Chapter Four

Nash

A very stares back at me with those big, innocent eyes, then lets out a sigh like she’s already lost. “Fine, whatever.”

On our way to the parking lot, I pull out every stop to impress her until I’m convinced she’s playing hard to get just to drive me wild. Lucky for her, I don’t give up so easily.

We cross the field toward an exit along the back gate, with Benji bouncing alongside me like his shoes are spring-loaded. Every few steps, he tosses his glove into the air and catches it with a satisfying smack against the leather.

“You know, your fielding percentage is like, crazy good for someone who’s only been playing shortstop for two seasons,” Benji rattles off, launching into baseball stats mode. “Did you really turn twenty-seven double plays last year? That’s almost a record!”

“Twenty-nine, actually. But who’s counting, right?”

“I am!” Benji laughs, tossing his glove again. “I’ve been tracking your stats since rookie year. Oh! And that diving catch against Detroit during the playoffs? Insane!”

The glove sails higher this time, spinning slightly as it reaches its apex. When it comes down, he misjudges the trajectory and lunges too late.

It hits the ground near my feet with a dull thud, and when I reach down to retrieve it, I notice how frayed the webbing is. A few other spots are so bad that even the leather itself is starting to wear through.

“Whoa, buddy. It might be time for an upgrade, don’t you think?

” I turn the glove over in my hands, wondering why his parents don’t just buy him a new one.

“You know, the new Wilson A2000s just dropped last month. Or if you’re more of a Rawlings guy, their Heart of the Hide series is what I used before my endorsement deal. ”

Benji’s eyes light up, but then he shrugs and takes it back when I hand it to him. “It’s okay. I don’t mind. Besides, this is my lucky glove. And Avery always says the most valuable things in life you can’t buy with money.”

Before I can respond, Avery’s shoulders tense, and I wonder if suggesting a four-hundred-dollar glove was the smartest move. But it’s not like the other parents I’ve seen around can’t afford to buy their kids decent equipment. Why should I assume that theirs are any different?

By the time we reach the gates for the employee lot, Avery is already digging into her purse.

“Alright, Benji. Time to say goodbye. It won’t take long for an Uber, and I’m sure we’ve taken up enough of Mr. Fontaine’s time.” She fishes out a cell phone, then frowns at the screen after she unlocks it. “Great. No service.”

“Please, call me Nash,” I say, as an unfamiliar sting in my palms makes my hands sweat. “Where’s your car?”

She sighs and holds her phone up higher in search of a signal. “In the shop. Transmission issues.”

“Then let me drive you,” I offer, hoping for a second chance to get in her good graces. “I’m headed out anyway.”

“Oh, that’s really not necessary. I’ll just—“

“Aw, come on, Avery! Please!?” Benji says in a pitch that comes out one full octave higher. “Then Nash could see where we live, and—“

“Benji.” Her tone carries the kind of authoritative warning you’d expect from a parent.

I clear my throat. “It’s no trouble, I swear. My car’s just right over there.” I point to my Range Rover—the only vehicle in the entire lot that gleams like it’s just been detailed. Probably because it was yesterday.

She looks between Benji and me, chewing her bottom lip. “Fine. But just this once.”

The walk to my SUV is filled with Benji’s chatter about his baseball card collection, while Avery remains noticeably silent. When we reach the car, I click a button on my fob, and the doors unlock with a soft chirp as I walk ahead to the passenger side.

“Whoa,” Benji says, running a hand along the glossy black paint. “Is this the new Range Rover Autobiography? With the supercharged V8?”

I raise an eyebrow. “You know your cars, too?”

“Just the ones in the magazines,” he says, swinging open his door before climbing into the back seat. “I’m saving up for a Ferrari.”

When Avery catches up, I open her door for her, and she makes a noise that’s somewhere between a laugh and a sigh as she slides into the passenger seat. “Buckle up, Benji,” she says with the same obvious immunity to my continuous efforts.

Once we’re all inside, Benji takes in the leather interior and touchscreen displays with wide eyes. “This. Is. Awesome!”

“Seatbelt,” Avery reminds him. She’s stiff as a board—almost like she’s too afraid to get comfortable in her seat.

“Where to?” I ask, starting the engine.

“Blue Island,” she says. “Off 127th Street. I’ll let you know when we start getting close.”

The car purrs to life, and I pull out of the lot, strangely nervous about the half-hour drive ahead. I’m usually more talkative around beautiful women, but something about Avery’s quiet dignity has me feeling like a rookie at his first press conference.

“So,” I say, desperate to break the silence as we merge onto the highway. “How long have you been working at the club?”

“Three years,” she replies, her gaze fixed on the road ahead.

“And you like it there?”

She gives me a sideways glance. “It pays the bills.”

Another silence threatens to settle, but Benji leans forward between the seats just in time to break it. “Avery’s gonna be the manager there soon! Right, sis?”

A smile plays on her lips, and it’s the first one I’ve seen that seems genuine. “Maybe. If I don’t strangle the next person to ask me for a player’s autograph.”

“Wait, hang on a minute. People ask you for autographs?“ I try to hide the amusement in my voice.

“Sadly, my employment at the club also makes me an unofficial broker for signed memorabilia from entitled athletes who can’t be bothered otherwise,” she says dryly.

I wince, wondering if I’m included in that category. Probably.

“Avery doesn’t like it when players ignore their fans,” Benji says, as if I may have missed the subtext. “She says they should always be grateful for their talent because it’s the only thing that makes ’em any different from the rest of us.”

I nod. “A solid philosophy.”

Though I’m not sure I agree. Given my family’s wealth and social status, I wouldn’t have to work a day in my life if I didn’t want to.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t know how to maximize profits doing what I do.

It’s a skill that requires a lot more than just raw talent.

Without knowing how to sell themselves as a brand, most professional athletes burn out long before they see a fraction of what I make in a year.

Talent is just what gets your foot in the door.

A strong business sense is what keeps you at the head of your game.

The rest of the drive passes while Benji fills the silence with a range of topics from his school’s upcoming baseball tournament to his favorite Street Sweepers players, and needless to say, I’m at the top of that list. Occasionally, I catch Avery watching me when she thinks I’m not looking.

When we turn onto their street on the south side of town, there’s a noticeable change in landscape.

Manicured lawns and sprawling homes from the north side fade, and modest bungalows with chain link fences and vehicles made in the nineties sprout up like weeds in an overgrown field.

And while it’s not exactly the kind of rundown neighborhood you’d expect to be car-jacked in, the vibe is enough to remind me of how out of place I am in my luxury SUV.

“That’s us. The blue one.” Avery points to a small, ranch-style house with faded paint, an overgrown lawn, and visible cracks running through concrete steps that lead to the front door.

“Thanks for the ride,” she says quickly, unbuckling her seatbelt as I pull up to the curb.

“Yeah. Thanks, Nash!” Benji chimes in, already scrambling out of the backseat. “This was the best day ever!”

They walk toward the house, with Benji recounting his day using animated hand gestures while Avery digs through her purse for a set of house keys, and something about the scene stirs an unexpected ache in my chest. Maybe it’s how comfortable they are around each other.

Like the way Benji hardly seems to notice when Avery automatically adjusts his crooked backpack strap.

Or the way he casually scoops up mail that slips out of her hands, without missing a beat in his story.

It’s not until they reach the front door when I notice one of Benji’s books in the backseat.

“Wait!” I call, grabbing it and climbing out. “You forgot your math book.” I jog up to them, holding out the textbook just as Avery pushes the door open. “Here.”

“Oh! Thanks.” Benji takes it, then looks up at Avery with puppy dog eyes. “Can Nash come in for a minute? Please? I want to show him my baseball cards!”

Avery, looking too tired to argue, hesitates before giving up without a fight. “Fine. You can come in. Just... excuse the mess. We weren’t expecting company.”

The interior is modest but cleaner than I expect, with a small living room that flows into a compact kitchen, and a narrow hallway that leads to what I assume must be their bedrooms. Family photos, mostly of Benji and Avery at various ages, line the wall, and while I spot an older woman in a few of them, I wonder why there aren’t any photos with “Mom and Dad.”

“My cards are in my room! I’ll go get them,” Benji says, dropping his bag and disappearing down the hallway.

“He’ll be digging through shoe boxes for at least ten minutes,” Avery says, offering a smile that nearly takes my knees out from under me.

“Can I get you something to drink while you wait? Water? Coffee? Sweet tea?” The playful look in her eyes and the way she draws out the words “sweet tea” make me trip over my own. Is she… flirting with me?

“Wha—water would be great. Thanks.”

She moves into the kitchen, and I sneak in behind her, wiping my sweaty palms on my pants like it’s no big deal. Despite the wear, there’s something undeniably homey about the space. A feeling my very large—and very empty—multi-million-dollar mansion never quite manages to pull off.

“So,” I say, following the sound of running water until I notice the narrow staircase leading down to the basement. “I take it your parents aren’t home?”

The steps look old, with several boards visibly warped. Without thinking, I place a foot on the top step, and the wood gives an ominous creak.

“I wouldn’t,” Avery warns, appearing beside me with a glass of water. “Those stairs have seen better days. Benji’s the only one who knows where to step.”

I take the glass, suddenly aware of how close she’s standing. When her hand brushes mine, the hair on the back of my arm stands up, and I say a silent prayer that I’m the only one who notices it. “Have you had someone look at them? They don’t seem very safe.”

“It’s on the list.” Pride flickers in her eyes, effectively putting any hint of her flirting with me to bed. “And our parents don’t live here. It’s just me and Benji.”

I take a sip of water and glance back at the stairs.

No parents? There has to be a story there, but it’s not one I’m dumb enough to ask about—at least not yet.

What bothers me the most, though, is the condition of the stairs and the fact that she still lets Benji use them.

They’re not just worn. They’re flat-out dangerous.

“Nash! I found them!” Benji’s voice cuts through the air as he barrels back into the living room with a giant shoebox. “Come look!”

“I uh… guess I better go,” I say, giving a nervous laugh. I run a hand across the back of my neck as I start to turn away, then twist back to face Avery one last time before I lose my nerve. “I’ve got a guy I want you to call. He can help. I’ll text Benji the number.”