6. Pink

Pink

I might never wash my fingers again.

The two fingers that, not an hour ago, had been inside Nessa Gibbs’ mouth. My pitching fingers, no less.

Talk about a curveball.

When I’d offered her the fry, I hadn’t expected her to actually take it, let alone gobble it down whole with that fucking tongue of hers. The same tongue I had envisioned teasing my cock for hours on end.

“Dude, you’re drooling.”

A light shove to my shoulder had me tearing my attention away from the star of my X-rated fantasies and turning smack dab into a waft of barbecue smoke.

“Dude, you’re burning my burger,” I snapped.

Bennett looked down at the grill and frowned. “Fuck.”

“Here,” I said, snatching the stainless-steel spatula out of his hand. “Allow me.”

“Be my guest. I don’t know how I ended up manning the grill.” He popped the top off a fresh beer and stepped aside. “One minute, Soren was asking me to flip the burgers, and the next, he was disappearing into the back with Clarke to ‘grab more napkins.’”

I smirked. “I guess he needed an extra hand.”

“I bet.”

Clarke and Soren had outdone themselves, both with the house and the party, so they deserved a few minutes—or forty—to themselves. Besides, we had more than enough food and conversation (and napkins) to go around.

Our team—and that extended beyond the starting lineup, because Clarke and Soren had invited some of the coaching and office staff, too—knew how to bring the fun. Food, too, judging by the overflowing kitchen island. Between Nate’s soup dumplings, Wes’s tostones , and Tuck’s build-your-own pasta bowl, we were all going to need to double-up on cardio for the next week. Starting this afternoon with Roman and Matty’s capture the flag game, as soon as they (finally) finished deciding who was shirts and who was skins.

“I get it, though.”

“What?” I asked Bennett.

“Why you’re so into her.” He nodded his head toward Nessa. Wes had been chatting her up for nearly twenty minutes over by the creek that ran through the property. I had already decided to give him ten more minutes before I came up with some arbitrary excuse to call him over.

No swooping, asshole.

I had repeated the mantra to myself over and over for a week now. Hopefully, one of these days, it would finally sink in.

“I mean, just look at her. She’s gorgeous.”

My hand tightened around the spatula’s handle. Bennett must have sensed the tension radiating off my body because he quickly added, “Don’t worry, I know she’s yours.”

If only.

I wished she were mine. Fuck, I wished I were hers. It might be kind of nice to belong to someone for once. To have somebody claim me as theirs, not because of who my family was or how much money I had in the bank, but just for me. Jared, not the Rose City Roasters’ all-star pitcher, Jared Pink.

“But it’s more than that. She’s passionate about what she does, confident about who she is.”

He didn’t need to tell me that. I had fallen for Nessa hook, line, and sinker from the moment we’d met, leaving me floundering on the deck ever since. There was nothing sexier than self-sufficient woman who knew exactly what she wanted and wasn’t willing to accept anything less than what she deserved. Confidence was sexy. Any man who said otherwise was insecure. Full stop.

Nessa threw her head back, cackling at something Wes said. Her full, luscious body shook with laughter. Just once I wanted her to laugh like that for me, not at me.

“Don’t worry. She’s into you, too.”

I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, about as much as an STI.”

“I’m serious.”

“How could you possibly know that?”

I turned over the last burger and slammed the barbeque lid closed harder than expected. This time, when I looked back across the yard, our eyes met. Only for a second or two, but just long enough to have my pants tightening for the second time today.

“ That’s how.”

I cleared my throat. “Yeah, well, she has a funny way of showing it.”

“Or . . . ,” Dani said from behind me.

You would have thought I’d be used to her quiet footsteps by now after living with her for two months. “Stealth mode,” as I called it.

“Maybe,” she continued, “you’re just used to getting everything—and everyone—you want.” She popped another one of my homemade chips into her mouth, biting down with a loud crunch. “Those dimples might not be enough this time.”

I blinked. “That’s the meanest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Don’t try me, Pinkalicious.”

Bennett sputtered, trying to conceal his laugh behind another sip of beer. At least one of us was enjoying this conversation.

A little while later, after Clarke and Soren finally emerged from the garage, both of their clothing and hair more mussed than before, I found Nessa again.

Alone. Shoveling the last of the potatoes into her mouth.

“Huh.” She spun around, her eyes wide as saucers and mouth full of fries. “Can I get you a drink to wash down all those . . . oversalted potatoes?”

She froze mid-bite.

“Starch got your tongue?”

Her death glare could’ve melted the butter on my tray.

“Don’t get me wrong,” I said, desperate to squeeze in whatever I could while she chewed her food. It was a rare opportunity to have her to myself. “I know my way around a spud, but your caramel apple board is better. Great thinking with the toppings.”

“Um, thanks,” she replied when she finally swallowed. “I guess your potatoes are . . . better than I might have initially let on.”

I rocked back on my heels. “You guess?”

“Okay, fine!” she spat. “They’re the best thing I’ve ever had in my mouth. You’re a master of the mash, a regular Darth Tater . Is that what you want to hear?”

Her outburst stopped us both cold.

“ Darth Tater is fucking brilliant. I might need that on a shirt.”

Her cheeks flushed. I waited for another one of her quippy comebacks, but it never came. Instead, she spun toward the yard and walked away. Only this time, I followed.

“You know,” I said, after catching up to her. “You don’t have to hate me.”

She stared at me with an incredulous look on her face. “I don’t hate you.”

“You don’t like me.”

“I . . .” she hesitated, probably trying to come up with some lie.

“It’s okay if you don’t like me now.” I stepped in front of her, halting her steps and drawing her full attention. “You will.”

She crooked a brow. “That’s a little arrogant, don’t you think?”

I shook my head. “Not arrogant, angel. Confident.”

I left it at that, opting to step aside. Far enough to give her space—just as Soren had recommended—but close enough to keep her in my line of sight. And maybe line of hearing, too.

For fuck’s sake, I sounded like a teenager, desperate to know if their crush was talking about them. As it turned out, Nessa was less interested in me and more interested in Clarke’s latest HomeGoods purchase.

Who could blame her? HomeGoods was dope as fuck.

“It was on sale,” Clarke told the girls about her macramé hanging planter. “They also had a bigger one, but—”

“Holy Daddy, Batman.”

Startled by the change in subject, I followed June’s gaze across the yard, keen to see which of my teammates had drawn her attention. But it wasn’t one of my teammates; it was Coach Ward.

I wasn’t sure what surprised me most—the fact that Coach Ward had attended a casual, backyard gathering (because it really didn’t seem like his style), the jeans and T-shirt he was wearing (because I had never seen the man in anything other than athletic gear or a tailored suit), or the little girl dressed in head-to-toe purple princess garb who had her hand tucked in his.

“Did you know he had a kid?” Nessa whispered to Clarke. She took the words right out of my mouth.

“No,” Clarke answered at the same time Dani said, “Yes.”

A row of heads whipped in my roommate’s direction. She shrugged. “It’s my job to know everything about the team, and that includes the head coach.”

“Is he married?” June asked. “Please say no because I’ve got a CrossFit class full of friends who will be devastated if he’s taken.”

“Divorced. He and his ex share custody of Carolina.”

Dani was that friend who could dig up anybody’s relationship status or financial history with nothing but a first name and hair color. It kind of made me wonder what skeletons she had pulled out of my closet.

“She’s adorable,” Nessa said. “Don’t you have that same dress, Clarke?”

“Please, I’m a pink girl.” Clarke threw her hands up excitedly. “Oh! Speaking of pink, let me show you the throw pillows.”

And with that, they were back to talking about HomeGoods.

With my teammates otherwise occupied, I did something I hardly ever made the time for and sat down by myself. There was an outdoor, iron rocking chair calling my name.

As I settled into the cushions, yards away from my friends, I tried to clear my mind. There wasn’t much I was bad at—that was my confidence, not arrogance rearing its head once again—but I sucked at sitting alone with my thoughts.

Being outside seemed to help, especially when I was gardening. I’d taken a page out of Soren’s book and turned to long, scalding showers. They were his cure-all for just about everything. But it seemed like no matter how much I tried to sit still and literally do nothing, my brain wouldn’t allow it.

It was always working overtime.

Thinking about my mom, my sister, my teammates. My girl. There was no shortage of people to worry about.

“Carolina,” I heard from somewhere close by. I’d recognize that gruff voice anywhere. “Be careful, cutie.”

“Look, Daddy. Watch me when I twirl, and—”

A glop of something hot and gooey fell out of the sky, hitting me square on the chest. Talk about a perfect pitch down the middle.

“Oh, honey. Don’t cry.” I peeked over the edge of the chair, shocked to see my coach on one knee, hugging his daughter to his body. “Did you hurt yourself?”

“I dropped my nachos, Daddy.”

Well, that explained the hot Velveeta smell.

I came to my feet and came around the chair. “You might have a pitcher there, coach. She’s got incredible aim.”

Coach Ward took in my wrecked T-shirt. “Oh, hell. Pink—”

“Don’t worry about it.” I swiped a finger through the mess and tucked it in my mouth. “Not bad. Your recipe, coach?”

“Tostitos recipe.”

At least he was honest.

I turned my attention to the little girl at his side. Her dark curls were a stark contrast to her dad’s Wranglers. Hell, the top of her head barely scraped the bottom of his thighs.

“Hey, Carolina,” I said in my best singsong voice. “My name is Jared, but my friends call me Pink.”

She tucked herself further into her father’s leg, muffling her sobs against his pants. It was hard to tell if she was more upset about spilling her nachos or mucking up my shirt.

“You know what? I think you did me a big favor.”

“Wha— What do you mean?” she asked between broken sobs.

I glanced up at her dad, searching his face for some sign of approval. Coach Ward called every pitch, every swing of the bat, so there was no way I was going to have a one-on-one conversation with his six-year-old daughter without getting his approval first.

His sharp nod had me squatting down until my face was even with Carolina’s.

“Well,” I told her. “We were having trouble picking teams for capture the flag, and because everybody wants me on their team . . .”

More than one of my teammates snorted from behind me.

“. . . I didn’t know whose team to choose.”

Carolina wiped her little button nose against her dad’s shorts. “You didn’t want to hurt anybody’s feelings.”

I smiled. “That’s right. But thanks to you, I figured it out.”

“Really?”

“Yup.”

I reached behind me, tugging the stained shirt off over my head. “See? Team Skins.”

The little girl giggled. There was nothing more adorable than a freckle-faced kid with fruit punch-stained lips.

“Your tattoos are prettier than Daddy’s.”

“Hey,” Coach Ward protested. “Watch it, cutie.”

A wave of laughter broke out amongst the patio.

To be fair, none of us could confirm or deny whether Carolina’s assessment was true. I had never been up close and personal with Coach Ward’s tattoos. It didn’t matter, not when I already knew that my artist back in Baltimore had used the left side of my body to create one hell of a masterpiece. A patchwork of black-and-white flora and fauna, woven together by Hedera helix , or common ivy to non-plantsmen.

Carolina was right. They were pretty.

I threw my arms up in the air. “Now, let’s do this.”

The game was on after that. As the guys assembled on either end of the field and Soren dictated the rules and boundaries, I stretched out my quads. Pitchers generally didn’t bat—and thank fuck for that because batting had never been my strong suit—but that didn’t mean we couldn’t run. I was ready to run circles around these guys.

A small tug at my shorts had me spinning around . . . and looking down. Way down.

“What’s up, buttercup?”

“Can I be on your team?” Carolina asked.

“Of course you can.” I bent forward, resting my hands on my knees. “Are you sure you want to play?”

She nodded. “Daddy says girls can do anything that boys do.”

“Your daddy is a smart guy. Do you want to know a secret?”

She nodded, her head bobbing up and down quickly like a bobblehead. “Your daddy scares the poop out of me.”

That sent her into a fit of shrill giggles. At least six-year-olds thought I was funny.

“Daddy isn’t scary,” she said definitively when she finally caught her breath. “That’s just silly.”

Her very nice and not at all scary daddy was currently nursing a beer while he watched my every move.

“You’re right,” I told her. “That’s silly. Let’s go play.”

“Can we be the Green Unicorns?”

I planted my hands on my hips. “Oh my god. That’s the best team name I’ve ever heard. Carolina. You’re brilliant.”

The compliment made her blush.

I cupped my hands around my mouth and shouted to my teammates, “Guys, Carolina’s on our team and she came up with the best fu—fluffing name ever. Green Unicorns assemble!”

A cheer rang out. Matty, Soren, Tuck, and I circled together, welcoming Carolina into our huddle. After a few minutes of strategizing, Carolina rushed my dirty shirt—aka our designated flag—down to the endzone.

I readied myself to run like hell as soon as Dani blew the whistle. But there was one last thing to do before then.

I looked over my shoulder, scanning the group that had gathered on loungers and patio chairs for one face in particular. It didn’t take long to find her amongst the crowd.

She was watching me again, just like before. Only this time—for the first time—she was smiling back at me.

And just like that, it didn’t matter to me whose team I was on or what we were playing for or who had the prettiest tattoos—even though we all knew the answer to that last one was me. Obviously.

No, I had Nessa’s attention, and for the time being, that was all the motivation I needed.