14. Pink

Pink

“ D ude, are you sure? This place is kind of a shithole.” I nodded my head toward the abandoned swimming pool covered in brown gunk. “Literally. That pool is covered in shit.”

Matty prodded the corner of a raised garden bed with his sneaker. The wood splintered in two. “You have to look at the bigger picture.”

I didn’t know what picture he was looking at. His Ray-Bans must have come equipped with some sort of X-ray vision because all I could see was a shit-stained, banana-colored money pit.

“I don’t know,” Soren said, shaking his head. “I might be with the kid on this one.”

Unbeknownst to the rest of us, Matty had been scoping out local property for months—something that he could fix up and potentially flip depending on how long the Roasters kept him around. Unlike me, he was only locked in for a two-year contract. His position on the team would be renegotiated after that. It was one of the many drawbacks of being a professional athlete. Most players’ permanent addresses changed as often as their socks.

But Matty had at least two years in Rose City, and during that time, he was determined to plant some roots. I just wished he hadn’t settled on a place that already had roots protruding out of the ground and into the foundation.

Wait a minute. That’s not the foundation. That’s —

“Dude, there’s a tree going through the house.”

“Yeah, the owner mentioned that,” Matty said.

He ran a hand through his strawberry-blond curls. His hair had made somewhat of a splash online. A group of overzealous fans had even dubbed themselves the “Curl Girls.”

“But maybe I can incorporate that into the house somehow.”

“Or maybe,” I suggested. “You could do the town council a favor and bulldoze the whole thing to the ground.”

As the two homeowners on the team, Matty had invited Soren and me to tour the old farmhouse before he bought it. Set about fifteen minutes outside of downtown Rose City and twenty minutes from the stadium, it was clear what had attracted him to the property.

Matty was a farm boy from rural Alabama. He wasn’t made for high-rises or city living. The house—which from now on would be referred to as the Bruised Banana—came with ten acres of land, two barn structures that were in worse shape than the house, and a pond that was home to ten different bird breeds.

It was a Southern boy’s dream, so long as you looked beyond the questionable sludge and debris.

Matty’s whistle tore through the air.

Seconds later, Matty’s basset hound puppy, Mo, came tearing out of a bush. I couldn’t help but laugh as she raced across the yard, ears flopping in the wind, and straight into Matty’s arms.

He rolled the dog over onto her back, cradling her like a baby. “See, Mo likes it.”

“Mo likes shoes and purses, too,” Soren deadpanned.

“She has expensive taste.”

Matty had learned very quickly into his relationship with Mo that she was a territorial bitch. She did not like other women in his life, and that included his now ex-girlfriend. After spending the night together, she and Matty had woken up to find what was left of her Gucci purse and heels in tatters on the living room floor.

She’d given him an ultimatum: her or the dog. She now lived in Denver. Mo, on the other hand, shared a California king with Matty.

“Just picture it.” Matty walked us out of the yard and into the house. “We gut the kitchen and tear down the wall between the dining and living room. This wall comes down, too.” He knocked on the flimsy drywall separating the downstairs bedroom. “That becomes part of the fully open concept downstairs. Almost like a loft space. The upstairs becomes my bedroom, and we put two more in the basement, along with a second bathroom.”

“That all sounds great,” Soren said. “But who’s this we you keep mentioning?”

Matty smiled. “So, here’s the thing—”

“No.”

Soren and I spoke in unison.

“C’mon, it’ll be fun.” Matty and I had two very different ideas of fun. “Plus, you just wrapped up a renovation of your own,” he added, gesturing toward Soren. “And you ,” he said, pointing at me. “You spend every free Saturday at Lowe’s. Plus, it wouldn’t just be us. My oldest brother and his wife are both contractors. They’re going to spend November and December helping me reframe everything.

Soren smacked Matty’s back, hard enough to jolt the sleeping dog in his arms. “Sounds like you have your bases covered then.”

“What else do you have planned for the offseason, cap? Sleeping in every morning? Spending your nights watching RuPaul’s Drag Race on the couch with Clarke?”

Soren’s eyes lit up at the mere mention of his girlfriend. “Sounds good to me.”

“You’ll get bored.”

“You underestimate just how much I enjoy my girlfriend’s thighs wrapped around my head.”

“Jesus.” Matty coughed, sending me into another fit of laughter. “What about you?” he demanded when I finally caught my breath.

“What about me?”

“Do you and Nessa have holiday plans?”

I quickly referred to the fifth rule on Nessa’s list—the one that I had printed and folded up for safekeeping in my wallet.

“Nothing set in stone yet.”

We had agreed to keep things as vague and open-ended as possible when addressing any future matters. That way, when we inevitably “broke up,” we wouldn’t have to cancel any previously made plans. Little did she know I had no ambitions of breaking up with her. Quite the opposite in fact.

Matty set the dog back on her feet. We followed her toward the front where our cars were parked. “Look, I know it’s a mess and that I might only be around for a couple of years—”

“Hey,” Soren interjected, cutting him off. “I don’t want to hear that.”

Matty shrugged. “It’s true. You’re locked in for five years, and let’s face it, you’ll probably retire after that.”

“Not likely,” Soren muttered under his breath. If the old man had it his way, his rotting corpse would still be playing third base, long after he was dead and gone.

“Pink’s contracted for eight.” He cocked his hip and leaned into the side of his pickup. “All I’m sayin’ is none of us know how long we’ve got. I need . . . something else.”

Soren’s eyes met mine. The guy had over a decade on me, but this was one of those moments where we both understood where Matty was coming from.

Even the best players’ time in the game was limited. Most guys never got the opportunity to see the major league for a multitude of reasons. Some of them, like Soren, spent the first part of their careers bouncing from one minor league team to the next. Matty was a different case entirely. He’d suffered what could have very easily been a career-ending shoulder injury in his second season with Philadelphia. He’d spent the next two years rehabbing his arm and learning to throw a ball again, this time with his left hand.

There was no certainty in the game of baseball.

“I’m not handling any electrics,” I told him. “I refuse to get electrocuted.”

Matty’s lips curved up.

“And I refuse to touch anything that may or may not be shit,” Soren added.

“Speaking of . . .”

I trailed off, nodding my head across the front yard. Both of my teammates followed my line of vision toward an abandoned chicken coop, just as Mo crawled out from beyond the chicken wire.

Covered in shit.

Later that afternoon, after my weekly hardware store visit, I decided to make a short detour to the antique mall one town over. There were a couple of vintage garden trellises I’d had my eyes on for a while now. Plus, maybe I could find something for Matty’s new (old) place.

Ideally, something rusted and crusted in tetanus to go with the Bruised Banana’s overall aesthetic.

I was still about five minutes out from my freeway exit when my sister called. “Hello, dearest sister.”

“Hello, dearest brother. Got a minute?”

“For you? I’ve got five.”

Her exasperated sigh through the car’s Bluetooth speakers made my stomach churn. The loud sniffle that followed nearly had me turning the car around. I could be at the airport in an hour if needed.

“What is it, Belles? Are you okay?”

“Don’t hate me.”

“Never.”

She sniffled again. “I failed my British Literature exam.”

I veered off the freeway while I fumbled for a response.

“Jare-bear?”

“I’m here, Belles. Since when are you taking literature classes?” Last time I’d checked, Bella was double majoring in business administration and environmental science.

“My advisor recommended it. She said it would be an easy elective.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I told her.

“I’m sorry.”

Her sob-ridden apology irked me. When had I given her the impression that I gave a shit about her grades or some stupid class that she didn’t even need to take? Sure, I wanted her to finish her degree, but there had never been any conditions related to her education. She could spend the next ten years studying ceramics for all I cared, so long as it made her happy.

“You have nothing to apologize for, Belles.” I turned into the antique mall’s parking lot and threw the car into park. “Have you spoken with your professor about accommodations? Maybe you can redo the assignment.”

“He’s not—” The trepidation in her voice gave me pause. I had a bad feeling that I wasn’t going to like whatever she said next. “He doesn’t think I deserve accommodations.”

“Excuse me?”

She sighed. “According to him, accommodations are for students with ‘real disabilities.’”

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

My knuckles tightened around the steering wheel until they turned white. I breathed in through my nose and out through my mouth, exhaling the fury clouding my vision. Someone at that university was going to wake up to one hell of a strongly worded voicemail tomorrow morning. It wouldn’t be the first time either.

Per the university’s accessibility services, Bella was supposed to receive specific accommodations for her disability. She had learned to advocate for herself from an early age, especially when our dad wouldn’t and our mom couldn’t. Unfortunately, even in the year of Beyoncé’s internet, some fuckers still didn’t understand that some disabilities—like Bella’s—were invisible.

“I’ll call them,” I pushed out through gritted teeth.

“Please don’t, Jare-bear.”

“Belles—”

“Seriously, please don’t. It’ll only make things worse. Tomorrow’s the last day to add or drop a class, so I just need to figure something out.”

“Give me two hours,” I told her. “I’m out right now, but I’ll call you back when I get home, and we’ll figure out what class you can take instead.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Stop.” I flexed my fingers and blew out another breath. “Go take a break, finish whatever Animal Planet documentary you’re already in the middle of, and look for my call later tonight. Okay?”

“ The Real Housewives of Salt Lake City. ”

“Huh?”

“That’s what I’m watching. My lab partner got me hooked and now I can’t look away. It’s more gruesome than any grizzly attack I’ve ever seen.”

I smiled to myself as she told me about her latest binge watch, and I drafted an R-rated email to her advisor. Before we said our goodbyes, I hit her with the one question that had been plaguing me since I’d picked up the phone.

“Hey, Belles. Why did you think I’d be upset that you failed a test?”

It took her a few seconds to answer—more than a few. If it wasn’t for the call time still ticking on my phone, I might have thought she hung up.

“Because of Dad.”

Those three little words gutted me raw. Suddenly, I was thirteen again, blasting Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” to drown out my mom’s cries while my dad wailed at her about spending too much of his money to spoil his children. Our dad had demanded perfection, not excellence. Anything less from his wife, kids, or household staff would not be tolerated.

The fact that my sister saw anything of that bastard in me was like a fastball straight to the chest.

“Belles, you don’t have to think about that asshole ever again. Do you hear me? I’m not him.”

I will not be him.

“You’re right. I’m sorry.”

We ended the call after that, and I went inside to find those trellises. Not that I was in the mood to shop anymore—nothing soured my mood quite like being compared to my father—but I had already made the drive. Maybe some retail therapy would do me well.

By the time I reached the second row, my heart rate had returned to normal. I was just about to round the corner when I saw it. Not the trellises, but a teapot. One shaped like a country cottage with a spout where the chimney would go. Rather than overthink it, I snapped a picture, typed out the number I had memorized weeks ago, and pressed send. Surprisingly, she replied almost immediately.

Nessa

Doesn’t really seem like your style.

Pink

I meant for your collection.

She typed out a response, only to delete it. Those three little dots had me clutching my phone tighter than a four-seam fastball.

Nessa

You remember that?

Pink

Oh, angel. You should know by now . . .

Nessa

???

Pink

When it comes to you, I make it a point to remember everything.

Nessa

That’s a little bit creepy.

Pink

I’m getting it for you.

I could practically hear her frustrated sigh through the phone. That didn’t stop me from putting the teapot in my shopping cart.

Nessa

When were you going to tell me about the benefit next month?

Oh, shit. That had completely slipped my mind. I was all for charitable causes—ten percent of my signing bonus had gone to charity organizations—but typically, I drew the line at putting on a suit and tie.

Pink

Can I call you?

Nessa

Why?

Pink

Do you have to make everything so difficult?

Nessa

For you? Yes.

Her gorgeous face lit up my screen before I had a chance to text her back. Dani might have given me Nessa’s number, but she hadn’t snapped a picture of Nessa at Soren and Clarke’s housewarming party. One where she was mid-laugh and if I squinted hard enough, I could just make out the smudge of mustard in the corner of her lips.

I hadn’t been able to resist.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” she answered. “Where are you?”

“Antiquing.”

“ You’re antiquing?”

“Yes. Why is that so surprising?”

My eyes landed on the two electric-blue trellises I’d made the trek for. They would fit perfectly in the new beds I had just bought the supplies to build, although the construction would most likely have to wait until my next off day. My sister’s mental health took precedence over a few planter boxes.

“It’s not, now that I think about,” she said. “Surprises seem to be your default. I feel like I learn something new about you every time we talk or I talk to somebody about you.”

That last bit brought a smile to my lips. I probably looked like an idiot, grinning madly while I pushed a cart up and down the aisles of the Mayfield Antique Mall.

“Oh, so you’ve been talking about me.”

“That’s not what I— You know I don’t mean like that .”

“Like what?” I pressed.

“You— You’re infuriating.”

“So you keep telling me.” I tucked the phone against my ear to pick up a tin rooster. Matty was going to hate that; it was perfect.

“Don’t change the subject,” she scolded. Damn, I loved it when she used her stern teacher voice. She could teach me a thing or two any day of the week. Or maybe bend me over and spank—

“Let’s discuss the benefit thing.”

My jaw tensed. On the one hand, I would love nothing more than to spend the evening with Nessa in my arms, especially if it meant seeing her in some incredible, hip-hugging gown. On the other hand, I hated these kinds of functions. It wasn’t just the dress code that bothered me, but rather the overall spectacle of the event. Wouldn’t it make a lot more sense to just donate the money spent on organizing a charity gala to the charity organization itself?

“I don’t know,” I told her.

“What don’t you know?” she demanded. “Ryan’s law firm is sponsoring the event. He and Kaylani will be there, along with all your teammates. How’s it going to look if we don’t go?”

She had a point. As much as I wanted to make up some last-minute excuse and spend the night on my sofa binge-watching reruns of True Blood , it made sense for us to be there.

“Fine.”

“Great. I guess I can tell Kaylani that I’m free to go dress shopping this weekend then, and—”

“I have one condition, though.”

Her hesitation made me smile. “What?”

“Let me take you on a date.”

“The benefit is a date.”

“No, I mean a real date.” The benefit was a show, and like all great actors before us, we needed to rehearse. “Let me show you I’m more than just a star player and stunning personality.”

“And big dick?”

“Good to know where your head’s at, angel.” When she hesitated, I added, “Besides, everyone you and I both know will be there, and they will notice if you flinch when I hold your hand or hand you the wrong drink.”

Not that her drink order would ever be an issue. She liked a cabernet during the work week—usually just one, but her limit was two—a Long Island iced tea when she went out with her friends, and a watermelon margarita on the Fourth of July—on the rocks, not blended.

“Okay.”

“Okay as in—”

“As in you’re right. We should probably do a trial run or two before the benefit. Otherwise, things will look suspicious.”

“How did those words taste coming out of your mouth?” Nessa hated being wrong more than I enjoyed being right.

“Bitter,” she grumbled. “Like homebrewed coffee.”

“Don’t worry, angel. You just haven’t tried my coffee yet.”

“And I never will.”

We’d see about that.