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eleven

. . .

[India]

Last night, with Declan’s hands on my ankles, I couldn’t concentrate, especially as he continued to mindlessly stroke his thumb over the boney joint while “The Star-Spangled Banner” played.

I was reminded of historical romance novels in which females showing off their ankles was considered sexually promiscuous.

The touch felt intimate, promising, daring.

My heart rate rocketed like those red glares sung about in the song.

My thoughts bursting in thin air. All of the symptoms were only proof that my attraction to Declan Wylde is still there.

Which is why I fought his invitation to stay the night. We almost had a grand slam right there on his kitchen counter when I snuck out for a glass of water. I wasn’t parched as much as restless and seeing Declan in low slung athletic shorts with no shirt pushed me right over the edge.

The way he looked at me, drinking me like I was water, and he was dying of thirst. He guzzled that glass and all I could think about was his mouth on me in places that were thirsty for his touch.

As I didn’t think it was appropriate to take care of myself in his daughter’s bed, I snuck into her bathroom instead, dipping my fingers into my underwear and exploding like those earlier fireworks in record time.

I caught my reflection in the mirror afterward. My eyes wide. My mouth still agape. My hair a mess around my shoulders. I looked like I’d been fucked when I haven’t been touched in over a year. I should have let Declan spread me wide on that countertop.

Except my brother was in the next room. And having sex with Declan again probably isn’t a good idea.

What would it do other than scratch an itch and pick at old wounds.

For that reason, I snuck out early in the morning like a shameful one-night stand wearing yesterday’s attire minus the benefit of an overnight sex fest.

Leaving my brother behind only gave me a pinch of regret compared to the heap of emotion he should be feeling after getting too drunk to hang together. Our phone conversations are frequent but the actual time we spend together is rare. He lost out. But his loss was also mine.

When my big brother calls me before he heads to breakfast with Declan, he teasingly berates me.

“Slinking away like a ’fraidy-cat,” Isaiah teases, like I have something to be afraid of.

But you do, don’t you? You’re frightened by this sudden rush of feelings for Declan Wylde again.

“Complains the man who drank like a cat fish hovering at the bottom of the Cumberland River,” I countered. “As long as we’re comparing ourselves to animals.”

“One’s a mammal. The other is a fish.”

“You know what I mean.” I laugh.

“And I had my reasons,” he admits cryptically .

“And I’d love to hear all about them. Tonight. After I’m done working.” I am already home, getting cleaned up, and prepped for work.

My cute little house is outside of the tourist-centric downtown Nashville area. More importantly, it is all mine. I’d wanted a place that took me away from work for a few hours, and the quiet street with new-ish homes a neighborhood full of families is the perfect escape.

As a field reporter, my hours are hectic.

Morning meetings or team interviews. Prep before games.

Then the actual reporting from the field during game time and more interviews afterward.

I don’t work nine-to-five. I might work noon to midnight or eight to six, depending on night versus day games.

Throw in travel times and spring training, plus playoffs, and I don’t have a lot of extra hours to myself.

I especially didn’t have time for things like a relationship. Or so Malakai used to tell me.

“The Rooftop Replay,” Isaiah announces the exclusive bar’s name. “No excuses.”

I snort. I wasn’t the one who passed out last night. “I look forward to hearing yours.”

Once I hit Music City Park, it’s back to business as usual as I take the field.

The stadium has an old-fashioned lawn area near the outfield with a giant playground notable for its oversize green leaves and a large slide that looks more jungle than forest but leans into the playful nature of raccoons.

The team mascot, Nash, is a fan of the open space.

The remainder of the stadium includes layers of decks and suites, like any other professional baseball field.

And yet, there is something special about Music City Park.

Much like my little house in an outlier neighborhood of Nashville, this place is mine.

The banter with Joe and Chuck up in the press box begins, while I stand under the heat of another early July evening in Nashville. The idea of spending another night in Declan’s presence adds to the sticky sensation of humidity coating my skin.

Does an ankle rub even mean anything? We talked last night, and I’ve had both a memory restoration of his journey and some insight into why he took the path he did. His parenting partner. His precious daughter. Declan Wylde is a man of honor.

That doesn’t stop me from wanting him to do dishonorable things to me. Things involving more than an intimate touch to my ankle.

But first, I need to get through this game.

Just before the third inning, the Terrors are down by a run and I make my way toward Declan, as I prepare to ask him about the first half of the game.

What catches me off guard is the subtle smile he offers me while I approach, when he hasn’t looked in my direction for over five months.

I pride myself on being calm and collected on the field, professional in all ways.

A strict clause in my contract outlines appropriate and inappropriate behavior toward players and coaches.

No favoritism. No flirting. I’ve always considered the warnings non-negotiables, as in, they would never happen.

I respect the barrier between interviewer and interviewee.

But that simple curve of Declan’s lips throws me off.

“Coach.” I clear my throat feeling it tighten as I address him. “The Terrors are down two to three in the bottom of the second inning. What does the team need to do to bring us ahead?”

Declan’s smile curves a little larger, like a hook reeling in the catfish I called Isaiah earlier. Only in this instance, I’m the one caught. Declan gives me a quick glance before dropping his gaze to the dugout floor where he often keeps his attention while I interview him.

“Well, India. We need to get on base. Pass home plate. That double play hurt. ”

Declan is referring to an easy catch and tag at second before the Vegas Victors’ second baseman tossed the ball to first, causing an out on both bases and ending the inning.

“Best of luck to the Terrors in the second half,” I offer, which isn’t my typical sign off to the team’s manager. Normally, I’d ask a follow up question about a specific player’s strategy or health condition.

But another unusual moment passes between Declan and me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him lift his left hand. His palm nearly grazes my hip and rounds to my lower back. My breath hitches. I feel the heat of his palm although he doesn’t touch me. No connection is made, and I can’t decide if I’m disappointed or relieved.

Another strict policy: no physical touch.

I’ve learned to clutch papers in one fist while holding the microphone in the other.

I’m not outwardly affectionate anyway, so it’s never been difficult not to touch the sweaty back of a coach or a player in an effort to bring him closer to me.

I’ve learned to tip my head upward, speak forward, as most players and coaches are taller than me. I always keep space between us.

But, today, I want to close that distance when I know I shouldn’t.

If Declan touches me or I lean into him, it would be professional suicide for me. I’ve worked damn hard to get here. Sure, I might have had Daddy’s protection working with the Vegas Victors in the past, but I also never had an incident to cause concern or mar my record.

I am impeccably professional.

“Coach.” I add to my final well wishes for a better second half, punctuating the interview with his title like an exclamation point.

Declan and I are separate entities. We are not old friends or former lovers here. He’s the coach. I’m a reporter.

His head whips upward, his eyes briefly meeting mine again, but his face says everything. His brows pinch severely at the sharpness of my voice. His eyes narrow, perhaps questioning the sudden stiffness of my body or my tone.

With a simple head nod, I excuse myself, turning toward the camera well, knowing the cameras are off me for the moment. I close my eyes for only half a second before crossing the dugout and returning to my position, feeling like a trail of red glares follows behind me.

Or more likely, the bursting blue eyes of one too-hot coach.

Certain he’s confused, he can join my team. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore either.