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. . .

July

Mid-season

[Declan]

“Coach Wylde, how do you feel about today’s loss?”

What kind of fucking question is that? We lost. I feel like shit about it.

“Well, India,” I grit through clenched teeth, trying my best not to look directly at the woman interviewing me near the third baseline of Music City Park, home stadium to the Tennessee Terrors.

With my gaze averted, I focus on her impractical shoes. Bright red heels on a baseball field. The urge to shake my head in disapproval is strong. Instead, I continue my answer. “We played hard, but we had a tough break losing Reynolds in the outfield.”

Josh Reynolds, our star center fielder, was hit in the ribs during yesterday’s loss and will be out for the next two weeks.

“Coach, you lost two in a row in this series.” India’s voice is almost as tight as my jaw.

Thanks for the fucking reminder . As if I didn’t know.

My molars grind hard in an effort to hold back another bitter retort. Instead, I inhale to keep my cool. Only the deep breath brings a whiff of India’s exotic perfume up my nose, clogging my senses with the crisp fragrance of freshly fallen snow despite it being mid-summer.

And I only recognize the intoxicating scent because I know her. Or at least, my memories of her are as familiar as her scent.

She, however, remains as aloof as she’d been in that first interview back in February. As cold as the mountains here in Tennessee can get in December.

Does she need to stand so close to me? Then again, I’d love to have her closer. I’d love to pull her into my arms and demand she cut the shit. Dismantle this wall she built between us.

“What do you expect the team will need to improve for your next series against Vegas?”

With my gaze still lowered toward the dirt and her shoes, tilting my head brings my ear closer to her so I can hear her asinine questions. My eyes almost roll to the back of my head.

The answer is simple. We need to work on what we always work on.

Hits. Runs. And catching the damn ball. But when our backup center fielder made an error in the final inning with the Arizona Ospreys, who popped a fly ball to centerfield with the winning run on third, we cannot miss textbook catches like that.

“It was a tough catch for Hernandez.” My jaw pops against the lie.

“Tough loss, Coach.”

Don’t I know it .

“Good luck against Vegas,” she adds, as if she won’t be here tomorrow, hounding me again.

The past five months of being interviewed by India have been hell.

Having her this close to me, all buttoned up in sleek dresses and professional skirts, when I know what she looks like underneath the flattering clothing, is torture.

Add in that I know what she tastes like.

How she mewls in pleasure. How she smells when attached to my body . . .

A fast ball to the nuts would be less painful than the strain between us.

And my yearning for her.

“Thanks.” I nod, continuing to avoid eye contact with her deep-set sterling beauties behind a pair of red-framed eyeglasses.

What I’d really like to do is look up and tell her to keep her well-wishes and the heart of Nevada out of the same sentence.

Because Vegas and luck did not go in my favor when it came to her.

Instead, I walk away, head still hung, while her voice turns chipper behind me as she says, “Back to you, Chuck.”

No doubt she’s addressing Chuck Nugent, a true star with The Den and practically a Nashville treasure, who covers all home games and some away ones with play-by-play reporting.

With a soft kick at the gravel track, I cross the baseline for the dugout. Sometimes, I can sneak into the tunnel before India intercepts me, but my avoidance has been detected by the front office, and I’ve been warned about interviews.

I’m obligated to give them even when I despise them.

Gone are the days of simply coaching a group of grown men playing a game. In the past, the team manager, or head coach, answered a few questions at the end of a game in a conference room. Now, it’s a constant stream of chatter that occurs during the middle of play directly from the dugout.

Last week, I got my hand slapped by the front office when I was too busy concentrating on Cassidy “Tripp” Nash III up at bat, which is the essence of my job, and told India that I had a game to coach, thus cutting off her inquisition

Meaning: I didn’t want to be bothered to talk.

Not about the trivial, that is. I wanted something real from her.

The slight is nothing personal. I just don’t like how, in the past few years, the dugout has become a place of show-and-tell, providing an interactive and in-depth look into the mindset of the coaching staff.

I don’t need anyone in my head.

Which makes being interviewed by India Baker all the more difficult.

Perhaps my attitude is personal.

Hard not to feel that way about a woman who once twisted me all up inside and then went radio silent.