Chapter Twelve
Nash
I straighten my tie in the bedroom mirror, already dreading meeting my parents for dinner. After last night’s kiss with Avery, the last thing I want is to spend an evening listening to my mother’s thinly veiled judgments about my life choices.
“The blue one looks better.”
I turn to find Avery leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. Even in simple jeans and a T-shirt, she’s stunning.
“Thanks,” I say, switching ties.
“You’re welcome.” She smiles, but I can tell things are different between us.
I finish up and follow her downstairs, where Benji is sprawled out on the couch scrolling through Netflix.
“Can we watch a movie when you get home?” he asks.
Sorry, Champ,“ I say, checking my watch, “I might not make it before bedtime. How about a rain check?”
Avery settles onto the couch beside Benji. “We’ll be fine. You go charm your parents.”
“Trust me, with my mother, charm is useless.” I go to grab my keys from the counter when
the doorbell rings. I look up at Avery. “Did you order takeout?”
“No.” She shrugs, and confusion washes over me as I walk toward the front door.
I’m not sure what—or who—I expect to be on the other side when I open it, but to say I’m shocked to see my mother standing there with a bag of groceries would be an understatement of massive proportions.
“Nash, darling! Surprise!”
“Mom?” I try to hide the panic in my voice. “I thought we were meeting at Morton’s.”
“Change of plans, dear. I told your father it was silly to meet at some stuffy steakhouse when I could just as easily cook for you here.” My mother bustles past me without a care in the world. “Besides, I’ve been dying to see this new house of yours. The realtor’s photos hardly do it justice.”
My father steps inside behind her, offering me a firm handshake and a pat on the back. “Good to see you, Son.”
His eyes immediately scan the living room, taking in Benji, who’s frozen mid-bite with a handful of popcorn, and Avery, who’s risen from the couch with a panicked deer-in-headlights expression.
Could this night get any worse?
“I hope we’re not interrupting,” my father says, giving me a measured look.
“No, it’s fine,” I say, desperate to salvage the situation. “Mom, Dad, this is Avery and her brother Benji. Remember I mentioned my mentorship with the Play It Forward program? Benji is the one I told you I’m mentoring.”
My mother pauses her inspection of my kitchen to turn and assess them. An awkward silence fills the room as she presses her lips together in a thin smile. “Oh, yes. The little baseball prodigy and his sister. How unexpected to find you… here .”
Avery shoots me an accusing glance, then straightens her spine and smiles. “Mrs. Fontaine, how nice to finally meet you. Benji and I were about to put on a movie, but don’t worry. We can go.”
“Oh, please,” my mother scoffs, already unpacking her grocery bag. “It’s Elizabeth. And don’t be silly. You’ll both stay and join us for dinner. I insist.”
The next hour and a half of my life is spent wondering what I must have done in my previous life to deserve such lousy luck. The air around the dinner table is so charged that it’s a wonder how we’re not all struck down by lightning.
“So, Avery, tell us about yourself. What is it that you do for work?”
Avery takes a slow sip from her water glass, then sets it down in front of her. “I work at the stadium. At The Dugout Club.”
“Oh?” My mother dabs the corner of her mouth with a napkin and raises a brow. “And are you a manager there?”
“Technically, no. I’m a server,” Avery says, lifting her chin. “But I’ve applied for a position in management.”
“How nice. And your parents? What do they do?” Mom’s smile is polite, but I’m not buying it. And from the looks of it, neither is Avery.
Avery’s fingers tighten around her fork. “They’re… not in the picture. It’s just me and Benji.”
“Oh, dear. For how long?” my mother presses.
“Mom,” I interject, “maybe we could talk about—“
“No. It’s fine, Nash,” Avery cuts me off. “I’ve been Benji’s legal guardian going on five years now.”
Mom’s reply comes with even more fake pity. “My goodness. That’s quite a responsibility for someone so young. How ever do you manage?”
Her condescending tone makes me cringe. I want to say something to defend Avery, but my words get stuck in my throat. Besides, I know better than to wage war with my mother. Especially in the presence of guests.
“We get by.” Avery’s voice is steady despite the flush creeping up her neck.
“And how long has this... arrangement been going on?” My father speaks for the first time since sitting down, his analytical gaze shifting between me and Avery.
Before I can answer, Benji pipes up, “Our house has termites! Nash said we could stay here until it’s fixed.”
My father nods with an unreadable expression. “I see. Quite the charitable host.”
“It’s not charity, Dad.” I try to keep the defensiveness from my voice. “I told you, I’m his mentor. Besides, Benji here’s got real talent. His coach even nominated him for the All-Star team.”
“Really?” Mom says, turning her attention to Benji. “Well, you must be special to have caught Nash’s attention. He’s always had incredibly high standards.”
Benji beams, oblivious to all the backhanded comments going around. “Last week he taught me how to switch-hit!”
As Benji launches into a detailed explanation of our last practice session, my father studies Avery with the same calculating look I’ve seen a hundred times before. It’s the same one he uses whenever he’s trying to assess a new business venture—or a potential threat.
The rest of the dinner passes in a similar pattern. Mom probes with more invasive questions while Avery continues to respond with straightforward answers, and I fail miserably to intervene, all while Dad sits back and quietly observes.
Benji’s bedtime can’t come fast enough, and when it finally does, I volunteer to clean up just so Avery and Benji can make their break.
When the coast is clear, I ask my parents to join me in the study, knowing I’m about to get an earful from both of them.
Dad finds my crystal decanter on the table by the bookshelf and pours himself a tumbler of single malt over ice, while Mom busies herself with brewing tea in the adjoining kitchenette.
“Interesting living arrangement you’ve found yourself in.” He sinks into one of the leather armchairs, swirling the amber liquid in his glass before taking a sip.
“It’s only temporary,” I say, taking the chair opposite.
“Is it?” Mom returns with her teacup, perching on the edge of the sofa. “Because it certainly didn’t look temporary from where I was sitting.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” she says, stirring her tea, “that I recognize that look, Nash. The way you were watching her all through dinner.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t play dumb, darling. It doesn’t suit you.” She sets her spoon down on the saucer with a clink. “I’m concerned about your involvement with this woman.”
“Her name is Avery. And there’s no ‘involvement’ to be concerned about.”
“Please. I raised you. I know when you’re interested in someone.
” She takes another sip of tea, then sets her cup and saucer down on one of the glass end tables.
“Women like her, they see opportunity, Nash. Using a vulnerable child as leverage to get close to a wealthy bachelor like yourself... it’s a tale as old as time. ”
Every fiber of my being wants to tell my mother how wrong she is, but for some strange reason, I don’t. At first, I think it’s because of all the years I’ve spent conditioning myself to never question my parents’ better judgment, but I know it’s not that simple.
“Your mother’s concerns aside,” my father adds, “there are practical matters to consider. You’re a public figure—a professional athlete with endorsement deals and a reputation to maintain.”
“Okay, but why should who I choose to spend time with be anyone else’s business?”
“You’re the child’s mentor, Nash. Can you honestly say you haven’t considered how a relationship with his entrusted guardian would appear to the public?
To your team? To your sponsors? After that stunt you pulled in Sacramento, your focus should be less on playing house and more on how you plan to rebuild your image.
Face it, Son. Baseball is a business. And women like Ms. Morrow are bad for business. ”
“Where’s your head at Fontaine?! Don’t think I won’t give your starting position to Reyes!” Coach Donnovan shouts after I miss my third ground ball. It’s the morning after that nightmare of a dinner with my parents, and I know now is not the time to be distracted.
Tonight, we’re facing the Milwaukee Cheese Heads— one of Chicago’s biggest rivals—but all I can think about is Avery while my father’s lecture from last night plays on repeat in my mind. When Coach finally blows the whistle, I try stopping by the Dugout Club to see her.
“Not a good time, Nash.”
She’s standing behind the hostess stand, holding a dry-erase marker, and only looks up long enough to see me walk through the door before avoiding eye contact completely.
“Can we just talk for a minute?” I try reaching for her hand, and she pulls away.
“You can’t keep coming around when I’m working. I’ve got customers.”
Her voice is flat. Distant. Before I can ask if she’s okay after last night’s ambush, she turns and walks away, disappearing through the door to the kitchen. So much for asking for a good luck kiss before my big game.
On my way out, I get a text from Carmen.
Emergency meeting. My office. NOW.
Twenty minutes later, I’m staring at the string of photos splashed across Carmen’s tablet. Photos of me and Avery looking cozy outside the clubhouse.
“‘Nash Fontaine Settling Down with a Stadium Employee?’” Carmen reads the headline. “This is exactly what I was talking about, Nash. I warned you, but you didn’t want to listen. I’m not gonna lie. This is bad. Really bad.”
I snatch the tablet off the desk and scroll through the article. “It’s a reach is what it is. This whole article is trash. They’ve got nothing to back up their claims other than a few photos.”
“Come on, Nash. You know as well as I do that a picture’s worth a thousand words.
And even if it weren’t, you’re still living with her.
They may not have put two and two together, but you know they will eventually.
You need to think long and hard about how much of your reputation are you willing to throw away trying to help her. ”
I know Carmen is right to worry, but despite what her, or my dad, or anyone else seems to think, I couldn’t care less how a bunch of stupid photos of the two of us hanging out might affect my reputation.
What I am concerned with is how it affects Avery’s. Does she even know these pictures exist?
I think about her blowing me off at the restaurant, and a knot forms in my stomach. Of course she does. First my parents. Now this. It’s no wonder she didn’t want me hanging around.
“How do we make this go away?” I ask, worried about what might happen if the press starts digging and learns the truth. Avery’s big promotion aside, would Milo still allow me, his star mentor, to work with Benji if it meant a PR nightmare for his foundation?
“The only way we know how,” Carmen replies with a frown. “Avery and Benji have got to go.”