9. Remington

NINE

REMINGTON

One cup of bland chicken broth, a few spoonfuls of unpalatable jello, no less than fifty reminders to take it easy the rest of the afternoon and start my rehab off slowly, two dozen questions from Scar about what to watch out for in the hours and days following my post op, and one short lived battle with Jones and Jennings that resulted in my ass getting plonked in a wheelchair, I was already exhausted but thankfully discharged.

Out front, Jennings and my doctors were handling the traveling media circus that had showed up in the hours since my arrival. Though the team had held onto our lead and we further positioned ourselves for the playoffs, all anyone was talking about in the two days since was my injury. What and why it was such an issue for a catcher, the subsequent surgery and just how much needed to be repaired, the likelihood of me returning to the game in the spring, and at some point between falling asleep on the phone with Scar and her arrival just a few short hours later at the hospital, the cat had slipped the bag about her overseeing the initial phases of my recovery. It was turning into a firestorm and had she not already agreed to going home with me to the mountains, I would have insisted upon it to keep her from the shit I was just beginning to get a glimpse of them saying.

The sports world liked to paint a pretty picture about the inclusion of women, but it was things like this that shined a light on their forgery. It was as misogynistic now as it had always been.

They weren't talking about her academic record and how she was set to graduate the program before her twenty-second birthday. There wasn't a word about the various certifications she had already achieved. They weren't even discussing how her entire life had been lived inside The Nest, giving her a first look at numerous injuries, recoveries, and abrupt retirements.

No, the few minutes I saw before Scarlet snatched the remote and clicked the TV off, telling me to pay them no mind as my heart rate monitor spiked, made her look like a vapid, bubble headed doll. They talked about what she wore in and out of the stadium and the endorsements her pretty face and prominent name secured for her then splashed photographs from when she had gone wild and agreed to model for the line of activewear that sponsored her dad and brother. Because apparently it was okay and not a sexual objectification to make women compete in sports bras and bikini bottoms that covered little more than a thong, but when the MLB's darling was making money off it, it was tantamount to her posing as a centerfold. Then there was a quick blip about her dating Reeves Dawson in college, the return of the age-old question about her and Roman, and now added to the lineup, a still shot of her and I talking before I went up to bat on Thursday, her dad and Jennings conveniently cropped out.

Though I had to admit, even the quick glimpse I got before she shut it off didn't exactly paint me in a professional light. Maybe because I knew and accepted my own infatuation with her, but it was clear that at least for me, there was more going on between us. Or at least, the desire for more.

So out the front my medical team went and out the back we were going. Colt and Roman were leading the way, my bags tossed over their shoulders, as Scar impressively kept up with their brisk pace given how high her wedged shoes were, wheeling me through the labyrinth of corridors. At my side, Winnie stood proud, effortlessly keeping up, her face alert and zeroed in on our destination. And behind us, a poor nurse trotted to keep up with the Jones family parade, occasionally muttering about our contraband Doberman and blatant disregard for hospital policies

Rounding a corner a little faster than I would like, my concern beginning to rise over her driving skill, I ask, "Y'all do this a lot?"

"Not often, but when they think there's a story to be had, even sports media can be quite tenacious." Squeezing my shoulder as she navigates me into an elevator, she promises, "Don't worry Remi; in a few days they'll realize how ridiculous they're being and let off."

"What?"

"About you and my little sister sleeping together," Roman sneers, dropping my bag. "Completely ridiculous, right Remi ?"

Coming in after holding the door for the nurse, Colt swears, "Do they really have to bring that picture out? Jesus fucking Christ," repeatedly punching the button for where they're parked until the doors hiss closed.

"Well your son is hot, and he and your daughter definitely have that whole, Taylor Swift ‘Style,' ‘Wildest Dreams,' vibe going on. So I don't think it's entirely out of the realm of possibility; good girls love a bad boy," the nurse comments, drawing all of our attention.

"Ew! Gross," Scarlet enunciates, making me stifle a laugh as I see her reflection give a whole body shiver in repulsion. "Ew, ew, EW! Oh I think she just ruined two of my favorite songs."

Tilting my head back, I smile, "We can fix that." I can feel Roman's glare lock back in on me as his sister's face softens upon meeting my eye.

"Thank God," Colt praises as the elevator dings, Winnie right behind him as they both make a break for Scarlet's Nighthawks' green Rover with pink plates featuring a princess's crown.

"Here Squeaks, let me take Remington while you sign his paperwork," her brother smoothly says, easily getting her to step aside as he takes over pushing me into the garage.

"Thanks, Ro-Boat," she smiles, innocently oblivious to the poorly concealed malice rolling off her brother as she begins peppering the nurse with her final questions, her face just a little less sunny after the woman's comment about the possible parallels between her, Roman, and her favorite songs.

Forgoing the ramp and dropping me off the curb with a hard thump I feel deep in my hip despite the nerve block, Roman leans down by my ear and hisses, "If you don't want me to make sure you never play another game of professional ball again, you'll stay the fuck away from my sister, Tate. I mean it; touch her and I'll break every bone in your hand before fucking up your other hip.

"She's too na?ve to see what you're up to, but I do. So I'm going to make this idiot proof for you: Do. Not. Fuck. My. Sister. Don't fuck her. Don't touch her. Don't even fucking look at her. Are we clear?"

Planting my crutches on the ground as he jerks me to a stop at her SUV's passenger door, I stand up shakier than I had hoped and hobble around to face him, the stoop I'm forced into dragging me down the spare few inches I have over him.

"No."

"What?"

"I said, ‘ no .' No , I will not stay away from Scar. No , I will not stop looking at her. And no , I will not stop touching her—not unless she wants me to. Make no mistake Roman, you don't have the power or control here."

I really should have seen it coming. I blame the surgery, lingering anesthesia, hunger, and all around sense of exhaustion as to why I didn't and thus didn't prepare myself for the impact.

One second he's standing in front of me, nostrils flared and eyes narrowed and the next my back is colliding with Scarlet's car, her brother's—my teammate's—arm crushing in on my throat.

"Remington? You okay?" Colt calls from the tinted trunk of his daughter's car.

"Yeah," I cough as Roman lets up just enough for me to answer. "Just slipped is all; Ro saved me with his chokehold grip, though, so no worries," I smile.

"Good. Can't have you getting banged up before we even get you out of the hospital," he laughs before groaning, "Jesus Winnie, come on. You fell out one time and this time I'm right here to catch you. Just jump up; it's easy."

"Let's try this again since clearly your hearing and comprehension were also affected when you went and let Atlanta bust your hip.

"I don't care where you put your dick," he starts slowly as if my intelligence was the hindrance to my understanding. "So long as it isn't in my sister. Scarlet is not some Baseball Annie, cleat chasing, cock sucking slut. You're not gonna use her to get your dick wet while you're laid up on the sidelines, you understand? Because if you do and she gets hurt, I will fuck your shit up so bad, they'll be saying, ‘Tonya Harding, who?'"

Applying just a bit more pressure, the compression on my windpipe affecting me more than the eye roll I let him see, he adds, "And if you don't believe me, call Reeves Dawson and ask him for the story behind why Scarlet started living with us."

Letting me go, he spits in disgust, "Now get your ass in the car and keep your fucking hands to yourself."

Beginning to turn, I pointedly stab the rubber end of my crutch into his foot. Holding it down as a long stream of repressed swears are muttered, I speak equally as slow and quiet to avoid being overheard as Scarlet makes her way over, my attention briefly caught and held as she executes a flawless squat in her heels and easily lifts her dog up into her arms, the short hem of her dress getting caught and exposing the rest of her thigh and up to her hip where the ruffled trim of her panties peeks out.

Glancing back at my infuriated pitcher, I say, "You love your sister more than life itself and want to protect her. I get it. I even respect you for it, because one thing we can agree on, she's far too bright, soft, and kind for this world. People see her and want to use her up until there's nothing left because she's incandescent, and it's human nature to want to bask in that purity until envy bleeds in and has us snuffing it out.

"What I can't respect is how you're treatin' her and the message you're sending by acting like a rabid dog in need of puttin' down. You don't get to decide who she spends her time with or gives her attention to, and you sure as fuck don't get to dictate what she does and doesn't do with her body. All you're doing with this is indirectly tellin' her you don't think she's capable. That she isn't competent enough to have her own autonomy.

"My ma always said, ‘Never treat a woman as if she's incapable of doing things for herself. Because the moment you make her feel like she's dependent upon you, you've lost her.' Don't let Scarlet become dependent upon you. Let her make her own choices and support her through whatever they are, Roman. Even if that choice leads her to me."

"It won't."

"And if it doesn't, trust that I'll respect her enough to accept that and let things be."

"Not a fucking chance in hell."

Popping up like fucking Dracula, Colt's at our side without a whisper of warning, asking, "We good here?" his face frustratingly neutral, leaving me unable to read exactly which situation he's asking us about.

Faster on the draw, Roman pushes my crutch away and answers, "Yeah Dad, just making sure cripple here knows what's expected of him. I mean Knox is good and will work for the time, but let's not mess up a good thing by getting crazy ideas about wanting things beyond our reach."

Coming from the front of the car, Scarlet stands at the epicenter of all three of us, declaring, "Winnie's in and settled with her toys and we got your bags into the trunk, so I'm ready when you are."

"I go when and where you go, Scar."

"Godspeed, Remington," Colt says somberly. "My daughter excels at many things, but driving ain't one of ‘em."

"Hey! I am not that bad."

"Sure you're not," he and Roman both snort.

Looking up at me, her shoes bringing her a little closer but not enough that she would no longer fit tucked under my chin, she pouts, "You trust me, don't you, Remi?"

"With my life."

"At least one of you has faith in me," she sniffs, before turning on her heel, the skirt of her dress swishing beneath her ass as she all but skips around to her side of the car, Roman dutifully following her and opening her door, the vehicle coming to life a moment later as Colt opens my own.

"I'm trusting you with our girl, Remington," he says, taking my crutches and feeding them into her trunk over Winnie's head in the back as I collapse into the unsurprisingly light pink colored leather of her car's custom interior. "Take care of her."

"I will."

Tapping the roof of her car as he closes the door, Colt shouts, "Love you; drive safe!" Scarlet hands me her unlocked phone and instructs, "Pick a playlist," before peeling out of her parking spot, waving to her dad and brother in the rearview mirror, her signature pinkish gold rimmed aviators sliding into place on her face as we race up the ramp.

Finding one that's titled with eight green heart emojis bracketed with a baseball on either side, I smile and hit shuffle. Capturing her hand as she replaces her giant, insulated cup in the holder, I work her fingers to fit inside the palm of my hand on top of the center console as Carrie Underwood's "Get Out Of This Town," fills her speakers, and she rolls through a stop sign before speeding to the freeway where it takes no time at all for me to learn my girl is, in fact, that bad of a driver.