Chapter 3

3

Tripp

Guilt isn't my favorite emotion, but it's been my constant companion from the minute Lila cried Levi's name while I had my hand down her panties last night.

Jesus.

I almost screwed a woman who thought I was my brother.

In a club bathroom.

Just because I wanted to, and she was pretty, and she kissed me, and for that moment, I wasn't a widowed dad of two.

I was just a guy enjoying what felt good in the moment.

And fuck , did she feel good.

But guilt makes for a very, very long night. Levi not blinking at me showing up without his shirt didn't help.

It's like he knows, and he's letting me stew.

The only thing better about morning is that I'm able to get an early private fitting for a suit so I don't have to wear Levi's tight-ass pants to the meeting with Sam Pakorski, baseball's current commissioner.

But even suiting up can't erase the guilt of last night.

That's not me.

Period.

If it was me, I would've made sure I had a condom in my back pocket, I would've known her name three weeks before even asking her for a drink, and I would've made sure she didn't have so much as a cold, because germs are deadly.

If I have to pretend to be my brother to have a good time, then I have fucking issues .

Issues fucking.

And fucking issues.

Not the least of which is privately high-fiving myself for my first real foray into not being afraid of germs in almost two years.

I reach into my pocket for my hand sanitizer, but Levi gives me a look, and I pull my hand back out without cleaning off.

Did I mention I missed the video call from my mother-in-law while I was trying on the damn suit?

It's been twenty hours since I talked to my kids, and I don't know the last time either of them washed their hands. Yeah, it's nice that I didn't have to deal with meltdowns over bedtime, but between the guilt and the unusual bed, and perpetually waiting for James to crawl into bed with me around four AM before Emma woke up serenading us over the baby monitor with her version of "Ice, Ice, Baby," as she does every morning since Levi taught her the song, I'm still off-kilter.

"Whoa, hold up, old man," Levi says as we stroll into the lobby of the Manhattan building housing the commissioner's office for our eleven AM meeting. "You got a little something here on your face…"

"Toothpaste? Bagel? Dammit, did I cut myself shaving?"

"No, it's this frowny-frown that needs to get flipped upside down."

The only thing I'm capable of flipping is the bird. And so I do.

Levi doesn't laugh—which is good, because he'd get slugged if he did—but he does clap me on the shoulder. "I don't know what you got into last night, or how you lost my shirt, but if you don't want to talk about it, you need to let it go. You've worked too hard for this. You know your kids are gonna love growing up at Duggan Field and watching the Fireballs. Can't get there if you don't have your head in the game right now ."

He's right.

There's too much riding on this meeting for me to derail it with regrets over being an idiot last night. And for my kids' sakes, I need to relax and trust that they're fine. I'll see them again in a few days, and they'll be just fine .

So I step into the elevator, imagine James's expression the first time I take him into the dugout at Duggan Field to meet the team we've spent hours watching on TV this summer and fall, squirt my hand sanitizer into my palm despite the look it gets me from my brother, and I find my own game face.

Which turns out to be unnecessary, because at the precise moment when Pakorski is supposed to walk into the conference room so we can pitch our vision for the Fireballs to him, he walks in and drops a bomb on the entire day.

"Gentlemen, we're going to have to postpone."

Levi and I trade glances. "Why?" I ask.

Pakorski tips back a bottle of antacids like they're candy and crunches loudly. "Beversdorf had a stroke last night. Doctors don't think he's gonna make it."

We both stare at him.

He jiggles his bottle. "Change is coming for the Fireballs, gentlemen. Don't know exactly how it'll play out, but change is coming. Probably in the form of whoever's listed in his will, which doesn't mean you're out, but it does mean I can't have this meeting without being an asshole. Sorry for the wasted trip. I'll have my secretary reach out when we know more."

And that's that.

The dream I've been working for—the whole reason I agreed to let my in-laws keep my kids, the reason I'm in New York, the reason I was in that club last night—gets a little further away.

Again.