11. Remington

ELEVEN

REMINGTON

The thing about baseball, we're always working. Even when we aren't playing, we're working. Practices, tape review, conditioning, recovery, branding, publicity, charities—it's never ending. Every minute of every day is meticulously planned out and accounted for. And if you need to schedule a meeting with a half dozen other players across the country who each have their own demanding schedules, you have to get on their books weeks and months in advance. Then until the day comes, pray nothing happens to force a reschedule or prompt someone dropping out. It's a tedious pain in the ass. One I ended up taking on after my early exit ahead of the postseason.

Glancing at the clock as Sweeny from Atlanta argues with Nash, our first baseman, about the monetary benefits of holding a gala, I stifle a groan. Any minute now, my girls are going to come back from their run and pass right through the frame of the camera on their way to the kitchen for all six horny bastards to see.

Our routine each day is simple and easy. One that, even with the physical therapy and training we do multiple times a day, paints a fantasy of domestic bliss. It's a slice of what life with her could be like, and I can't get enough of it.

Like me, she considers an early morning being up before eight or nine in the morning, no doubt a byproduct of a life lived so closely with her dad. Learning very quickly that there is zero communication with her beyond a few muffled words that I can't actually discern until she's had at least one coffee and been awake for an hour, I get up and fill one of her numerous tumblers with ice, a healthy dose of cold brew, almond milk, and the vanilla simple syrup I made our first day here to replace the artificial crap she was using. It's quick and easy and something I have ready and waiting for her the moment she shuffles into the kitchen. Then with the grace and speed of a zombie, she possessively cradles her cup between both her hands and immediately begins sipping it, a soft smile brightening her stunning face and sleep heavy eyes before she plods back upstairs.

Then for the next hour, sometimes two, of our day, I sit out on the deck responding to emails and working through my day's list of to dos for the business side of being a professional athlete with Winnie taking her first of many naps curled up beside me. And while out there, I watch Scarlet on the balcony above me. She sits with her feet propped on the railing, coffee kept safely within reach, taking in the mountains and changing leaves before pulling out whatever book she's currently reading and falling into its pages the moment she's coherent. After a fluctuating amount of time depending on how engrossed the story keeps her, she gets up and disappears inside the bedroom to get ready for the first part of our day. My bedroom.

Originally, she and Winnie were going to stay in the secondary suite on the ground floor, her dog already hilariously skeptical of my open slatted stairs, with me retaining my bedroom that took up the entire second level. Then I slipped on my crutches trying to get up to my room, fell, and landed on my fresh out of surgery hip. After that, it was decided I would be confined to the main floor of the house for my own safety, and Winnie's newest fear was born. And though I have three more bedrooms on the lower level of the house, I never had any of them furnished, having no current need for them.

So up to my room she went, where her clothes hang in my closet and live in my dresser. Where she showers in the massive, multi-headed walk-in that had been designed for two people. Soaks in the tub I almost never use but was custom built to accommodate the long length of my legs and again allow space for me and the future Mrs. Tate the designers insisted I plan for when crafting the layout and features of my home. Sleeps in my bed with my sheets cocooning her each night, her hair fanning out across the silk covered pillows, creating a golden halo around her. The very bed that, until now, has had no one but myself in it.

The sight of her easily becoming at home here and the knowledge of her sprawled out in my bed each night is now a recurring torment for me as I stroke my dick, fucking my hand as I would her, picturing just how sweet she would look beneath me. Her toned, slender thighs bent over my arms so I could stretch her around my cock as much as possible. Her nails raking across my shoulders and her head thrown back as she comes, legs locking around me to seal my cum inside her.

It's after Scar goes inside to change that I close up my work and get ready myself, my own routine now consisting of jerking off in the shower in what is often a failed attempt at exhausting my dick ahead of seeing her. Because after she's properly caffeinated and perked up, I get greeted with the sight of her bounding down the stairs, blonde hair swishing in a long ponytail I want to wrap around my hand and pull on, pert breasts lifted and displayed by a sports bra, and her biteable ass covered in leggings I swear were made with the intention of making men fall to their knees.

And that is the sight that currently has me wishing this meeting had been rescheduled or that I would spontaneously lose my Wi-Fi connection. Because any minute now, my girl will be coming home. Her skin rosy and glowing. Wisps of hair sticking to her sweat misted face. Eyes shining brightly. Breasts rising with hypnotic rhythm as her heart rate comes down. Every inch of her a striking display that calls to mind having been thoroughly fucked and not fresh off a five mile run with Winnie. A sight I don't want to share with anyone. Least of all fucking Sweeny and Dawson, both of whom are on this video call.

Right on schedule, Winnie comes trotting around the house to find me on the outside couch, dropping on the deck's rug with a heavy enough thump, my laptop's mic picking up the sound.

"What the fuck was that?" Sweeny asks, checking over his shoulder as the other guys do the same trying to place the noise.

Laughing as Winnie's tongue rolls out with her panting and her big, goofy brown eyes look up at me like it's my fault she's exhausted, I answer, "Winnie."

Snapping his head up, Dawson blinks, "Come again?"

"Winnie; Scar's dog," I repeat, rolling my eyes as Sweeny exaggeratedly scoots closer to the screen.

"So the rumors are true. Tate, you sly fucker. Never thought you of all people would make off with the prized princess."

"Fuck off, asshole. She's doing her job," I snap, taking advantage of adminning the chat and silencing him. "I'll unmute you when you decide not to be such a dick."

"I mean, yeah we all know she's doing her job and is damn good at it, but…" Nash starts, biting his lip. "She's actually living with you?" When I nod my head, he whistles, "Damn… man, you are one lucky son of a bitch. Skip's little princess is a seriously hot piece of–"

"Finish that fucking sentence; I dare you," Dawson threatens.

Slicing my hand over my throat to silence them all as Scar comes around the corner, arms stretched over her head, I call, "How was it?"

"Mmm…" she hums, the sound going straight to my dick. "So good. I love it here. The hills, the fresh air, the changing leaves. Remi, you may just get stuck with me."

Counting on it, baby girl.

Coming up to the outdoor seating, she stops and looks at my computer.

"Oh! You had your meeting. I'm sorry; I totally spaced. Let me grab Winnie and we'll go inside."

Waving her off, I say, "No, stay. Maybe you can help us out."

"Okay, but I'm super gross right now," she warns, coming between me and the coffee table making a surge of possessive jealousy build up inside when the fuckers on my screen get a momentary shot of her cleavage as she bends and helps herself to my water. Cup in hand and positioned between my legs, she starts to sink down, each one of their gazes following her flat stomach back up to her breasts and finally her face as she swallows and says, "I'll sit down here until I'm less wet."

On screen, Sweeny bites his knuckle before turning his face away from the camera. It hardly even registers though as she leans against the couch and tilts her head back to smile up at me.

"Is this okay?"

Looking at where she is and what the others are seeing, I shake my head. I don't even think about the fact we have an audience. One that is quite chatty and includes a member of our team as well as someone Roman is actually friends with off the field. Instead, all I can think about is that my girl is on her knees, between my legs and the idea of anyone but me seeing her like that pisses me off.

The sensible, safe thing to do would be to tell her to just sit beside me and reposition my laptop. The jealous, possessive swell inside me, however, is not having it. I fucking hate the way they looked at her, still are, and spoke about her. She's mine and I want each of them, especially fucking Dawson, who seems to think it's his place to step in and defend my girl, to know it. But apparently the always cool, even temper I'm known for when behind the plate doesn't apply here because all sense has officially left me when it comes to Scarlet.

Reaching down, I hook my hands under her arms and drag her up and back onto the couch with me, sounding like a damn animal as I roughly say, "No; come here." I spread my legs more so she can comfortably sit cradled within me. It's a statement I really have no right to make and nearly begin to rectify as I feel how rigid she is, panic over pushing her too far taking hold.

But then she quietly sighs and melts into the space I made for her as if she's always belonged there. The possession is still there as I curl my arm around her hip and pull her in even closer, her back curving with my chest, but it's quieter now. More a feeling of not wanting this moment to end than needing to claim her.

Catching Dawson's snapping fingers on the screen while Scar is making pleasantries with the rest of the guys and his following point to my lap, I fish out my phone.

Dawson

Today 11:43 A.M.

Dawson

What the fuck are you doing, Tate?

Remington

Hosting the planning meeting

Dawson

Don't play dumb. It's not cute

It's not like you to be this fucking stupid

Her brother will fucking bust your knee caps

Go get your dick wet somewhere else and leave Ro's sister, your skipper's DAUGHTER, alone

Remington

Watch your fucking mouth!

You ever call my girl a place to wet my dick again and I'll be the one busting your kneecaps

Dawson

Just stay the fuck away from Scarlet. You'll only break her heart when she falls in love with you and she's already suffered more than she ever should've

Flipping him the finger as I lock my phone and toss it aside, I stroke my thumb up from Scarlet's leggings and across her stomach. Adjusting between my legs, she slips her hand to the side of her knee, mimicking my caress along my inner thigh, the fingers of her other hand beginning to play in my palm as she asks, "So what's the problem y'all are having?"

Still on mute, Sweeny's words go unheard as he begins explaining the sides of his and Nash's debate. Leaning in, Scar releases him from timeout and says, "Sorry, didn't catch that."

"Yeah, because your boyfriend put me in jail."

"Eh, I'm sure you deserved it," she shrugs, dismissing his complaint. "Everyone in the League knows you have a tendency to say things that make the rest of us want to punch you."

"Come on! That was like three years ago!"

"Actually it was last year at Spring Training."

"Still, can't we forgive and forget?"

"You called my brother a mangy mutt! So no, we can't, ‘forgive and forget.' Especially because you would have had to have actually apologized!"

"OH!" the rest of the guys shout, Nash laughing, "I fucking forgot about that shit! Scarlet, didn't you key his car after that?"

"That was you?!"

Sitting up straight and suddenly very prim, she sniffs, "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"That's a yes," Dawson snorts.

"Hush. I have stories from college about a certain feud with Carolina's quarterback that will trigger your morality clause, Reeves."

"Oh yeah?" he taunts. "And who the fuck was right there between Ro and I when it was all goin' down?" Cupping his ear, he goes, "Hmm, silence. Just what I thought, Sugar."

"I didn't do a damn thing and you know it!"

"You drove the getaway car. Just like a bank robbery, you'd go down with us for the full crime."

"Anyway," she loudly exclaims, "What do y'all need fixin'?"

Laughing as she sinks back against me, a bit of a pout on her lips, I explain, "We're tryin' to plan how to raise more money to fund next year's Kids of Cancer Retreats and all the other activities the organization hosts."

The organization was how the motley crew of us seven players from five different teams all got together. While Diaz from Seattle and I were adults when my ma and his dad were diagnosed, the others all grew up with one of their parents, or in Nash's case his granny who raised him, going through treatment. Some parents like Sweeny's and Hill's survived, and others like Nash's and Dawson's weren't so blessed.

As an adult, the news of my ma's diagnosis obliterated my life and completely reshaped every aspect of it to focus fully on her cancer and how to get her into remission. All sense of normalcy was gone with my role changing from her son to her caregiver in the span of a single breath. There were days I felt as if I were drowning under the weight and I was a damn adult. I am in awe of how Nash managed to do it all for his nan at fifteen, alone, and without it crushing him. It's a testament to the kind of person he is beneath his playboy arrogance.

It's what our charity aims to alleviate. We host all kinds of activities and experiences for kids of all ages, hoping to give them even just a few hours without worry, stress, and fear for their parents. The biggest events are always the seasonal retreats that take the families to Disney World or New York, skiing or the beach, basically any type of family vacation they may not otherwise be able to afford due to medical expenses.

"Oh, too easy," she responds. "A black tie gala with an air of exclusivity. People will pay through the nose and donate whatever you're asking, and in most cases more, to get their names on what they think is a coveted list. Throw in some leaked names of other athletes and celebrities who will be attending and you'll make more money than you'll know what to do with."

"Told you," Sweeny crows.

"But that's not how it should be," Nash protests. "We need the money, yes, but Jesus, how much will this cost to put on? We could use that money to actually fund events. Not to mention, the people who turn up to these things only show up to have their picture taken and be seen there. They don't actually care."

"That's the cost of making money I'm afraid," she shrugs. "We deal with the same thing for Ro's charity, but what we make far exceeds what is put into it. Not to mention, you'll get sponsors who will donate catering and planning and really just about anything so their name can be attached to the event and all the potential business they'll receive from it when it hits the press and social media.

"We were able to charge people $25,000 just to attend. We also had a silent auction with a $15,000 minimum bid, a full casino, and a small concert put on by several country artists. That one event brought in enough money for Ro to buy a dozen houses and even more condos for Phoenix House, plus run it for nine months."

Throwing a pen at his desk, Nash reclines back in his chair, defeated.

"Fine," he sighs. "Let's do it. I want the record to show I don't like it though."

"Duly noted," Scarlet nods, leaning forward to begin drafting a list on the shared document of what we need to do. "I'll give Remi Savannah's number. She did all the planning for us free of charge." Glancing back at me, she chews on her cheek and corrects, "On second thought, Reeves, you're coming home right?"

"Yeah?"

"And you're single?"

"Yes…"

"Great," she beams, tapping at her phone's screen. "I'll send you her number instead."

"What am I missing?

Blowing a piece of hair from her face, she sighs, "To quote The Golden Girls , I'm pretty sure Ro ‘paid with nature's credit card.'"

Barking out a laugh, I tighten my arm around Scarlet and say, "So it's settled. We're doing a gala in the spring, no one's overly thrilled about it, and Scar is pimpin' out Dawson so we don't have to actually plan the damn thing and can instead start working on scheduling what events we can attend with the kids."

"Hold on, I didn't–fuuuuck," he draws out as Scar shows him her phone screen.

"That's Savannah?" Nash asks.

"Yep."

"I mean… my bed's open too… you know, just in case she requires a payment plan."

Realizing Scarlet changed her mind in case the planner offered me the same discount program she gave her brother, I smile and tell the guys, "Y'all figure the rest out on your own." Not waiting for a response, I exit the chat and slam my computer closed.

Closing my other arm around her as she protests our sudden exit from the conversation, I graze my lips up her neck and whisper, "I'm all yours, Scar; you just have to tell me when you want me," before disentangling myself from around her. "Now come on, we have pink funfetti cupcakes to make." Winnie suddenly comes back to life as she races ahead of me for the kitchen, knowing cupcakes means I'll be making her cookies as well so she's not left out of dessert tonight.