Page 24

twenty-one

. . .

[Declan]

I am exhausted in the best way before our second run against the Anchors.

India snuck out sometime early in the morning, and I don’t think I had more than a few hours of sleep before Montgomery was awake and demanding homemade waffles for breakfast. With a day game ahead of me, I didn’t have much time, but I whipped up a batch before heading to the field.

The second I see India across the field, I fight an instant hard-on. She is so beautiful. She is also reckless. Wildfire fits her.

There is something about the way her wavy hair blows in the wind, and the honey-color of her skin glistens underneath the sun.

If I was nicknamed Wylde Thing, calling her Wylde Fire fit.

She was a flame burning inside me. Only she’ll never know the way I separate the two words or match the first one to my last name .

Another secret.

And last night, she came to my apartment prepared to seduce me. She let me tie her up, and then she tied me up. Her mouth on me is heaven.

I meant what I’d said. We could have discussed the merits of nachos all night if she wanted. Because the moment she was lying beside me, talking about the nonsense of interviewing a fan about the stadium food, I realized something.

I wanted everything with India.

I wanted the mundane with a side of sex. Our bodies didn’t need to be the main course, though I’d never complain. I was hungry for India’s companionship as well as what her body does to mine, which is make me feel alive in a way I haven’t felt in a long time.

I am walking a fine line between foul territory and a homerun.

India has been scarred by her ex-husband’s infidelity and burned by her father’s betrayal.

He’d known about the affair and hadn’t defended his daughter’s honor.

He’s never been overly supportive of her decisions, and I’ve never understood that kind of separation between a parent and a child.

How was it Richard Baker doesn’t see that his daughter is as awesome as his son?

With that thought, I sneak one final peek in the direction of the foul line where India is interviewing Evan Parker, our left fielder who will be wearing a live mic while playing in the game.

She’s wearing a bright red dress which kind of pisses me off because it’s a primary color for the Chicago Anchors. Still. She looks gorgeous.

Eventually, my head is where it needs to be when the game begins with a home run hit by Milo Hernandez, still substituting for our IL centerfielder. When the Tennessee Terrors win, I’m riding a high. Not going to lie, it has everything to do with beating my brother’s team .

Dasher and I meet up at The Rooftop Replay, being that it’s one of the few places without a crowd of country music enthusiasts, and Dasher and I can actually talk.

Taking a seat in a booth, I hold my breath, waiting on the real question my brother wants to ask, not the few he’s been asking, like how our rookie player hit a homerun.

“So.” He sighs. “Indie Baker.”

Once upon a time, I’d gotten too drunk around my brother and spilled my secret.

I’d always crushed on my best friend’s younger sister, and I’d eventually slept with her.

Then I really opened the fire hydrant, explaining how I always thought we’d be together somehow.

I rattled on about missed opportunities, like my life was some ridiculous rom-com.

India moving to Seattle just as I was leaving.

Her wanting to visit me in Chicago just as I learned I was becoming a father.

Me wanting to see her again, only to learn she was getting married.

“You know how I feel about her,” I remind him, shifting my gaze briefly toward the packed bar.

“ And ,” he hums, leaning back against the booth. “Now, she’s here.”

“You make is sound like kismet.” I sigh.

“Kiss what?” He arches a brow.

“Never mind,” I mutter, lifting my glass of Tennessee Whiskey and taking a sip.

“You know, you and I haven’t exactly been lucky in love,” he states, like I need the reminder.

I snort, knowing my brother’s own tortured past and lacking love life.

“So, I’m the last one to give advice . . .” he continues.

“Definitely.” Although I’ve taken a lot of advice over the years from my big brother.

“But I’m going to give it anyway.”

“Jesus save me.” I laugh .

“Lock that shit down.”

I shake my head. “Dasher.”

“I’m serious. She’s the key to your future, man. Don’t let her escape again.”

“She didn’t escape before,” I scoff. “I was the stupid one.” I point to my chest.

“And she was young.” He pauses a second, leaning forward to jab a finger into the table. “But now, you’re not. Neither of you are. You’ve sowed your oats.”

“Enough with the clichés,” I warn him. Plus, he knows I haven’t been as wild as our name indicates.

“And she’s had her oats mashed up.” Dasher knows India is divorced. “It’s time to bring your oats together.” He purrs, leaning back in the booth seat again. “Make oatmeal. Or better yet, cookies.”

“What’s with the food analogy?” I laugh.

“Unless you’ve got a raisin down there, all shriveled up and not working anymore.”

“What the fuck?” I choke at his suggestion that my dick doesn’t function.

“All I’m saying?—”

“Yes, please say something intelligent,” I interject, before staring down at my glass, clutched between my hands.

“You don’t want to miss another opportunity with that girl.” He watches me a second, his thoughts processing before he wiggles his brows. “And she came to your house dressed for sinnin’.”

My face heats and I look away from my brother. We aren’t ones to discuss women like conquests. India is certainly not one for me.

“I’m going to tell you a funny story,” Dasher begins again, tipping forward and pressing his forearms on the table. “You know Ross Davis has a new wife, right?”

I don’t keep up on the love life of fellow coaches, but I’d heard a rumor .

“And do you know how he met her.”

Uhm, of course not . But I don’t have time to answer before Dasher continues. “They met in an elevator.”

“O- kay .” I blink, wondering where this story is going.

“Then he saw her again months later during Spring Training.”

I tilt my head, puzzled.

“And he offered her this silly proposition. Sleep with him.” Dasher laughs. “Davis swore the woman was good luck for him, as long as she slept with him.”

“Sounds misogynistic.” I didn’t have Ross pegged for that kind of behavior.

“Get your mind out of the gutter. It was literally sleeping .” Dasher twitches one brow. “At first.”

“I’m confused.”

“My point is, Ross knew he had a good thing, he just didn’t recognize yet that it was more than being an overly superstitious ball player, or in his case, coach, thinking this woman was his lucky charm.”

“What was it then?”

“It was love. Sowing its seeds instead of oats.”

“Back to oats,” I mutter. Then louder I say, “Sounds a bit romantic, especially for you.”

“ Moi .” He exaggerates, pressing his hand to his chest. “I’m romance personified.”

“Since when?” I snort, but Dasher dismisses me with a wave of his large hand.

“Declan.” My name is said a little too seriously. “Love doesn’t happen by lucky charms or superstitions.”

“I know that.”

“It happens when it’s given a chance.”

My mouth falls open, preparing to say something when I don’t know how to respond.

“Don’t blow the one given to you.”

I wasn’t intending to blow anything, I just didn’t know if love was what India would call what we were doing. We weren’t a gardening or food metaphor. We were having sex. Incredible sex. But I did ask her to date me, even if it is only in private, because it isn’t only sex between us.

It’s history. It’s lost opportunities.

It’s . . . a second chance.