to find her. If she's even still in Arizona. If she's actually from Chicago." His voice rises in frustration with every if .

He's right again, but I refuse to believe Verona lied to me. Maybe the name is a pseudonym. Maybe her presence in Arizona is a fluke. Maybe I'm just nuts.

"It's worth a shot." I shrug. "If you don't swing . . ."

Kip is already shaking his head while completing the statement. "You'll miss one hundred percent of the time." He continues watching me, assessing me. "What are you thinking?" His voice lowers, leery with uncertainty.

"I have an idea."