Page 22

nineteen

. . .

[Declan]

India and I return to Nashville on the last flight possible, optimizing on the time together. Back in Terrors’ territory, I’m suddenly anxious about our situation.

Are we officially dating? Even if it is in secret?

With our next series being against the Chicago Anchors, Dasher is in town. He is the third base coach for the iconic team on the north side of the city. During baseball season, our paths only cross when we play one another, so I’m excited to have him in Nashville.

Montgomery will also be at my place for the next few days so she can visit with her uncle.

Which means, I don’t know when I’ll see India next or how to see her without exposing us.

During the game, Dasher and I playfully send hand signals to one another, often pointing two fingers at our eyes before swinging our wrists and aiming our fingertips at the other. I’m watching you , the motion says .

But my gaze also dips to the camera well, protectively holding one field reporter behind a fence while she smiles and speaks into a camera throughout the game.

Montgomery and her friend, Trina, are also present in the WAG section in the stands.

In many ways, I felt surrounded by all the important people in my life, minus Isaiah.

Eventually, the Chicago Anchors kick our ass.

Despite the late hour after the game, Dasher comes over to my place. We both understand how you can’t just go to sleep after something as exhilarating as sport. The adrenaline remains high, even if neither of us physically played. Our mental capacity is taxed, leaving us wired.

“How are you, Sassy Pants?” Dasher teases his niece, who adores him.

“I’m not sassy,” my feisty fourteen-year-old counters, displaying how sassy she can be. Her mother is promising me it’s going to get better, one day.

Dasher raises a brow in my direction and sucks in a breath through his teeth. He snaps his fingers, exaggerating a zig-zag effect in the air. “Very sas-sy .”

My older brother and I look similar, but where he’s thicker, I’m lean.

We both share the same auburn hair and beard, only his is more silver than mine.

And he’s a total flirt while I’ve always been the quieter one of the two of us, which is often the reverse of what people think about older-younger sibling dynamic.

However, Dasher had too much responsibility as a teen, and he’s making up for the lost time in his forties.

As for Montgomery, she rolls her eyes at her uncle who is perched on a stool along the L-shaped peninsula counter in my small kitchen.

“You’re so . . . ancient,” she teases back, often accusing both Dasher and me of using words that no longer have status, whatever the hell that means. Sometimes, I’m afraid to ask but I coach young men who have their own generational lingo that keeps me up to date.

Dasher gasps, covers his heart with both his hands. “Ancient? Thy woundeth me, young one.”

Montgomery rolls her eyes again. Michelle has pulled the ‘your eyes might get stuck like that one day’ on her. My willful girl doesn’t believe the old wives’ tale.

Beside Montgomery, her young blonde friend, Trina, giggles at the antics of uncle and niece.

Because it’s both summer and the season, I’m more lenient about bedtime schedules. My time with my girl is limited. Between summer camps and a summer job as a junior camp counsellor, she’s busy. One day, too soon, she’s going to have even less time for me. The thought can almost bring me to tears.

Right now, I’m too busy laughing, but getting tired myself, as the time creeps past midnight. Trina will spend the night because she lives outside Nashville proper, like Montgomery does with Michelle and Brent.

Soon enough, the girls retire to Montgomery’s room with a giant bowl of popcorn, like they hadn’t devoured every snack available at the Terrors’ concession stand.

After Montgomery wishes us a final good night, and closes her bedroom door, Dasher double-taps his hands on the countertop.

“You’ve got such a good kid there,” he reminds me, hitching his thumb in the direction of her bedroom door.

“Yeah. I’m lucky.” Our matching eyes meet for a second, knowing we both appreciate how well Montgomery has turned out. She knows she’s loved by both her father, her mother and Brent, and her uncle, which is so much more than what Dasher and I had at her age.

We’ve been fortunate in our own right, but mainly because of all Dasher had sacrificed before either of us hit it big. Because he held himself back, taking a little longer to reach the big league, spending time in the minors for a bit before being called up.

“Still liking the Anchors?” I ask about his position as their line coach.

“Ross Davis is a good man,” he says about their newest team manager.

I’d played only briefly for Ross before talks of trades and my decision to leave the playing field for the dugout.

“He doesn’t micromanage,” Dasher adds.

“And you’re saying I do?” I quip. I’ve approached my brother about joining my staff, although we have a solid coaching team.

“You know I can’t let my little brother boss me around. It’d be bad for my reputation.” He snorts before lifting his glass of beer and drinking down the final dregs. “All right, young man. Time for this ancient one to hit the sheets.”

He tips his head toward my daughter’s bedroom door and imitates her eye roll, then stands to his full height.

For half a second, I have a flash of us as younger men. Dasher rushing through his dinner so he could work a late-night shift at the local grocery store before grabbing only a few hours’ sleep and heading back to school the next morning.

Stepping around the counter, I open my arms. “Bring it in, man.”

Dasher chuckles as I’ve always been the more affectionate between the two of us. He doesn’t resist, though, falling against me, offering hard back slaps and an exaggerated kiss to my cheek.

“Give ’em hell tomorrow,” he teases, wiggling his brows, because the ’em is his team. “We’ll try to go easier on you.”

I snort. “Doubt it.”

With a final pat on his back, I follow him to the front door. He opens it on a whoosh, glancing back at me as he speaks. “Okay, man, I’ll see you to?—”

The sharp loss of his words causes me to look up when I hadn’t been paying attention to the open door. To the woman standing in the hallway, fist raised like she was about to knock.

“Well, hello, little girl. Are you lost?” Dasher tips only one brow before turning his head in my direction. “Having more than one sleep over tonight?”

“Dasher,” I grind out before my gaze hesitantly shifts to the woman wearing a short trench coat. In July. “This is India. India Baker.”

Dasher’s head swivels back in the direction of the hallway so quickly, I almost hear his neck crack.

“Indie?” He calls her, using a nickname I once used for her. “Holy shit.”

My brother steps into the hallway, embracing the startled sister of my best friend. Then he tips his nose toward her hair. “Damn, you smell good, girl.”

My eyes narrow. Why the fuck is he smelling her?

India chuckles, stroking back strands of her hair which are loose and wild, curly and crackling around her head.

“Thanks.” Her silvery eyes flip up to mine. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I was just?—”

In the neighborhood? Doubtful. She lives on the opposite side of town.

While she swipes her hand down her jacket, I appreciate her long legs that are exposed beneath the short hem.

“Is it raining out?” Dasher teases, glancing over his shoulder into my place and toward the sliding glass doors that reflect the darkness of the night back at us. Rain is not predicted. Neither was India’s arrival.

“Well,” Dasher drawls when neither of us answer. “You kids behave yourself.” He claps me once, hard, on my shoulder, then punctuates the touch by squeezing at my deltoid. His meaning: you have some explaining to do .

I’ll let him in on any explanation once I understand just what the hell is happening myself.