Page 17

fourteen

. . .

[Declan]

After walking India back to the Regency and seeing her safely to her car, I watch her leave without a goodbye kiss or promises of another moment like the one we just shared.

A moment I’ll treasure in my pocket like a good luck charm.

I have no expectations that India and I can be anything again, possibly not even friends, but seeing her with that old charm bracelet on her wrist and holding her in my arms for the length of a song was enough to assure me, once upon a time, our feelings were mutual.

She wanted me and I wanted her, but our opportunity was missed.

After the day game on Sunday, it’s straight to the airport for a flight to Denver for a series with Colorado.

Thankfully, Isaiah understood my analogy and found the motivation he needed to take action. He called Penn, pinned dates on a calendar, and told her no excuses .

Rip her clothes off.

Then he softened the surprise by letting her decide where they’d go. Expense was not a concern. Isaiah only opted for somewhere that would provide them with time together, not experiences that have them hopping from one tourist attraction to another. Penn instantly picked the Grand Cayman Islands.

My friend was headed on an anniversary-moon. A cross between a second honeymoon and a sweet sixteen anniversary trip, complete with rip-your-clothes-off intentions and romance in the mix.

I am anxious to know how it will work out for my favorite married couple.

In the meantime, I have a three day stretch in Colorado to focus on.

I’ve been back to the state on many occasions and every time my thoughts flip to Isiah and Penn’s wedding week, and my time with India.

The second I exit the plane and catch sight of the mountains, my mind is a scrapbook of memories.

India racing into the freshly fallen snow and dropping to her back to make snow angels.

Her laughter beneath a dark sky. Her kisses as snowflakes gathered on her lashes.

Despite the current July heat, the air still holds the scent of snow and a hint of winter, or maybe that’s wishful thinking.

Seasons change. Time moves forward. Looking back never leads anywhere.

Like a ticking clock, I count the minutes until I can escape the team for a bit.

We lost our final game against Vegas and I’m hoping for a sweep against Colorado.

Still, I’m unfocused, and Isaiah suggested I take some time for myself at the old house.

Eventually, he bought the place from his parents as a second home, like the original intention of the house became for his family when his father took his manager position with the Vegas Victors.

The place was the retreat the Baker family needed in the offseason.

Typically, on the road, I stay with the team. I still intend to be a guest at our hotel, but I also plan to spend some quiet time in the old house.

Thankfully, it isn’t terribly late when I finally arrive at the place.

The time change confuses the mind as it’s an hour earlier than Nashville.

Setting down my bag, I wander through the dark, cozy living space full of buffalo check blankets and pillows on top of worn leather furniture.

In the spacious kitchen, memories hit hard of Richard and Bethany Baker hosting dinners here, once even including Dasher and me in their holiday celebration.

More meaningful remembrances spring forward as well. Making cookies with India. Or rather, her baking and me sneaking back and forth behind her, just to graze her hip or brush my arm against hers as I reached for raw cookie dough.

Volunteering for dish duty to be close to her, catching her hand as she passed a clean plate to me to dry.

Playing drinking games at the kitchen table, like that fateful Truth or Dare, in which India admitted it’d been a long time since she’d been kissed.

How long has it been since someone kissed her now? Touched her the way she likes? Ripped her clothes off like he couldn’t get to her warm skin fast enough? Fucked her hard?

My dick is suddenly stiff as a bat, and my destination becomes the shower upstairs. The one I know would complement the memories in my head.

I take the stairs two steps at a time, as if I can’t reach the second-floor bathroom fast enough. As if the steamy heat and small space is the perfect place to let fantasies run wild and allow my hand to take care of the stiffness trapped in my pants.

As I reach the door, the distinct sound of running water hits my ears. The slap of the shampoo bottle dropping to the shower floor echoes outward. The pressure of water beating against the tile hums toward the hallway.

Opening the door fast enough it swings inward and slams against the opposite wall, I’m prepared to face an unwanted intruder.

Instead, I’m met with a startled scream.

Then I see a vision I haven’t seen in twenty years.

India Baker. Naked.