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Chapter twenty-four

Kai

“Stay hydrated, kids, it’s a hot one!” Monty shouts as we jog off the field from the short pregame training session we just finished.

He’s not wrong. It might still be early in the summer, but Vancouver’s breaking records for how fucking hot it is. We’re all sweating. The last thing I want to do is put on a uniform and play in this heat in a couple of hours.

I head straight for the cooler of sports drinks and take the bottle a junior trainer is holding out, draining it rapidly. “Thanks,” I gasp before tossing it into the recycling can and moving to the tunnel into the locker room.

As soon as the cooler air inside hits me, I’m groaning in relief. The guys that finished before us are already through the showers and in various stages of undress.

“It’s hot as hell out there, what happened to Canada being cold?” Darling complains, stripping off his practice jersey and tossing it in the laundry bin for our equipment team to deal with. I don’t envy them that job today, given how rank all of our gear is gonna smell.

“Climate change. Besides, not all of Canada is igloos and polar bears. C’mon, man,” I fire back good-naturedly before taking off my own uniform and adding it to the rapidly-filling bin.

We make our way to the showers. I keep mine a degree or two below cool, and the relief is instantaneous. “Damn, that feels good.”

“Sure as shit does,” Darling agrees before sticking his head under his own stream of cold water. “I feel bad for Evie and everyone else in the stands sitting in this heat. Hey, isn’t Isabelle comin’ tonight?”

My eyes are closed, but I nod. “Yeah.”

“How’re things going with her?”

I open my eyes and narrow them on him. “Just fine,” I say, my jaw tightening as I try to tell him telepathically to shut up. For fuck’s sake. Doesn’t he realize I don’t need the other guys asking about her?

No one knows what we’ve been getting up to the last few weeks. And I intend to keep it that way. Which means the less questions or comments about me and Isabelle, the better.

He nods, still staring at me with a look of concern. He knows me well enough to sense my bullshit. I want to come clean with him, if for no other reason than to have someone to talk with about it. But now’s not the time, and the fucking locker room is definitely not the place.

Thankfully, he doesn’t say anything else as he shuts off the water, grabs a towel, and wraps it around his waist before walking away. Even though I’m now the last one in the shower room, I take an extra minute or two to cool off before following.

It’s more than my body that is feeling hot and bothered right now.

And not in the fun way. More like the heart pounding, feeling kinda feverish, might puke if someone catches me banging my coach’s stepdaughter kind of way.

It’s a risky game we’re playing, and as each day passes, I can’t shake the sense that we’re coming down to the final inning.

I just don’t know who will come out on top.

I can’t be too obvious in scanning the crowd from the bullpen where I’m warming up, anxiously watching for when Evie and Isabelle arrive.

I’m assuming they’ll sit in the spot the ladies normally take, right beside the dugout, in the section that’s reserved for family members.

But I also know that sometimes Evie likes to sit higher up, or over on the other side of the stands, so she can better see Darling in the outfield.

When a couple of the other guys’ wives take their seats in the front row, I turn my gaze to the other side of the field. But this far back, it’s hard to tell who’s filling the seats.

“C’mon, Yami, wake up!” The backup catcher who’s helping me warm up slams his fist into his glove.

Fuck, I have to stop being distracted. I’ve got a goddamn game to win.

I spin the ball in my hand a couple times before focusing on my teammate. My pitch lands squarely in his glove.

“Nice. Again.”

An old coach of mine once said pitching was fifty percent skill, thirty percent timing, and twenty percent muscle memory. And I’m grateful for that twenty percent right now, as it kicks in and my body goes through the motions that are as familiar as breathing.

Focus on the target. Find your grip. Strong posture, loose body. Step back, load, lift, release, and follow through.

“Good,” he calls out before tossing the ball back to me. “We’ve got time for one more.” He throws the signal for a curveball. I give him a nod and find my center.

As soon as I throw my last practice pitch, I’m through the gate of the bullpen and jogging across the field.

Now I can let myself look in the stands again.

And this time, I see them about midway down the third base line, a few rows back from the front.

Evie’s talking animatedly to Isabelle, a Tridents hat on her head and what I can assume is Darling’s number on the back of the jersey she’s wearing.

Next to her, Isabelle is wearing a generic black ball cap and a Tridents tank top.

No jersey.

No number.

Not mine or anyone else’s.

Why the hell does that bother me?

I’ve got no right to ask her to wear my number.

Fuck, if anything, that would be the biggest way to tell everyone that we’re connected.

Cleat chasers and regular fans aside, women don’t wear your number unless they’re family or a WAG.

And Isabelle is none of the above. Which means the generic Tridents gear is exactly what she should be wearing.

But as I make my way to the mound, my mind flashes back to a different game. Many games where she did wear my name and number. And many nights when she’d sleep in my jersey and nothing else. When I’d fuck her in my jersey and nothing else.

Goddamn it. Getting a boner underneath my jock? Not cool.

I give the girls a quick smile and a nod of my head as I pass, but don’t slow down, jogging straight for the dugout where the rest of the team is also headed. Keeping my history with Isabelle a secret is getting to be harder than I expected.

I’m not an idiot. I can tell people are starting to suspect.

First, Coach dragged me into his office a couple of weeks ago, then Darling earlier today.

It would be so much easier to face the music and tell the truth, and really, how bad could it be?

We’re two grown-ass adults. We can do what we want.

So why don’t I want anyone — not even my best friend — knowing about our past relationship or our current agreement?

I know the answer, I just don’t want to admit it to myself quite yet.

Which is why I spend the entire game imagining Isabelle in the stands with my sister, just like she is in reality.

Only in my version, she’s wearing my name.