1. Scarlet

ONE

SCARLET

My radio softly hums with the announcers' commentary from tonight's pregame show and I know I'm late, again. Instead of being at The Nest, which is prominently featured through my passenger window from the city loop, I'm sitting in bumper to bumper traffic sweating like a sinner in church in spite of my AC being on full blast, summer keeping everyone firmly within its grasp even this late into September. I guess this could be called my weekly penance for signing up for that damn lecture even when I knew I would be spending most Thursdays driving home to Nashville from Chattanooga. Because even gaining an hour when I cross the meridian doesn't seem to help my perpetually tardy behind.

My ETA jumps back by another three minutes as the radio is replaced by the blaring sounds of "Wreak Havoc," perfectly cued up to the 30 second section that plays whenever my brother takes to the mound. "They're gonna kill me," I groan, Winnie giving me an unhelpful bark of agreement from her harness in the backseat as I jab the green icon with my knuckle to accept his call.

"You're late," he says the moment we're connected.

"I know."

"Again."

"I know. "

"It's 6:15; we start at seven ."

"I have class!" I defend. "You know, that place that teaches me how best to care for you?"

"Shouldn't have signed up for that lecture."

"Yeah, I regret it every week," I huff, blowing the loose strands of hair from my face.

"At least you're consistent."

Creeping my SUV up to squeeze onto the shoulder as my exit comes into sight, I grumble, "Shut up," and his deep laugh siphons off the pinched tension that's had my shoulders up by my ears for the last half hour as it fills my car.

His next words are lost to the boisterous commotion of the clubhouse that bleeds through the line and with it, his attention.

"Roman," I sing-song, my foot going heavy on the gas as the exit lane begins to take shape in front of me. Drawing his name out several more times while I speed down the ramp to beat the yellow light, I shout, "I'm pulling up right now!" I end the call as I unapologetically cut across traffic to the sound of blaring horns in order to make the turn for the players' lot.

Rolling down my window, I snag my badge from the mess in my front seat, and Barney—a security guard who's been working this post since my father's rookie year—greets me with a smile.

"Miss Jones, you're late."

"Not you too," I whine with an exaggerated downturn of my lips.

Chuckling, he scans my ID and replies, "I'll radio the guys at the turnstyle that you're coming. You can run right through."

"You're a god amongst men, Barney," I praise, blowing him a kiss as the gate lifts.

Shooing me through, he blushes. "So you say."

Weaving through the parking lot, I roll my window up and hunt for Roman's custom Nighthawks green paint job, a perfect match to my SUV. Truck in sight, I spin the steering wheel so I can cut into the empty space beside him. Haphazardly parked in both my spot and his, I don't bother straightening my vehicle, opting instead to hop out and free Winnie before racing around to the trunk to grab my bags. Slamming the hatch closed, we take off at a run, our feet pounding against the concrete of the sidewalk. Hitting the opening for the stadium gate, I yell out to the other security guards, "Y'all are the best!" and double my speed to chase my sweet Doberman down the enclosed corridor.

Skidding to a squeaking halt in front of the clubhouse right after she runs into the door, I force several deep breaths before I crack it open enough to slip in and quietly scootch over to my spot along the wall, my dog slinking right at my hip. Catching Roman's shit eating grin across the way as our dad—the switch pitching legend that is Colt Jones—addresses the team, my face scrunches up at him as I make a small jerk forward as if taunting him into a fight.

"Must be nice," Brady hisses from my right, the grating sound of his voice pulling my spine tight. "If other people were as habitually late as you, they'd be reassigned."

Closing my eyes and praying for patience, I remind myself not to take the bait. To ignore my classmate and rise above it. That nothing he's saying is new or worthy of a response.

"Though I got to know, is it because of daddy? Or is it because of Roman?" he continues.

Grinding my teeth together as he prods at my patience, I slow my breathing even further to remain outwardly unfazed.

I know I got my placement in the program and with the team because of my capability, career potential, and established trust with the players and staff. But if it looks like nepotism and walks like nepotism, you get ostracized before you even have a chance to meet people and make your own impression upon them. And if my history has taught me anything, it's that once people have crafted their own narrative of me, there's little I can do to change it—my Summa Cum Laude honors from Knoxville and current 4.0 be damned.

Even without my name though, I would still be fighting the perpetuated idea that professional sports is a man's world, and a girl with a sparkly manicure, blonde hair, and pink sneakers doesn't belong amongst the boys. That I couldn't possibly want anything more than to become a player's wife and further expand my existing brand within the MLB. Never mind that I know more about this sport and what its players need to remain in peak performance shape than all of them combined.

Leaning in even closer as dad's pregame hype draws to a frenzied close, he whispers, "See, the guys and I are in disagreement. Some think your preferential treatment and assignment to the team is because you're a Jones. But personally, I think it's because of your brother."

At his over inflection on brother, I turn to face him and snarl, "Excuse me?" knowing full well where this is going.

Having gotten a sixteen year old adopted brother that is as undeniably attractive as Roman is when I was fourteen means I've heard it all. For the most part, we've learned to ignore it. Everything people say and report on is little more than fiction. But then, three years ago, there was the incident, and ignoring things and not reacting became much more difficult. Though not for the reasons anyone would guess.

"Well, I mean, it's not as if you're actually related. It's okay, princess, just tell me. It won't go any further than us. You totally fuck your brother don't you? It's why, despite your very public life, no one has ever seen you so much as go on a date, let alone have a boyfriend."

Slipping between Brady and me, Roman towers over him, his height, tattoos, and rough edges backing up his threatening tone as he growls, "Keep fucking with my sister Hendrix, and see what happens."

Smirking as the ruddy color drains from Brady's face as he scurries away, Roman turns back around. Facing me, every ounce of cold violence drains from him, his touch as gentle as an old dog when he cups my cheeks, playfully moving my face every which way before ruffling his hands over the top of my head, mussing up my low ponytail.

Bending to gently knock our foreheads together, he encourages, "Come on, Squeaks, give me some extra luck for tonight."

"Roman, when have you ever needed luck, let alone extra?"

"Never, but only because I've got you," he replies, booping my nose. "The fucking luckiest girl in all of Nashville."

Swatting his hand away and pushing him towards the door as I've been doing since high school, I roll my eyes and say, "Go get your butt on that field already."

"You got it, Scarlet," he responds, making a heart with his hands and thumping it over his chest before calling Winnie to him so he can drop her off with Boomer, where she'll spend the game living in luxury inside the owner's box.

Right on his heels as the rest of the players and staff flood out toward the field and dugout, our dad comes to wrap me up in a hug, lifting me off my feet.

Kissing the top of my head before putting me back down, he admonishes, "You're late. You know Jennings will have to make note of that in your review, right?"

Looking up at the inky blue eyes I stole from him, I smile and reply, "Yeah, but at this point in the season, me being on time might just be a bad omen," causing the dimples I also inherited from him to pop out.

"She's got you there, Skip," Remington Tate—eight season veteran catcher and captain for the Nashville Nighthawks—chuckles, looking like athlete porn with his guards and chest protector on and mask hooked atop his helmet as he claps my dad on the back. "Can't go fu– I mean screwing with the ritual now."

"Say the word; you know you want to… fucking," I tease, shaking my head at his self-censorship. "You know, I have heard it before. From him no less," I laugh, jerking my thumb over my shoulder at my dad. "Even more," I add, lowering my voice with feigned conspiracy, "I've used it a time or two. Shh…" This draws out a barking laugh from him.

It's sweet that Remington always strives to maintain a level of genteel civility when in my presence, but there's nothing he could say that would scandalize me. Not when my dad is one of baseball's modern national treasures, and I've spent most of my years right at his side in the dugout, just behind it in the stands surrounded by diehard fans, or with Boomer and his wife, Marcia, in his box. The swearing, crass comments, and general vulgarity of athletes and their pissed off owner have been a part of my life since birth.

Raising me on the road as a single parent when he was just barely an adult himself, having had me at eighteen, made us incredibly close. And while every southern belle is the apple of her daddy's eye and has him wrapped around her little finger, I've never just been my daddy's little princess. For twenty-one years, I've also been his partner in crime, his best friend, and he's been mine.

We grew up together, learned about the world together, and built the life we have together. It's a special bond not all kids get to have with their parents, and it's why I've always felt blessed to have lived such an unorthodox childhood. My dad made me his entire world, lifting me even higher than the sport that's the very thread that stitches his soul together. Me, and then Roman when the little thief came into our lives as the piece we hadn't known was missing from our family puzzle.

"You trying to get me in trouble, Scar?" Remington teasingly accuses, my cheeks heating with a threatening blush over the use of his nickname for me.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

Okay, that's a lie; I totally would. The man's rookie poster used to hang on my closet wall. For nearly a year, looking at him in a deep catcher's squat as I got dressed was the only way I could start my day. At least until Roman spilled the beans to him, leaving my poor fourteen year old heart achingly mortified. For an entire month afterward, I couldn't even look at Remington without wanting to burst into tears or speak to Roman without wanting to pummel him.

It's been said I was a bit dramatic back then.

Like most teenage disasters that were surely the end of the world, the sting eventually faded away until it was just a memory. One that Roman had loved to poke at when he needed a laugh. Then soon after that, my silly daydreams of becoming Mrs. Scarlet Amelia Tate fizzled out as my starry eyes turned to our high school's catcher. Another flight of fancy that went exactly nowhere, as has been my plight in life as Roman Jones's little sister and Colt Jones's daughter.

Over the summer though, that old infatuation had bloomed back to life. Its roots deeper than before, stretching and curling to place my heart and desire in a chokehold. All thanks to the innocuous little touches Remington began bestowing upon me while I was off from school and resuming my lifelong position as the forty-first member on the team's roster. The way his full lips form the shape and slow, rough sound of the nickname he adopted for me earlier in the year. The lingering looks down the bench and glances from home plate just before he taps his bat against the dirt and steps into the batter's box. And the winning hugs we've always shared being moved from the side with a single arm across my shoulders to both arms pulling me in and keeping me under his chin for just a fraction longer than what I would consider platonic.

When I was thirteen and met him during his first Spring Training, he had awakened and crippled my hormones. Now at twenty-one and with the nine years between us looking less and less insurmountable, Remington Hawthorne Tate was downright deadly. Deadly and beyond my reach because no one was stupid enough to pursue their teammate's sister. Let alone the skipper's daughter. And lucky me, I'm both.

"Okay you two, let's get out of here," my dad announces, clapping his clipboard against his thigh.

"After you, Remi," I gesture before kicking my foot up to swat the hard muscle of his ass.

Like always, he catches my ankle before I can make contact, the hazel of his eyes captivating as he smiles down at me, mouth crooked as his lips tilt up higher on one side.

"Remi," he repeats in a thoughtful manner, his faded country hills accent calling my attention to the shortening I had just given his name. "I like it," he decides, yanking on my leg as he heads for the door and forcing me to hobble after him before I can become flustered. Only when we reach my dad does he let me go, his touch leaving a lingering heat in its absence.

Bumping forearms with Remington and jumping back with their hands exploding up as he passes behind me, my dad asks, "You ready, Princess?" He pulls my hat from his back pocket and tugs it down on my head.

"Are you?"

"Always."

"Then let's go kick Atlanta's butt."

Tucking me under his thick and heavy arm as we walk out onto the field, he proudly praises, "That's my girl," before sending me on my way to the bullpen to do a final pregame check of Roman's multi-million dollar arm. And just within my periphery is a certain catcher's perfect ass, voted one of Nashville's finest in Music City Lifestyle Magazine's latest issue.

Shaking my head clear as Remington looks up from his squat to talk to his rookie shadow, I focus on Roman, stepping onto a chair to better leverage his shoulder. Finding it tight, I hop back down and start to stretch him out, holding each one just beyond the point of comfort to finish loosening him up. His aversion to most people touching him often leaves him only partially ready for a game if our dad, Jennings, Warner, or myself are unavailable. Then just as the big baby begins to whine, I release him and let him rest before starting again, detailing my school week and Winnie's latest fear, my new robot vacuum.

"Worst four thousand dollars dad and I ever spent right there–fuuuck! I take it back; I take it back!"

Slowly releasing his arm, I happily smirk, "Yeah, you fucking better take it back, asshat. Winnifred's a gentle and delicate soul. If she knew her uncle was making fun of her, she'd probably cry."

"You're insane, Squeaks."

"She's my baby!"

"She's a Doberman!" he protests. "She shouldn't be shitting herself when you get mugged."

"That was one time!"

"All it takes is one."

Joining us, our dad says, "Gotta side with Ro, Princess. While she looks the part, Winnie is pretty useless when it comes to defense. I mean, she doesn't even bark when someone's at the door." Then, grabbing our hands and pulling us all up, he adds, "Come on. We don't have a lot of time. Jennings wants to consult with you over Tate's hip."

"What's wrong?" I ask, spotting him by the stands, taking a picture with a small child who is swimming in Remington's number eight jersey.

"Usual wear and tear. Nothing a little rest and PT can't fix. With Jennings's wife so close to popping, he wants to start transitioning you into filling in for him during his paternity leave."

"Really?" I ask excitedly. "We all just assumed his duties and students would be shuffled amongst Hastings, Scott, and Ashford."

"But you didn't hear that from me, got it?"

I mime zipping my lips closed and throwing away the key as we lean against the fence watching the fans fill the stadium. Soaking in the view of our first and forever home, I tuck in under my dad's arm as Roman whispers, "This never gets old," crowding in close at my side so I'm perfectly cocooned between them.

When our image is plastered on one of the giant screens, we wave. Through an uproar of excitement, our dad says, "This was always the dream, but you two are my biggest accomplishments. Nothing this field and its fans have given me can ever hold a candle to the pride and honor I feel at being your dad. I love you."

"I love you too, Daddy," I whisper alongside Roman's, "Love you too, Dad."