Page 2

one

. . .

Spring Training

February

[Declan]

In the game of baseball one simple swing can change everything. The bat either connects with the ball or you miss.

In the game of life, I’ve had more misses than hits with India Baker.

Which makes my anxiety spike when we are finally in the same city at the same time for an extended period.

As the newest field reporter for The Den, an exclusive streaming service for the Tennessee Terrors, the professional baseball team I coach, I will see India for the first time in fifteen years.

Fifteen long years in which much has changed between us.

She is no longer the spirited young reporter working collegiate sidelines, but an accomplished sportscaster. I’m so fucking proud of her accomplishments even if she worked for her dad’s former team and a rival of my current one.

Professional sports involves unexplained trades of athletes all the time. I’m certain India made concessions to work for her dad like I made concessions to give up playing on the field for a position in the dugout and team management.

But none of that history matters.

Today, I will see my best friend’s little sister for the first time in over a decade, nearly two of them.

How has so much time passed? Where did that time go?

I have all the answers. The truth of the years since Isaiah’s wedding and that weeklong affair with his sister.

The one that ended with hope and certainty that I would see her again.

That we’d make it work somehow. Long distance didn’t matter, although her career was just getting started and mine was .

. . well, I couldn’t have predicted then the changes that would happen for me.

Anxiety rumbles over my flesh, and I give myself a full-body shake to calm the nerves.

It’s only an interview .

The Tennessee Terrors are located in Florida, short term, for our annual spring training, and part of the warmup to the season is promotional material.

Interviews. Photoshoots. More of these moments belong to the players than the coaching staff, but they still happen and the leaders of the Terrors are on the docket for today.

My hand slips on the handle as I tug open the door to the small conference room set up for the interviews. A large banner hangs on the wall with our team logo. Two baseball bats crossed to form an X and a giant raccoon face that symbolizes our mascot.

But the person who captures all my attention is the beautiful creature with a mass of riotous midnight waves and red- framed glasses on her face, seated in a director’s chair opposite an empty one.

My heart leaps to my throat.

While I’ve seen India on the screen, from reels sent to me by Isaiah, I haven’t seen her in person in so long. Her beauty takes my breath away. I literally gulp in another calming breath and breathe out her name.

“India.”

Her head lifts and I’m met with the brightness of those silvery eyes, despite her glasses, and a warm smile that lasts for half a second.

Then something changes. Her eyes close for a beat. Her cheeks stiffen. The smile fades.

When she opens her eyes again, she sits up straighter, shifts in her seat, and rubs the palm of one hand down what looks like a slim-fit skirt.

For some reason, my gaze drops to her feet. High heels perched on the rung of the raised chair. She flicks one ankle side to side. A nervous tell. She’s as anxious to see me, but why the schooled expression then?

As I take quick steps across the small room, I approach her seated position first until a subtle hand raises. No more than the palm of her hand in a half-hearted halting sign.

Don’t get near her, it signals, and yet I’m puzzled. Why?

As a man trained to read hand signals, I straighten my spine, nod once, and reroute to sit in the vacant seat across from her.

The interview is strictly for marketing purposes. Some personal tidbits. Some funny quips. Nothing too serious, we’d been told.

But the atmosphere is this suddenly too small room is anything but light and casual.

“Wildfire,” I address her, the term familiar and yet dry as ash in my throat.

“ Wylde Thing .” She exaggerates her retort like an insult, clearing her throat while dropping her gaze. “Let’s start with the old nickname. Has it followed you into your coaching positions?”

What that hell is this? The formality? The edge to her voice? The obvious dismissal of any recognition between us. Forget the carnal knowledge I have of her body. The intimate ways in which I touched her.

She’s my best friend’s younger sister so why the fucking cold shoulder?

As for the nickname that eventually became attached to my name, Declan Wylde, playing off my abilities at bat and covering first base, the title couldn’t be further from the truth.

The truth that I still hadn’t been overly ‘wild’ off the field despite the rumors that followed me in my younger years.

At forty-five, those years were a lifetime ago, and while even she once used the label in a playful manner, the name comes across more mockery than tease in her present tone.

A million questions rattle through my head, all of them bumping into one another like five-year olds playing T-ball. Gloves outstretched, but heads upward, searching for a ball that’s already dropped to the ground.

“Coaches don’t have nicknames,” I counter, leaning to one side in the suddenly uncomfortable seat made of loose cloth and wobbly wood. My knees are spread; my feet hooked on the low rung of the chair.

I watch her eyes as they dip between my thighs for a second. A mere flash.

Did she just dick-glance me?

There’s no way. Not with this haughty stiffness seated across from me and her too-prim-for-baseball presence.

Still, I can’t deny the slight stir in my polyester-blend baseball pants, that I wear as often as the players, in my coaching position.

I don’t even try to disguise spreading my legs a little further, exaggerating the option for her to sneak all the peeks she’d like.

Maybe she needs a reminder of what my dick did for her. For us. A reminder of what we were like that weekend.

Insatiable. Starved. I haven’t had a weekend like that since.

India Baker was a once in a lifetime woman.

And I’d clearly missed my chance at bat with her, because the edge she’s giving me, seated in this dark room with an overly bright camera light aimed at me, seems to spotlight that I’ve struck out with her.

Any chance of being . . . friends even . . . is shut down.

Which is too bad because I’d been looking forward to reconnecting with her. To finally having something— someone possibly —just for me.

But the wall she’s put between us is thicker than the ivy in Chicago’s Anchor Field, and I have no idea what I’ve done to be benched by her.