5. Remington

FIVE

REMINGTON

"Your range of motion is much better than expected. We won't really be able to gauge until after tomorrow, but I think we were a bit conservative on the estimate of how much recovery time you'll need," Jennings says, patting my back. "You've done a good job keeping yourself in top shape while still maintaining an appropriate handicap for your hip."

Circling around the table where we just finished my session with the pathetically loose resistance bands, he comes up behind Scarlet, who has been his shadow for the entire session and asks, "Any other questions?"

Biting on her nail as she flips through her copious notes, she begins shaking her head no, strands of hair escaping the messy bow wrapped pile on top of her head. She blows one up and out of her face, her nose scrunching in annoyance as it lands right back over her eye, and I know I'm far more fucked than I even thought. Something so mundane shouldn't be this endearing or tempting. And as she swipes the strands back into place before turning her notebook around to point at something she's written, temptation becomes an even more fitting description for the innocuous act.

I can't help but think about combing my fingers through her hair. Twining her thick ends around my fingers. Pulling just enough to see her lips part as her eyes turn hooded. Visualizing what she would look like between my knees, that ribbon binding her wrists, and my hand cupping the back of her head as her glossy lips glide down my cock. Her cheeks colored pink and those expressive, dark blue eyes glancing up at me in search of praise and reassurance, her artfully smudged makeup ruined.

Shifting on the table as my dick begins to harden, I'm startled by Jennings saying, "Tate, you with us?"

"What? Yeah of course."

"You sure?"

"Uh-huh."

"And?"

"And what?"

Chuckling as she folds a blanket on the massage table leaving me to wonder when she stood up, Scarlet sweetly clues me in.

"We were asking if it would be alright if Jennings leaves to close out some of his paperwork?"

"Yeah, why wouldn't it be?"

"Scarlet is going to be doing your massage. We wanted to know if you wanted a…"

"A chaperone?" I supply. "Is this for my benefit or hers?"

"Both, technically," she answers. "With the location of your injury, at a minimum you'll have to remove your pants and hike up the leg of your underwear while lowering the waistband. I'll keep a blanket in place to preserve your modesty, but massaging the groin can be intrusive. So if you want Jennings to stay or Warner to come in, I would–"

"Are you comfortable?" I interrupt.

I already know my own issues that could arise from her touch, and not a single one of them has to do with discomfort. At least not in the way she's concerned about.

Shrugging as she opens up one of the medicinal creams and smells it, she dismisses, "Yeah, I had to do a lot of these to get certified and have done it for my brother and Reeves on occasion as well. You won't be any different. My priority is you and whatever is going to make you the most comfortable and relaxed."

Not getting lumped in with Roman would be an excellent start. Here I am fantasizing about having her gag on my dick and she just compared having her hands mere inches from said dick to touching her brother. Clinical, unaffected, detached. All things I most certainly will not be experiencing regardless of where and how her small hands touch me.

"Yeah, if you're cool with it, I don't care. You're just doing your job, right?" I snap like a surly asshole, instantly regretting it as her perky countenance falters. Grasping at the nearest excuse before she can wilt further, I say, "Sorry, Scar. I think the pain in my hip and lack of sleep are starting to get to me. I shouldn't have answered like that."

"It's okay," she assures me. "I'll give your hip and immediate surrounding muscle groups a recovery massage but if you want, I can use aromatherapy techniques everywhere else. It'll maybe help you relax and lull you into a nap on the table."

"I seriously doubt I'll be able to fall asleep."

"You'd be surprised. Tons of people fall asleep, snoring and all, when on a massage table."

"Then if you two are all set, I'll be on my way. Scarlet, you know my extension if you need anything. Remington, I'll see you before the sun tomorrow morning."

"See you tomorrow, Jennings," Scarlet waves before focusing fully on me. "I'm going to step out while you get undressed. If you could slip under the flat sheet and lay on your back, the heating pad should be warmed up by now so you won't be chilled waiting for me to start. I'll be back in a couple minutes and knock before entering."

As she leaves the room, she stops at a digital pad next to the light switches and fusses with the settings, dimming the room so it becomes basked in a soft glow, the sound of gentle rain piping in from somewhere. Then with a smile and a little flounce out the door before quietly sealing it, she's gone and I'm left to panic because fucking hell, a thin sheet and my boxers are not enough of a barrier to guard her from seeing the semi I'm already beginning to sport.

"No Skip, I swear. I didn't mean to traumatize your daughter by popping a fucking boner on her massage table. Honest!" I deadpan. "Yeah, because that's believable."

Groaning, I take off my hat and strip out of my t-shirt and shorts, glaring down at my cock as I get on the table.

"Remember, she compared you to her brother. So behave."

I'm only laying there for a minute or two, my dick for once following my command and settling down, before I hear Scarlet's soft knock.

"All good," I call, her head peeking in before her body as she replies, "Excellent."

Coming in the rest of the way and pulling an additional cart with her, I take notice that she's no longer wearing her training jacket from earlier. In its place is a tank top that molds to the soft curves of her body and cuts low enough to provide an excellent view of her pert breasts, the damn things proudly on display like her top is a shelf designed for optimal viewing. And as she pulls the tray up beside me, I know I'm well and truly fucked, because she bends at the waist to putter about with something on the lower level, leaving her heart shaped ass right in my line of sight.

Slowly exhaling as I tear my eyes away and force my gaze up to the ceiling, I attempt to banish my currently unwelcome thoughts questioning how sturdy this damn table is and ask, "So, how do we do this?"

"Perfect," she announces before standing up and apologizing, "Sorry, I want to set the mood for you."

"Come again?" I croak, nearly swallowing my tongue.

"For your aromatherapy. Your sports massage will be much deeper and possibly a bit uncomfortable, but you've had plenty of these so you know that. Anyway, the aromatherapy massage I'll give you after will be much more gentle. The practice's ultimate purpose is to help you relax, ease tension, and calm your mind so that you can sleep. It'll loosen your muscles up, of course, but it's all executed with a higher purpose of releasing your mind and body of stress. Even now, you look as rigid as a board on the table. Are you sure you don't need something for the pain?"

"No, Scar. I'm good," I say, unable to stop myself from wrapping my fingers around hers as she comes to pull the top blanket back.

"You know, you're the only one who calls me that," she whispers.

Stroking my thumb across the back of her hand, I murmur, "Good. I like havin' somethin' of you that's all mine."

I hear her intake of breath a moment before she takes her hand back and steps away from the table, banishing my newfound insanity. Clearing my throat as she turns away from me, her hip bumping into her cart and a soft euphemism for swearing leaving her lips at the sharp contact, I try again.

"So how do we make this work?"

"You mean with your physical therapy?"

I want to tell her no—that what I mean is, how do we make this work between us? How do we navigate whatever has been drawing us closer these last months and act upon it without it imploding on us? Is there a world where the issues that come from her dad being the manager of the team and her brother being my teammate are not insurmountable? Would she jump into this with me if I ask?

Instead, I remember her comment that lumped me in with Roman and remind myself of the awkward age difference that puts me nine years older than her but also only nine years younger than her dad and say, "Yeah. Jennings said you could finish your semester remotely, but do you want to?"

Dipping her fingers into one of the tubs, she scoops out some of the solid cream and begins to heat and liquify it in her palms, announcing, "I'm going to start down at your calf so you can get used to my touch and we can slowly work out an ideal pressure. From there, I'll work my way up and announce each new touch. If you need me to change anything, if anything hurts beyond a slight discomfort, or if you change your mind about me, please, speak up."

Never, baby girl , floats through my head, choking off any answer beyond a simple nod.

Smiling at me, Scarlet hums, "Perfect," her fingers beginning to knead the area surrounding my shin, my cock thankfully behaving, at least for now.

"As for what I want," she circles back. "I want you out there playing, Remi. You're too good for this to be your end, and I'll go wherever, do whatever is needed of me to get you back out behind that plate in February. In twenty-one years, I've attended a traditional school environment for less than six. If anyone can manage and thrive with distance learning, it's me.

"I'm going to move up to your thigh. Let's softly bend your knee so I can reach your hamstring. It'll be sweeping motions down to your calf, alright?"

Following the gentle direction of her slick hands, I groan the moment she begins on the underside of my thigh.

"Fuuuuck… that feels amazing."

"Told you. I'm very good at what I do."

Moaning as her knuckles begin to roll and push deeper into knots I didn't even know I had, I ask, "What about friends? Boyfriend? Girlfriend for all I know."

"Remi, part of your job is to watch and read people," she quietly hums. "I know you see the dynamic with my classmates. What makes you think I have friends who aren't on this team or the wives and girlfriends of those on the team?"

"And a boyfriend?"

She laughs at that. Actually laughs, the sound full yet self-deprecating.

"What's so funny about that?"

"Seriously, where would I find one of those? In high school I was painfully shy and awkward, not that it mattered with Roman around. Those Brentwood boys were all too afraid of him and the ones that weren't, well, I don't want to be anyone's trophy.

"I actually didn't go on my first date until college. It was nice. Reeves picked me up at my door—I mean I lived in the house with him but still. He gave me flowers, which was the first time someone I knew other than Roman and our dad did that. We went to play minigolf and had dinner afterward. Stayed out even longer walking the campus and having ice cream before he brought me back home and kissed my cheek, wishing me goodnight in the kitchen before going to his room."

Listening to her wistful words, I feel punched in the gut. A deep ache and longing coming to life within. Of all the things I had thought about her and her life over the years, the idea that she didn't have a single friend who wasn't somehow tied to her dad and brother hadn't crossed my mind. The cameras and magazines make it seem like she lives such a charmed existence, but hearing her talk about her life away from the sport it almost seems… lonely.

Clearing my throat, I asked, "Was that your only date?"

"No. We went out quite a few more times. Football games, movies, picnics in the bed of his truck. He was always taking me somewhere or to do something. But things never progressed past those kisses on my cheek or holding my hand. It was all very sweet and wholesome but…"

Drifting off as her hands continue to work, she announces her progression up my thigh and towards my groin, choosing to remain quiet and keep whatever precious thoughts she was about to say locked inside her head. With her gaze firmly fixed on a spot on the wall, I settle in to counting the strokes of her touch, surprised by how soothing even her deep tissue work feels. Watching her, feeling her, it makes the rigidity I've been holding on to melt away.

Circling up with her palm.

Sliding down with her elbow.

Fingers kneading each sinewy thread and tendon.

With every pass of her hands, I drift further and further. Floating away to the elusive relaxation she had insisted I needed. The languid feeling coursing through my body in stark agreement with her assessment of me. I've been carrying more tension than I thought, not taking care of myself nearly well enough. And in a moment of lapping relaxation, my guard against her begins to drop. With each passing minute, a little bit more falls, allowing room for my response to her to grow.

Feeling her touch move around the socket of my hip, down my inner thigh, and over toward my ass, I groan again. The sound almost a grunt until it shifts into a moan. My spikes of pleasure increase with each pass as is my vocal response to her. My eyes rolling back as my breath stutters. Face screwing up tight as I start to grip the sheet between my fingers.

It's only when she whispers, "If it's too deep, Remi, let me know. This isn't something you should try to grit and bare," that conscious thought rushes back to me, though not fast enough to hold my tongue against my runaway mind.

"Trust me, baby girl, it feels really good," I answer, my voice rough with sexual tension even to my own ears.

Her hands stutter in their path but just as quickly continue on, her words even quieter as she murmurs, "I like making you feel good." That steals the fine threads of resolve I started to gain as my traitorous cock jumps to life.

I didn't want to push her into finishing her thoughts about the douche canoe she dated, but desperate for something to break the growing problem between my thighs I almost bark at her, "So what was wrong with Reece?"

"Reeves," she laughs. "And nothing. He was a perfect gentleman. He never pushed for more, never tried to steal anything extra, it was all just so…"

"Dull?"

"Exactly! I mean I have like zero experience," she shyly chuckles, making me instantly regret picking this conversation back up. "But I imagine it shouldn't be so comfortable all the time. Like, shouldn't there be passion and desire and a visceral need to touch and kiss? An impulse to, for lack of a more modern word, be far more amorous than is socially appropriate in public. The pull so strong that you have to fight against it only to lose from time to time."

Fucking hell, this was a terrible idea. Why of all the fucking topics in the world, did I have to continue with the one that has me thinking about showing her just how little restraint I want to be in possession of when around her?

I start to segue things to something else, anything else, only for her to add, "I don't know. I just feel like I should get to be both: a good girl and a good girl ," her words utterly destroying me as my dick officially pops an undeniable semi through the sheet, and I have to grip the the table's edge even harder to prevent my hand from yanking on her hair and telling her to be my good girl and get her ass up here with me.

Thankfully oblivious to the dirty thoughts rolling full steam ahead through my mind, Scarlet chuckles, "And Reeves Dawson, while an utter horndog with everyone else, did not act as if he would die without touching me. In fact, he treated me like I was made of spun glass, which was rather annoying."

"Wait, Dawson? As in the catcher for Minnesota? The one who lives with y'all in the offseason?"

"Yep. He played for Knoxville at the same time as Roman."

"He lived with you and still managed to keep his hands off you?" I scoff incredulously. "What a fuckin' tool."

"Be nice," she scolds, driving her admonishment home as she digs her knuckles a bit deeper, the sharp lick of pain working to deflate my dick. "He's a good person. He just wasn't my person. At least not like that."

Reaching up to tuck the errant strands of hair back behind her ear, I defend, "I'm just sayin', if my girl is begging for me to kiss her, you can fuckin' bet I'm going to every chance I get and that I won't stop until all she can remember is my name." Letting my hand linger in place for a short moment as she leans into my touch, I add, "Anything less would make me a damn fool."

Dropping my hand, I clear my throat as I say, "Well, if there's nothing keeping you tied to Chattanooga, why not come with me to Gatlinburg? As much as I love the city, I'm always ready for a break in the mountains by the time the season's over. It's about the same distance for you if you need to be on campus for whatever reason. And I have most everything we'll need in the gym. Besides, we already established you need to rest as much as I do if you're going to be rehabbing my ass from dawn to dusk everyday. There's no place better for it."

Jesus, I'm an idiot for suggesting this but the more I talk, the more I really want her to say yes.

All I could think about last night as I was scanned for MRIs and the trainers and doctors discussed my prognosis, options, and length of recovery for each, was what I had accomplished in life versus not. It isn't arrogance to say I've had an excellent career thus far. Eight seasons in the League and all of them with the Nighthawks. Three World Series appearances and two wins. Four time All Star player, two Golden Gloves, a Silver Slugger, MVP, and consistently ranked in the top ten, if not the top five, amongst all active catchers.

My career's been marked with accolades that assure everyone that one day, I'll be in the Hall of Fame and probably see my number retired in The Nest right alongside my idol's. That I'll be more than a footnote in the Nighthawks' team history. But as I had lain there, only partially listening to the odds of me making a full recovery and returning to play at my current level and ability, I hadn't been haunted by what I could miss if this was the end. That particular what if was barely more than a blip on my radar.

What stood out was my empty apartment. No wife, no girlfriend, no dog, fuck not even a fish to come home to. No one to take me to the hospital tomorrow and wait for me. No one to drive me home afterward. With my ma gone, there was no one in my life. I was just as alone outside the sport as Scarlet was.

My entire life had been devoted to baseball, and at the end of the day, as much as I loved the sport, it only loved me back as long as I was of use to it. If I didn't—couldn't—return, it would only take a news cycle or two before I completely faded into obscurity. Became a relic only brought out when talking about the illustrious reign of the Nighthawks ever since Boomer Hayes drafted Colt Jones.

And amongst all those realizations that had me spiraling was her. Scarlet Jones. The thing—person—I would miss the most if my career was over. Not suiting up. Not the rush and sting of catching a fastball and making it look as effortless as breathing. Not the euphoria of swinging the bat and knowing I've just hit a homerun. Not the weight of being handed trophies and plaques and rings.

Her.

I would miss her and the very thought of not seeing her everyday, not laughing with her over her dog's latest antics, not listening to her talk about her classes and sports medicine journals, not being able to reach out and touch her, however innocent. These were the thoughts that had me in a chokehold. The feeling of dread, fear, and finality over losing her without ever having had her eclipsing everything else.

It's crazy. Absolutely insane to offer, but if I have any hope of chasing and earning Scarlet, I need to get her out of Nashville. Out of the city, away from the stadium and the sport, and with just enough distance between her and Colt and Roman so she can breathe, think, and act without subconsciously being influenced by their presence and words. So we can be together as us.

"I didn't say nothing was holding me back. Just none of the things you mentioned. I have Winnie and with dad and Roman potentially going on the road for the playoffs, no one is around to look after her for me. Even then, she's a bit skittish and codependent. She gets really bad separation anxiety if I'm gone longer than a few hours. It's why normally she's here somewhere even when it's not Dog Days at the Park."

Smiling at her as she picks up the sheet and fastidiously looks at the ceiling while telling me to turn over, I shift into place and say, "I've always wanted a dog. It was a luxury we couldn't afford growing up, not in addition to all my baseball gear and travel league expenses. Then when I had the money, it just seemed selfish and cruel since I no longer had the time."

Moving around to the front and leaning over me to begin a much gentler massage along my shoulders and down my arms, her breasts mere inches from my face, my mouth watering at the idea of closing my lips around one of her nipples that's drawn taut against her tank, I say, "She's like your baby. I would never ask you to leave her behind. My invitation extends to you and her. Though I must confess, my offer isn't entirely selfless."

"Oh really? What dastardly, self-serving motivations could you possibly have with getting me out to the mountains?"

Aside from wanting to steal, covet, and be given every single inch of her heart and body so I take up as much space inside her as she does me? Not much.

"Haven't you been listening, Scar? I get to be a pseudo dog owner for the next ten weeks. It'll be great practice at having one of my own if I can't get back in the game."

Letting out another full hearted laugh, she chides, "You're ridiculous. First off, we're getting you back out behind the plate in time for Spring Training. Come hell or high water, it's happening, and I won't rest until it does.

"Second, if you think you can handle Winnie's neurosis, you are more than welcome to put in an application to get a time-share with her. All the joys of doggie companionship with none of the lifetime commitment."

"Trust me, lifetime commitments aren't a deterrent for me, baby girl."