23. Remington

TWENTY-THREE

REMINGTON

"Why weren't you wearing a cup?" Scarlet demands for the umpteenth time, her fingers laced and resting across her forehead as she continues to cry and pace in front of me. "I can't believe I injured you further. My dad's gonna kill me. Jennings is gonna cut me from clinicals and the program'll kick me out." Taking a step closer only to back up right away, she repeats, "God, I'm so sorry, I'm making this about me. What do you need? Is there anything I can do?

"Ice! I'll get ice. Or peas! Peas would be good. Do we have peas? I can go get some. Oh my God, Remi, I'm so sorry."

"Scar, come here," I grunt, untucking myself from where I folded over when her pitch popped up and dick checked me. I try to reach for her as she begins to hyperventilate and spiral.

"No."

"Baby, it's okay. This isn't the first time I've taken a ball to the dick. Now come here."

She takes two microscopic steps towards me, her hands dropping from her face and getting shaken out at her sides. "That's it," I coax, sucking in a breath as I finally let go of my crotch. "Come on."

"Can I please go get the peas?"

Nodding my head as I drop onto my butt, I agree, "Yeah, peas would be good; thank you," more so that she feels there's something to do to help than anything. Once she's gone, I collapse on my back and hiss, "Fuck."

It's true, you don't play my position without taking more than your fair share of balls to the dick. Yes, it still hurts and on a bad, unlucky day can even bring tears to your eyes, cup or no cup, but after so many years you begin to develop a scale of intensity. And nothing against Scar's pitching skills—because the girl is no doubt the daughter of Colt Jones with that arm and could have gone far in baseball had she wanted to—but her hit ordinarily would have hardly ranked as a three on my pain scale. More dull, quickly fading annoyance than anything. What makes this so painful is the semi I was sporting when her pitch popped up and made contact.

Just when I thought I was reaching the end of discovering all the non-sexual things about her that manage to turn me on, she took to her makeshift mound in our backyard and lobbed a beautiful circle changeup my way. If I wasn't already in love, the versatility in her pitching arsenal would have sealed the deal. The long extension of her slender arms; the dexterity in her fingers; the controlled power that had the balls hissing through the air before kissing my glove; the incredibly sexy hike of her leg; and the far more proficient than her self-described passable switch pitching skills—they all worked together to create one of the sexiest sights I've seen yet.

Running back out with the frozen peas in one hand and the dish towel she purchased that says "Gobble Gobble" when we went to pick out furniture and whatever else she said was necessary for the spare rooms in the other, she announces, "Okay, I broke up the frozen clumps so it should mold pretty easily. If not, I also popped a few ice packs and brought those as well as the ibuprofen. Best you just take it now." Shoving her tumbler at me and the medicine bottle, she orders, "Pants off." Her earlier shaking finally subsides as she falls into injury prevention mode.

Unable to help myself as she wraps the peas in the towel and presses it to me, I joke, "Scar, if you wanted to play with my cock, all you had to do was ask." As she glares at me and sharply points at the unopened bottle, I draw out, "There she is—my little boss babe taking charge."

"Don't get cute with me, Remington."

"I would never."

"You would always."

Shrugging, I concede, "Yeah, you're right."

"Why weren't you wearing a cup? What if it wasn't just a pop-up? You could've been seriously injured."

"But I'm not, baby. I've taken much worse than this; I'm goin' to be just fine."

Lifting the ice up, she examines, "Well, it doesn't look to be bruising though it does look inflamed."

"Scar," I say, getting her eyes back on me as my hand comes over hers and guides her to returning the ice. "It's inflamed because I was getting hard when I got hit. I promise, once it goes down the rest of the way, I'll be good." Removing her hand from the ice and taking over, I add, "But I can't do that with your hands on me, so come lay over here and talk to me."

Opening up my other arm to tuck her along my side as I stare up at the fluffy white clouds passing over the afternoon sun, she comes to rest her head just below my shoulder, the faint trace of chlorine rising up from her hair as she says, "I really am sorry."

"Don't worry about it, baby," I dismiss, kissing her still damp hair.

Tracing the logo patch on my pads, she asks, "I can ask you anything, right Remi? Like you won't get mad or lash out or something."

"No Scarlet, you're safe with me," I assure. "Whatever you want to know, I'll tell you. There are no secrets with us."

"The other day you said you've never allowed yourself to be this way with anyone, and before that, you were really quick to say you weren't in love with Chelsea even though y'all were together for two years."

"Yeah. Both things are true."

Sighing as she moves to trace the stitching of each pad within my chest protector, she asks, "How were you with someone for two years if you didn't love her and couldn't express yourself in bed with her?"

Letting go of her and the ice, I scrub my hands over the stubble on my jaw that's turning into a closely cropped beard before combing my fingers through my hair and pulling on the short ends. It's a more than fair question, one I opened myself up to with my comments, but it's also the last thing I want to talk about. Who I was, and how I was, with Chelsea doesn't exactly paint me in the best light. At that time in my life, I had no business being in a relationship. I too was afraid of being alone and never having the life my Ma wanted for me to be the best man I could be for a woman. Yet I found myself in one, and worse, I stayed even when I knew she wasn't my one.

"Remi, if you don't want to tell me?—"

"No, baby girl, it's not that. I selfishly don't want you to think differently of me or look at me differently. The way you see me is intoxicating. I feel invincible when you smile at me or seek me out, and I don't want to lose even a fraction of that. I mean it's not as if I treated her poorly?—"

"I saw y'all together; I know you didn't," she interjects. "I don't think you could treat anyone poorly or with anything less than the utmost respect."

"Mmm, I beg to differ. I let Chelsea invest two years of her life into a relationship that wasn't goin' anywhere. A relationship I knew wasn't goin' anywhere. That's not respect."

Taking the peas off my crotch and murmuring they'd been on long enough, Scarlet pulls my boxers and shorts back up and brings my arm back around her, lacing the fingers of my other hand through her own, softly saying, "Trust me, I of all people will not judge you for what you feel shame over. So tell me whatever you want, Remi. It won't change how I see or feel about you any more than what changed for you after I told you about what happened when I was in undergrad."

"You really are such a beautiful and gentle soul, Scar. I'm truly lucky to have you."

"Even with all the cracks?"

Rolling her so she's on top of me and astride my hips, I crunch up to cup her face, letting slip, "Baby, your fractures make me love you even more," kissing her before she can respond.

Pulling free of her, I guide her head to fit under mine, my arms coming around to rest low on her back as I speak over her, the coward I once was peeking out and deciding I wasn't ready just yet to hear if she loves me too.

"Ma died days after we won the World Series. That whole time in my life was a blur. All of Tennessee was celebrating another championship, and I felt as if my world had imploded. My only parent—the only support in my life outside of the game—was gone, and the world just kept turning as if it hadn't just ripped my entire life out from under me.

"I don't know how much you remember, but Colt was the first person I called after I hung up with the hospice nurse. I don't even think I had managed to actually say she had died before he was in his truck and speeding down the road to Franklin." Stopping, I look toward the trees and amend, "You probably do remember, because you were with him when he showed up. You had on this white silky looking button down tucked into a skirt—pink, of course—and these gray boots that came up over your knees. I mean it wasn't as if I was checking you out or anything. I mean you were what, fourteen?"

"Sixteen," she tartly corrects.

"Fine, sixteen. Still too young. I just remember thinking that you looked far too pristine to be in a house where Death was still lingering.

"I now know that he's nothing more than a minion of yours sent to collect those of us too weak to keep up with your training."

Shoving my chest protector, she laughs, "Not you too. Roman is dramatic enough for the entire team. I don't need you gripin' too."

Capturing her hand, I kiss her knuckles and soothe, "I'm just teasin'. I mean you did kick my ass today, but I needed it and probably a dozen more sessions like it before I start truly getting ready for Spring Training.

"Anyway," I drawl, drifting off for a moment. "He sat with me all morning, into the afternoon, and hauled my ass to bed when night came. All the while you were aflutter in Ma's house, the heels of your boots clicking over the hardwood floors as you fielded calls, made arrangements, rescheduled interviews, and God only knows what else. Which by the way, thank you Scarlet. I don't know if I ever said that to you, but thank you. Sixteen years old and you handled every detail from getting my ma to the funeral home to clearing out the medical equipment to arranging her wake and burial. You were a godsend to me."

"You needed help and I was able to provide it," she easily dismisses, as if to this day it's not something that fixates in my head as a core example of the kind of person Scarlet is.

Strumming my fingers along her spine, I reiterate, "My head was a mess. It was only after Colt came to bail my dumb ass out when I was detained in the drunk tank for public intoxication just before Christmas when I finally started to come up for air. Stupidly, I thought that if I just dove right into how I was before she passed, it would keep me busy and lessen the grief of losing her. And to an extent it did, but only in the way avoidance does, not true processing.

"So when Simpson and his wife asked me to appear as a bachelor for auction at a charity event for one of the foundations they patronize, I said yes. And that was how I met Chelsea—she and Simpson's wife were sorority sisters."

"Did she bid on you?" Scarlet asks, as she slips off to my side, turning her gaze up at the clouds.

"Yep. Our first date was to this ridiculously overpriced restaurant. The kind of place that requires men to wear suit jackets in order to sit at their tables and pay for their $100 entrees. A place my ma would've worked at because one night could mean $1,000 in tips. Call me a food snob all you want when we grocery shop, but I fuckin' hate places like that. I mean my God, what I spent on wine alone would've covered our grocery bill for two if not three weeks when I was a teenager. But overall, our date wasn't bad, and when she asked about another one without the charitable obligation attached, I agreed.

"That one date became two, then four, then eight, and before I knew it, we were exclusive and she had claimed half the space in my bathroom, a side of my bed, a section of my closet, and was slowly beginning to redecorate my apartment in the city. We had our differences, but overall things were easy, comfortable. I had someone to call while on the road, someone to miss me and wait up for me, come to games, all the things I thought I had lost.

"Everything was easy with Chelsea. Even missing her was easy because, eventually, I realized I didn't. We could be on a road stretch for two weeks, and unlike the other guys, I wasn't itching to get home and see my girlfriend. And she definitely wasn't as desperate for me as the other girlfriends and wives, making trips out to see us play for a night or waiting at The Nest for when the bus pulled in. The distance didn't bother us. We didn't care if three or four days would pass without talking to each other."

At the time, it truly hadn't bothered me that we lived such separate lives. I thought it worked for us, so why look too closely at it or ask for more? But now, I don't know how I didn't want and need more. Even before we came together, the days when Scarlet would be in Chattanooga felt endless. I would count down every day between Sunday afternoons and Thursday evenings when I'd see her again. I'd grown to loath road games because those three days in between meant another week, sometimes two, without her smile. And now that we are together, the very idea of not seeing her, or at the very least hearing from her everyday, is something I can't entertain for even a moment.

Running my hand over the dry grass, I murmur, "But it was when construction here finished that I realized… we weren't going anywhere, we never would be, and that I had become the worst sort of comfortable; I had become complacent, had settled.

"And that's not to say Chelsea did somethin' wrong or isn't a great person, because she is, just not my person. I'd been with her for eighteen months and not once during my meetings and walkthroughs with the architects and designers did I think, ‘I can't wait to show this place to Chelsea.' or ‘I wonder what Chelsea would prefer; let me call her and ask.' In fact, when they mentioned I should add the tub in the master even if I don't really take baths because the future Mrs. Tate would love to have it, I told ‘em, ‘Sure, put it in, but there won't be one of those any time soon.' We'd been together for eighteen months, she was basically livin' with me, and marriage wasn't even a blip on my radar."

Unlike now where all I think about is if I were to die tomorrow how much I would regret having not asked Scarlet to be my wife, having not married her. The future isn't guaranteed, and while I don't want to rush through life with her, I do know I don't want to waste a single second of it with her not knowing how much I love her and how important she is to me.

"When I first realized that," I continue, "I chased that thought down a rabbit hole tryin' to prove myself wrong. But the truth was there. I didn't love her, had never said I loved her, had never thought I was in love with her, and she had never said she loved me. What I loved was that I didn't feel as lonely when I was with her. Like I could disappear from this world and no one would notice so long as my backup was good.

"Chelsea and I weren't a couple. In the two years I spent with her, I never felt even a drop of what I feel for you. We were roommates who shared a bed and occasionally slept together. And that was a whole other issue because she would tell me I was depraved when I wanted to try something new or that she couldn't wait for the next road stretch so she could have a break from me always wantin' to have sex with her.

"I've always been a relationship guy, so I haven't been with many women, but it was never how it is with you. I mean fuck, Scar, we haven't even had sex yet, but I can confidently tell you what we've shared have been the best experiences of my life. I feel so fuckin' close to you when we're together like that. I can't imagine it ever being as good with someone else as it is with you."

"Really?" she asks, turning on her side and propping her head in her palm to look down at me. "Even though we haven't actually done it yet, you're, you know… satisfied."

"You're perfect," I assure, turning to match her. "Absolutely perfect. And yes, baby. This, with you, is the most satisfied I've ever been. The only thing I'm left wantin' for is more because I could never have enough of you—your touch and your sounds. And I love how insatiable you are because God, I'm so fuckin' addicted to you."

Closing the space between us, she gives me the sweetest, most innocent kiss and whispers, "I'm addicted to you too." Rolling to pin me and climb on top of me, Scarlet bites at my neck before licking me and asking, "How long after was it before you two broke up?"

"A few days," I answer, petting her hair as she nuzzles into me. "There were no tears, no questions of why, no sudden declarations of love. Ending things was as easy as everythin' else had been, which only proved how right my decision was.

"She wasn't what I wanted, not really. And she definitely wasn't what I needed. She was easy and came at a time when I needed easy. But once that time was up, I knew what I wanted going forward is what I have with you, what Ma made me promise to find—the woman who makes me think of her first and baseball second. The one I can't bear to lose. The one who makes me want to start forever right now, today, because I hate the idea of her not being my wife for even a minute longer. And I wasn't goin' to settle for anythin' less than that again.

"So if you're wonderin,' that's why I've also been single for the last two years."

"And you have that now? With me?"

"Yeah baby, I do. I even hired an agent to find me a house in Brentwood—preferably as close to Windstone as possible—because over my dead body am I takin' you back to an apartment I shared with another woman. And if I'm going to be in the market for a new home, I want it to be your dream home."

"The Hendersons," she breathes, sitting up and beginning to unhook my pads and lift them over my head. "The Hendersons are retiring to Myrtle Beach this spring. It's not listed yet but?—"

"Is it what you would want? Because I can have something built too if you're okay being several streets away from Colt and Roman. Somethin' made just for you, with every detail exactly as you want it."

"No, it's perfect. Their house is my dream home."

"Then it's done. I'll call Ledia in the morning and tell her."

I peel her t-shirt and sports bra off, her perfect breasts falling free as she pulls my shirt from me, whispering, "And Remington, I love you too," kissing me as I did her before I can say anything.