5. Trick

"Ladies and Gentlemen, your world champions!"

Even though they booed us every time we took the lead throughout this series, the home team's fans who have stayed to watch the trophy presentation cheer for us.

I straighten out the t-shirt that one of our equipment people shoved at me. Some guys pull them on over their uniform, but they asked me to take my jersey off, so all my sweat is soaking into this shirt.

Can't wait to get it soaked with champagne instead.

"And now for the presentation of the MVP trophy. He has hit a home run in every game of this series. He's played in three World Series, and tonight, he rounded the bases to finally bring the President's Trophy home for the first time. Trick Lowry, you are this series' most valuable player."

I'm not a humble man. I knew if I stepped up and led my team tonight, I'd be the obvious choice for this.

Does that mean I know what to say when the microphone is shoved in my face? Not a fucking chance. I scan the stands in faint hope, but Sinclaire isn't here.

When she was watching our games at the start of the season, it was some kind of fresh hell. I felt like my skin was being peeled from my body being that close to her and not being able to touch her.

But her absence is ten times worse. It drove me through the season, to this moment, and on the other side of tonight, I'll be free to hunt her down and make her mine if she's willing.

And if she's not, I'm taking vows and becoming a priest.

"We couldn't have gotten here without the support of our fans," I manage to get out. "Our friends and our family, who sacrifice so much. And my teammates…" I glance back at them. "We did it together."

They all cheer, and the crowd joins them with a roar.

"One more time, your world champions!"

We're directed into a big team photo, and then someone catches me by the elbow and there's a camera in my face. "How does this moment feel?"

"It's special." Between the one hundred and sixty-two regular season games and the playoffs, we've played more than two hundred games this year.

It is special. But it's also been an exhausting grind, and now I'm feeling that, as much as it is wrapped up in an unbelievable joy.

Even as I give more interviews and accept congratulations, I'm watching the team staff coming and going from the dugout. I know the routine from pennant wins, but this is still fucking surreal and overwhelming.

Even though I did all the work to visualize exactly what I managed to do, I never actually thought it would happen. I'd made my peace with the fact I was going to retire this fall.

I've felt an itch all season, like it's time—time for what, I'm not sure. But time for a change, time for my body to rest. Time to start living for something other than baseball, because as long as I played, I couldn't. That's not how I'm built. Baseball is all consuming.

And it takes a lot for me to keep my head in the game.

I'm not a people person. I'm a growly, grunting bad interview, and for most of my career, I've been given a wide berth.

Not tonight.

So I do what I need to do, and keep myself in the moment of joy with my teammates.

When I'm finally herded down the steps and into the concrete tunnel that leads to the visitors' clubhouse, the tightness in my chest eases. I love this part the most. The boisterous roughhousing, the shared experience—it's different than strangers shoving cameras in my face. This is the good kind of chaos that has driven me for years.

And it's the last time I'll ever experience it like this.

At each bend in the tunnel, there's an elderly security guard keeping careful watch—on us, or for us, I'm never sure.

It's a decent walk to where visitors prep and dress for the game in this stadium, and tonight the tunnel and staircases are littered with accredited media and other people with access passes.

There's a lot of high-fives and grinning faces, all a blur, until the final turn. There, tucked into a dark alcove where some equipment is piled, is a small woman wearing a pink baseball hat pulled low over her face, a matching tank top stretched tight over round, perfect breasts, and a short jean skirt that cups her hips and shows off far too fucking much of her legs before they disappear into familiar, scuffed-up cowboy boots I'd like to see kicked over my shoulders.

At first I think I've conjured her straight from my imagination.

The noise in the hallway fades into the distance as Sinclaire lifts her head, the brim of her hat revealing her face for a fleeting second. And it's really her.

My perfect Sin.

She's here.

Between us, the team starts to shove each other. Someone shouts something about champagne. I stop in my tracks, and her eyes go wide.

"Hey," I say to nobody in particular, but also everyone. They're going to surge into her if they aren't careful. "Hey!"

I shove my way forward, getting to her just as a bottle of champagne sails through the air toward us.

I snap my hand up, catching it just a few inches above her head.

Everyone turns and looks at us. At me, I guess, since she's slipped deeper into the shadows of the alcove behind me.

I plant one big hand on the cork and the other at the base of the bottle, and twist, releasing the pressure in the bottle with a nice pop. Then I raise the bottle in the air. "We fucking did it," I growl, and the whole team roars.

That's all I'll say. It's all they expect of me.

I tip some of the champagne into my mouth, then pass the bottle on.

The team surges ahead once again, spilling into the clubhouse, where they'll shove champagne bottles into every pocket they have, armed for a free-for-all once Rosehill says a few congratulatory words.

Me, though… I turn around, putting my back to the clubhouse entrance and giving my full attention to the grown-up little girl retreating into the shadows.

My big body completely blocks where Sin is hiding in the dim recesses, and she gives me a little, nervous wave that undoes all of my horny fantasizing.

I'm a forty-two-year-old man whose career just ended.

I'm not the guy for her.

She bites her bottom lip for a second, then exhales. "Hi. Good catch with the champagne."

"You gotta be careful with these guys." My voice sounds thick. I mean myself. She needs to be careful with me.

I got myself off twice this morning looking at blurry reflections of fingers.

Alone with the most off-limits woman in my life? I could do much, much worse.

"Don't worry, I'm not sticking around." She sucks in a quick breath. "That was a beautiful hit, by the way. You waited for the right pitch. Your instincts are perfect."

"Not really," I grind out. When it comes to her, my instincts are one hundred percent wrong. "Now get going, birthday girl."

She steps closer and lifts her chin. "You know it's my birthday?"

I swallow hard. "Of course. You're twenty-five today." I go for a smirk, although I don't know if I achieve it. "Do anything special?"

As far as jokes go, it's not great, but I expect a laugh.

Instead, her gaze shifts, turns…something. Something I can't read, something that's in conflict with everything I know about this girl. Woman.

Leave her alone.

But I can't.

Because I can't resist her when we're this close in proximity, and I want to see more of her face in this blink-and-miss-it moment, I tug her hat off her head. Her eyes widen in surprise as her blonde hair spills loose around her shoulder.

I hand her the hat, my heart pounding in my chest. "Thought you were leaving, little one."

"I want a present first."

Anything.

But fuck, no, I can't say that, because in my darkest fantasies, she asks for a kiss next, and I can't give her that.

So I don't say anything, and she pushes on. It's not a kiss that she asks for, to my shameful disappointment.

"I will just as soon as you take credit for winning the World Series," she shoots back.

My eyebrows storm up.

She gives me a look so intensely serious it feels like she's reached up, wrapped her hand around my windpipe, and squeezed. "I watched history happen, Patrick. You were incredible."

Patrick.

"I did my part," I say gruffly.

"Repeat after me," she says slowly, her eyes glittering. "I have perfect instincts."

I laugh and jerk my head back. "Go back to the hotel, Sinclaire. Before things get messy in there."

She shoves her hat back on her head, then pushes at my chest, which doesn't move me at all. "Argh, you're so frustrating, Trick."

I catch her hands and pry them off my body, every nerve firing under my skin, howling in protest at the loss of her touch. Her wrists feel so fucking good manacled in my fingers. "That makes two of us."

"How am I frustrating?" The words slide out of her on a breathy little whisper, and they're followed by a thud, because I've backed her up against the concrete block wall.

Now we're protected from the crowd.

But who's going to protect Sin from me?