Chapter Three
Nash
I arrive at the field a few minutes early, unable to take my mind off Avery. Women in her line of work know better than to expect anything serious from guys like me, which may make wooing her a challenge. But it also makes her a safe bet when I’m trying not to catch feelings.
Because who needs serious when you can have fun being single?
Especially when every woman I’ve let in wants the lifestyle, not the man behind it.
I bet none of them would’ve looked twice if I was some no-name rookie playing in the minors.
What’s even more unsettling is how quickly they run after learning what dating a man in the constant spotlight is really like.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned after years of failed relationships—it’s that love and baseball just don’t mix.
“Nash Fontaine!” a voice shouts from across the diamond before I can set my water bottle down.
A man in his mid-forties with prematurely receding blonde hair bounds toward me like I’m his long-lost son. He can’t be over 5‘9“, though rumor around the dugout has it he insists he’s “five-eleven in cleats.”
“Miles O’Donnell, Director and Chief of Play It Forward ,“ he says, pumping my hand with a surprising strength that I imagine would make him a powerhouse in an arm-wrestling match.
“But please—call me Milo. Thrilled to have you on board! Did you know mentors who stay involved for a full season report higher career satisfaction by forty-two percent? I have charts!”
His gray eyes search around like he’s tracking invisible insects, all while still somehow maintaining perfect eye contact. It’s a rather disorienting talent, I must say.
I nod politely, scanning the field for the cameras I’m sure Carmen arranged to document my good deed. After all, that’s the only reason we’re all here, isn’t it?
“Let me introduce you to your new little brother,” Milo says, clapping me on the shoulder. “I hear he’s been talking about you all week.”
Before we can take two steps, Milo’s attention is hijacked by a frantic staff member waving a clipboard. “Errr—just a minute,” he says, holding up a finger in her direction before turning back to face me. “I’m so sorry, Nash, but you’ll have to excuse me. Wait right here. I’ll be back in a jiffy!”
He dashes off toward the woman with the clipboard, already launching into some random story about his own mentor from 1992.
With a few minutes to kill, I hang back near the entrance to the dugout as my teammates interact with their assigned little leaguers.
Martinez, our catcher, shows his freckle-faced boy the proper way to grip a fastball, while Reynolds, our closer, listens intently as some lanky teenager recounts his first game-winning hit.
To the press, it might seem like they’re all a bunch of do-gooders. But I’m smart enough to see it for what it really is.
I know all about Martinez and the tequila sponsorship he landed last season.
It’s obvious what someone like him could stand to gain from this kind of family-friendly optic.
I also know about Reynolds and his current contract negotiations.
There’s no telling how this mentorship stint will look on his agent’s list of talking points.
Even Diaz, who I consider one of the more genuine guys on the team, is practically shoving his kid in front of every camera lens that flashes.
Smart moves, all of them. But it just goes to show that we’ve all got something to gain here.
I scan the group of kids still seated inside the dugout and wonder which one I'll be paired with. Most look starstruck, but I bet that’s exactly what Carmen wants—a kid who’ll gush to reporters about Nash Fontaine’s generosity.
“Alright, Nash!” Milo’s voice behind me nearly makes me jump out of my skin. Where on earth did he just come from? “Time to meet your new little brother!”
I follow him down into the dugout, mentally preparing my “honored to be here” speech for any nearby reporters, but I’m caught off guard when the kid Milo stops beside looks like he might spontaneously combust if I come one step closer.
His height seems average compared to his peers—but hose him down, and I bet he doesn’t weigh more than ninety pounds soaking wet.
That and the fact that he’s sporting an unruly mop of brown hair that sticks out from under an old Street Sweepers ball cap that’s probably one full size too big makes me wonder if he’s filling in for an older brother or something.
“Nash, this is Benjamin Morrow, or Benji, as he likes to be called. And Benji, this is—“
“Nash Fontaine!” The kid’s eyes are practically saucers. “Dude, I’ve been following your stats since you started with the Breakers! Your OPS last season was insane, especially against lefties.”
I blink hard, wondering if I should be the one who’s starstruck.
“Twenty-seven home runs and ninety-two RBIs last season,” he goes on without missing a beat, “and that’s with missing two weeks in July!”
Something about his unfiltered enthusiasm throws me for a loop.
Like how I used to recite player stats to my grandfather.
But that was back when baseball was just a game I loved.
My father was right when he said things would change the day I turned pro.
Baseball is a business like anything else, and if you ever want to get to the top, you have to start treating it that way.
Milo claps his hands, pulling me back to reality, and guides us to a nearby bench.
“Alright! Now that you two have met, let me explain how Play It Forward mentorship works. You see… our program isn’t just about fostering talent, Nash.
It’s about creating meaningful connections that transform both lives in the equation. ”
I nod on autopilot, scanning the field out of the corner of my eye for any sign of Carmen. Surely, she’s around here somewhere hunting for photographic evidence of this touching moment.
“You know,” Milo says, suddenly going all philosophical, “most people think mentorship is about what the mentor gives to the mentee. But the real magic happens when we realize that what we receive in return is often more valuable than what we give.”
While Benji may be hanging on every word, I’ve heard enough motivational speeches to recognize program rhetoric when I hear it.
“The biggest impact rarely comes from your wallet or even your talent,” Milo adds, tapping his chest. “It comes from here. From showing up consistently and seeing someone’s true potential before they see it themselves.”
Right, I think. Great PR soundbite.
“So,” I say, turning on my best media smile, “when do we start with the batting practice?”
“Benji!” Coach Donnovan’s voice interrupts from outside the dugout. “Someone here for you, Son.”
Benji jumps up so fast he nearly sends Milo’s clipboard flying. “Coming, Coach!” He darts toward the dugout entrance, leaving me and Milo mid-conversation.
I turn back toward the steps leading up to the field, half curious to see who’s out there and half anxious to get away before Milo goes off on another tangent.
“My glove!” Benji’s voice rises with excitement. “Where did you find it? I was freaking out and looking everywhere for it!”
I reach the entrance just as Benji reaches over the railing to retrieve a worn leather glove. A smile tugs at my lips when I recognize the person on the giving end.
It’s her. Avery. Loose strands of dark hair cascade around her flawless skin, and she’s even more beautiful than I remember.
I move forward another few feet until I’m in clear view and Benji exclaims, “Oh, man! You’re never gonna believe who my new Big Brother is!”
Her gaze meets mine, and recognition dawns on her face. Has she been playing hard to get this entire time?
“Well, look who it is,” I say, crossing my arms. “Hey there… Sugar.”
Benji’s head whips around to face me. “Wait—you guys know each other?”
“We’ve met,” I say casually, not taking my eyes off Avery. “Your mom and I had a brief encounter at lunch today.”
“Mom?” Benji sputters before erupting into laughter. “Dude, gross! She’s my sister! ”
His… sister? Uh oh.
I glance back up at Avery, my mind recalibrating. “Sorry about that,” I say, hoping my attempt to pick my jaw up off the floor is successful. “Honest mistake.”
Avery narrows her eyes, and if looks could kill, I’d be laid out flat right here next to the bullpen.
“Yeah, he came in earlier for lunch. So, technically, we’ve met.
” She looks back at Benji, her features growing softer until that angel face returns.
The same one that’s been stuck in my head all day.
“Look, kiddo. I’ve got a lot of work to do when we get home.
Any idea how much longer before you’re done? ”
I know the meet and greet doesn’t end for another half hour, but seeing how Benji and I have already met, I don’t think they’d mind if we left a little early. Especially if it gives me more time to watch Avery pretend the attraction isn’t mutual.
“I think we’re all set,” I say, turning to Benji. “Hey, Champ. What do you say we grab our gear? I’ll let Milo know your ride is here, then I can walk you both out.”
“Seriously?!” His eyes light up, and for reasons I can’t explain, something tugs at my chest.
“Sure. But only if it’s okay with—“ I laugh, returning my gaze to this mystery of a woman. “I’m sorry. Avery, is it?”