Page 14

twelve

. . .

[India]

The Rooftop Replay is a post-game hideout for many local professional sports players.

On the tenth floor of the Regency Hotel, the place smells like bourbon and barbeque.

Or so I’m told, as I’ve never been there.

The place is well known within the sporting community because you need to pass tight security and have a swollen wallet to afford the food and drinks offered.

I’ve heard many are turned away from the place, but somehow, Isaiah works his charm.

Maybe it’s that the door manager recognizes Declan.

He might also realize that it is a rare occasion to see the Tennessee Terrors’ team manager out and about.

Perhaps The Rooftop Replay sees themselves as the VIP tonight, graced by the special appearance of Declan Wylde.

Getting out has been rare for me as well, having only moved to Nashville in January.

Leaning into the country charm of his city, I don my cowboy boots and a multi-tiered, strapless dress in vibrant red, a color that makes my eyes pop and matches my lipstick perfectly.

The bodice is fitted while the skirt is A-line, free flowing, and flirty.

Tonight, out of my regular work attire and typical high heels, I feel pretty and get the stamp of approval I desire when Declan does a double take upon sighting me.

His blue eyes widen, and he chews his lower lip, letting his gaze linger on me for a few heartbeats.

I’m also wearing a charm bracelet I found in the bottom of my jewelry drawer. One I haven’t worn in years but, for sentimental reasons, put on tonight. If Declan notices, he doesn’t mention it.

We are waved forward until the bouncer’s eyes meet mine.

The beefy man holds up a firm hand, reminding me of an imitation gorilla palm I once saw at the zoo. “No press.”

I’m a little surprised he recognizes me, but a fan of the Tennessee Terrors is going to know who I am, especially as this bar subscribes to The Den.

“I’m not?—”

“She’s with me,” Declan tells security, slipping his arm around my lower back and resting his hand on my hip.

He gently pulls me into his side. The intimate touch messes with my head, especially when Declan’s signature cinnamon gum, sunflower seed, and ballfield scent meet my nose.

I turn my head, inhaling more of him, spellbound by this sudden closeness, so I don’t register the tone of his voice at first. The warning.

Like let her in or we leave.

I’m expecting the bouncer to shrug and nod for us to feel free to go. Instead, he holds out his large paw.

“Phone,” he demands of me. Translation: no pictures.

I slip my phone out of my pocket. Yay for dresses with pockets.

To my surprise, Declan reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out his phone, placing it in the security man’s hands as a show of solidarity. If I can’t have my phone, he won’t take his in either.

I chuckle because I don’t get the impression Declan would start fanboying inside the bar. Dressed in a lightweight, hooded shirt with a dark sports coat over it and dark jeans, he’s the one who will be attracting fans.

I’ve heard the rumors. He isn’t a recluse as much as highly dedicated to his job.

Sounds lonely, if you ask me, and I’d know . . . because it’s the same position I’m in.

Once inside, the faint hint of bourbon and barbeque does tickle my nose as we follow Isaiah to a standing table. Walking through the crowd, I recognize several Tennessee Terrors, probably out to celebrate the eventual W of tonight’s game.

Gunnar McNeer is present. The six-one, blond short stop from Texas was a new addition to the team this year. He’s the brother of Gavin McNeer, a famous country musician, which Nashville is teeming with.

Max Murphy, Murph, the star pitcher, is also here.

However, only Damien “Diesel” Donovan, the Terrors first baseman, approaches Declan. The attractive, black-haired, Oklahoma native was once a playboy on the team but now stands beside his new girlfriend, Delilah Monroe, a beautiful, young pop star.

“Wylde Thing.” A soft drawl mingles with the smile on Damien’s face as he claps Declan on the shoulder. Declan scowls at his player causing Damien to clear his throat. “Sir.”

The old nickname hasn’t been used as often with Declan in his coaching tenure as it once was when he was a player. When he was as young as this Terrors’ first baseman and just as spirited as the man.

Isaiah snorts, bursting the weird vibe coming off Declan, softening him.

“Damien. Good game today, kid.” Declan reaches out, offering a single pat to Damien’s shoulder before squeezing it in a show of affection. The former first baseman recognizes the hard work of his current player.

As a field reporter, I’ve had plenty of time to observe Declan around his team. His players admire and respect him. His coaching staff appreciate his fairness and openness for input. Declan is a natural leader.

“Nice catch in the sixth,” Isaiah adds, commenting on the impressive reach Damien displayed with his foot on the bag while stretching his six-four frame forward, catching a close hit.

The umpire called the Vegas Victor safe.

A challenge from Declan overturned the call.

The reel is one of several highlighted replays from today’s game.

“Let me buy you a drink,” Isaiah offers, holding up his hand for the waitress’s attention. Isaiah’s tone has turned into business mode. The sports’ attorney in him switching on.

“Can’t,” Damien says, offering an appreciative smile to my brother before addressing his coach. “Just wanted to pop over and say hi. It’s rare to see you out, old man.”

Declan’s brows hitch. I laugh.

“Behave yourself tonight,” Declan warns.

“I always do.” Damien winks, slips his arm around his girlfriend, and leads them into the crowd with a backward wave to us.

Declan shakes his head while watching Damien walk away. “This is why I don’t go out.”

“Because you’re old?” Isaiah chimes in.

“Because they are so young.” Then Declan points between himself and my brother, “And we are the same age.”

“I’m in my prime. What’s your excuse, Wylde Thing?” Isaiah chuckles, double tapping the table.

“What’s your excuse?” I counter, reminding Isaiah of his behavior last night.

He hangs his head a second, then pops it upward as the waitress approaches.

Declan and Isaiah order bourbon while I settle on red wine and become strangely aware of how close Declan is standing to me.

His arm brushes against mine when he hands the drink menu to the waitress, and then his hand comes around my back before he seems to rethink touching me.

He pulls his hand forward again, resting his loose fist on the high-top table.

I glance up at my brother who appears oblivious to Declan’s closeness or his hand movements.

Once the waitress walks away, I glare at Isaiah, reminding myself I’m here for him, not clocking Declan’s motions, and I will my brother to speak.

Isaiah lets out a heavy sigh. “I don’t think Penn loves me anymore.”

“What?” Declan stiffens beside me. For some reason I lilt to the side, as if needing Declan for strength as I’m shocked myself by Isaiah’s declaration,

“Why?” I whisper. I don’t believe that for one second. My brother and his wife are couple goals.

Isaiah shrugs and glances away from the table. “Life is just a lot, right? I’m busy. She’s busy. The kids are busy.”

Penn went back to work once the kids were in school.

She’s a nurse and hospitals are notoriously understaffed, so she works a lot.

Drake is about to enter his sophomore year of high school.

He loves baseball almost as much as his dad.

Jocelyn just finished eighth grade and plans to play lacrosse.

My nephew and niece are growing up so fast.

“But what makes you think Penn doesn’t love you?

” Declan asks before sparing me a brief glance.

Concern etched in his forehead matches the worry in the pit of my belly.

As if needing comfort from me, as I’ve restored the inch of space between us, Declan lets his hand fall beneath the table and clutches at a loose layer of my dress, as if willing me to remain near him.

If anyone was watching us, our close proximity might suggest we are a couple, but I’m more focused on the couple issues my brother thinks he has.

Our waitress picks this moment to return to our table, setting our drinks down quickly before rushing off again.

Isaiah lifts his glass, and the three of us clink ours together.

Declan has his almost to his mouth while I’m lowering my wineglass, still waiting on my brother’s explanation, when Isaiah murmurs, “We never have sex.”

The cut-crystal glass was almost to his mouth before he spoke, and he closes the distance to take a drink. However, Declan sputters on the swallow of bourbon he’d just taken.

I narrow my eyes, remembering the same complaint from Malakai.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to have sex.

At times, I was simply tired. But more times than not, the bickering between us led to my exhaustion.

The constant comments about my job. The tension of having a career.

I’d wanted compassion from my husband, not complaints.

“Sex isn’t everything,” I state, side-eyeing Declan for some reason.

I like sex but there is also something to be said about intimacy, and the way Declan is still clutching my skirt beneath this table is next-level intimate for me.

His hand is practically on my thigh although we are standing.

His fingers close to the promise land that’s been vacant as a deserted desert.

I’m hyperaware of his fist keeping me near him like we are a united front, a couple who can help Isaiah solve his couple concerns