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five

. . .

[Declan]

A home series against the Vegas Victors kicks off the Fourth of July weekend in Nashville. With a day game on the official holiday, plus it being a Friday, the city is abuzz with festive energy. Even more so than a typical day full of musical vibes and country music enthusiasts.

Coaching against Vegas brings with it a ball bag of memories about the Baker family, because their father became general manager of the team after I met Isaiah.

My best friend and I were roommates during my short college stint in Colorado.

The Bakers were Colorado natives, and the move from mountain air to desert stagnation was a bit of a culture shock for Isaiah’s younger sister who was still a teen then.

Isaiah was awed by the accomplishments of his dad.

Eventually, Isaiah played for a Triple A team in New Mexico where he was told the hard cold truth no hopeful professional athlete wants to hear—he was good but not good enough for the majors .

Richard Baker resented the fact I’d made it, and his son hadn’t.

How could a poor kid from Arkansas become Rookie of the Year while his kid didn’t even graduate out of the Triple As?

Richard’s ego was something fierce. Not unheard of among professional athletes or coaches. He’s still the general manager for Vegas, but the arrival of the Victors in Nashville brings something less bitter to my city. My best friend is set to visit me.

For his part, Isaiah used his college degree to become a lawyer, and he practices sports law in California now. He’s still a Victors fan. Traitor .

When he contacted me two days ago, announcing this sudden visit, he teased me. “Gotta make sure you’re treatin’ my baby sister well.”

Unfortunately, he doesn’t know that I haven’t treated his sister in any manner that makes me comfortable. The cold freeze between India and me continues, like a permanent rain delay.

For her part, India hasn’t exactly been heartwarming, and I’m still puzzled why, but I read the message as if it was blasted on the Jumbotron. Stay away .

As I’ve had recent months to reflect, and years to look back on, I’m curious if her distance comes from a drunken text I sent her.

Do you love him?

I had no right to ask.

Thirteen years ago, when I’d learned India was marrying some prominent banker in Vegas, who happened to be a major benefactor of the Victors, I had my suspicions.

How could my Wildfire settle? Her confidence and free spirit demanded she continue to rise. While we didn’t talk much that particular weekend, I’d known for years about her ambitious dreams to work in the male-dominated field of sportscasting and make a name for herself among her peers.

She would stand out like a vibrant, youthful flame among stodgy, wooden ancients.

Still, it wasn’t my business if she intended to marry someone. I was happy for her.

I just felt . . . well, it hadn’t mattered what I’d felt.

I’d made my own life altering decisions fourteen years ago and maybe that caused the rift between us. The strike she couldn’t accept. Since I’d never change the choice I made, I guess India and I are what we are.

Opponents without a game.

In Isaiah’s surprise phone call days ago, he also said, “I haven’t been to Nashville in years. I want the star treatment.”

I have no idea what that involves other than nights of debauchery that I am too old to uphold.

I don’t live a glamorous lifestyle like my best friend, rubbing elbows with sports’ elite and partying with their counterparts of movie stars and models.

I’m still the same old me. Get laid rather infrequently.

Lacking the laundry list of conquests many of my contemporaries claim.

When today’s hot July afternoon ends, I’m grateful for the W against Vegas. I even offer a slight smile to India when she interviews me after the game, like a silent victory. My team beat her father’s.

Within forty-five minutes, I exit the locker room after a post-game conference and step into a bear-hug from my best friend. Isaiah is tall and lean, but strong, and he squeezes me like we haven’t seen each other in ages. We haven’t.

“Look at you,” Isaiah steps back, eyeing me up and down and taking in my team attire, proudly sporting black and white with a hint of silver.

“You look”—he pauses to clap—“terrifying.” He holds up his hands, mocking animal claws, and hisses like a rabid raccoon in the chant associated with the Tennessee Terrors.

Nash, the racoon team mascot, looks a little friendlier than Isaiah’s impression.

“Look at me?” I counter, still taking in my best friend.

With his nearly jet-black hair and large dark eyes, he could be India’s twin if I didn’t know five years separated them.

For the game, he sports shorts and a Vegas Victors jersey.

He’s a good older brother, much like my own, whose trademark is being overly protective of his younger sibling despite all of us being in our forties.

As Isaiah steps aside, he points at me while addressing the female version of him who stands slightly behind him.

India?

I shouldn’t be surprised. Isaiah is close to his sister, protective of her. Their father wasn’t always supportive or particularly kind to her. She was his little girl, but it came with stipulations like that annoying warning tag on a new pillow. The same rules did not apply to Richard Baker’s son.

I also should have known that India might be part of this evening’s visit, but I’d put it out of my head. India wouldn’t have allowed us to hang out together. I anticipated her making an excuse and I’m still expecting her to tap out because of the awkward energy buzzing between us in the hallway.

“Can you believe this guy?” Pride laces Isaiah’s voice, oblivious to the cold vibe between his sister and me. He is proud of me. A lot has happened in the past five years. Other than a world pandemic, I had returned to professional baseball.

“I can believe it,” India states, her voice softer than her reporter tone.

Her eyes don’t meet mine while a lazy smile curls the corner of her mouth.

I’ve always loved the way she smiles. Slow, purposeful, sexy.

One side tips up before the other follows and then— bam!

—she blinds you with the full wattage in combination with a twinkle in those sterling eyes.

The undertone of her reply suggests pride as well. She never doubted my abilities to make it in the major league. For her part, she had quite the success in the industry as well. Where I have a big divot in my path, India has continued to arch upward like a shooting star.

“So what’s the plan, kids?” Isaiah wraps an arm around his sister’s neck, going in for a knuckle rub to her head like she’s still eighteen and not almost forty.

“No plan,” India grunts, ducking out from underneath Isaiah’s bicep, and smoothing down her wayward curls.

My gaze follows the movement of her hand, fingers slicing through thick, silky waves, spreading them between her fingers like wild rapids over smooth river rocks.

“Come on,” Isaiah whines. “I’m free for three days.”

I’d be concerned if I didn’t know that Isaiah is happily married to the love of his life. His wife, Penny, is awesome, and their two kids, Drake and Jocelyn, are amazing.

“It’s the Fourth of July. And it’s Nashville.” Isaiah claps his hands once and rubs them together. “Okay. The plan is . . . concert by the river. Fireworks. Broadway.”

No way. There is no way I’m getting into the chaotic crowd near the river for fireworks and some good ol’ country music on a holiday weekend.

“Let Freedom Sing! is at a nearby venue. We can walk there.” Isaiah pulls out his phone, hunting down the official Fourth of July concert website, and navigating the map app like we’re kids again, traipsing through college towns, looking for the hottest spots for beer and girls.

With the concert location being near the Cumberland River and the Pedestrian Walkway, I’m still out on this plan.

“You needed to purchase tickets in advance,” India states, briefly glancing at me before looking at the screen of her brother’s phone .

A silent agreement is telegraphed between the two of us. We are both a firm not happening on this idea.

“Tickets, schmickets. That’s what scalpers are for.”

My brows lift, knowing that scalpers essentially cheat people. “You don’t really mean that.”

Isaiah sighs. “Okay, maybe not random on the street peeps with fake tickets but let me do a quick search online.”

The impulsiveness of Isaiah is so Isaiah. It’s also a trait of India’s. But as she stands beside her brother, wiggling her ankle back and forth in another pair of impractical-for-a-baseball-field heels, I recognize the anxious tell. She does not want to go to the concert any more than I do.

“PITI,” she begins, reminding me of her nickname for her brother. The initials are a play on PITA, pain in the ass, and can sound like either Petey or pity depending on her tone. “Declan and I both work tomorrow. I can’t do a concert, fireworks, and bar hop, and be in my best form for a game.”

Isaiah glances from his sister to me and back. “That’s what mornings are for. Sleep in. Coffee. And the elixir .” Isaiah wiggles his brows like a mad scientist while exaggerating the name he’d given his personal concoction for hangovers.

Bile creeps up my throat at the memories of ingesting the combination of raw egg, Worcestershire sauce, and a dash of Tabasco.

While I love Isaiah’s enthusiasm to party like he’s still twenty-five, I just don’t have it in me to behave that way. My definition of a good time has changed a bit in the last two decades.

Isaiah’s enthusiasm briefly wanes, when he asks his sister, “You’re feeling okay, right?”

“Stop asking me.” She sounds exasperated by his concern, as if he’s possibly already asked her six other times today. The shift from his easygoing nature to pinched tension is a sudden reminder that India is a survivor of childhood cancer.

India had Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia, ALL, as a child.

Even with the high success rate of survival, which my wildfire beat because she is a fighter, the period of uncertainty scared the shit out of the Baker family.

It’s one reason Mrs. Baker dotes on her daughter and Mister keeps his distance.

At least that’s my observation. Her mother feared losing her; her father didn’t want to get too close to his daughter . . . because he feared losing her.

Isaiah is in the middle. Overprotective of his sister’s health while letting her live her best life.

The staunch reminder of her past health concerns adds to my guilt about my lack of checking in with India.

Not pressing the issue to talk but at least remind her I’m here for her.

A familiar face in a new city, which she once wished for from me when she’d taken her first job in Seattle. Just as I was traded to Chicago.

When I think of Richard and his behavior toward his daughter, I’m always caught up in the differences between us. I’d never treat my daughter the way he treats his. My fear for her health would be out of this ballpark, and I’d worry about a skinned knee rounding every base.

My daughter is my world. My purpose.

Then again, India hates being coddled, and whether that’s a byproduct of having Richard as a father or truly part of her nature, I don’t know.

What I do is give her a cursory glance, as if I can visually see that’s she’s physically okay.

When she narrows her eyes at me, I decide she’s fine. Feisty as ever.

Clapping my hand on Isaiah’s shoulder, I suggest, “Why don’t we grab something to eat?” Dinner buys some time from Isaiah’s plan.

“Where do you suggest?” India lifts her head, eyeing me another second before glancing down the hallway. Her arms cross as if she’s challenging me. With the stadium’s proximity to the river and central downtown, there isn’t a restaurant within thirty miles that won’t be slammed tonight.

“My place,” I counter without thinking.

The last place India probably wants to go is to my apartment but it’s the best option I can think of.

India’s brows lift, stretching above the upper ridge of her bright red eyeglasses.

“ Boring ,” Isaiah groans.

“Look, it’s already after six. Bars are bursting.

Restaurants won’t have a table for another hour or more, if at all.

And it’s going to be hell to drive around here.

” What should take ten minutes will more likely take thirty just to go a few miles.

A benefit of my place is the view of the river, which I use next in my argument.

“We can watch the fireworks from my balcony with free alcohol and a comped dinner.”

A twinge of excitement tickles my chest at the prospect of cooking something other than the kid-friendly meals I make when my daughter is home.

Isaiah’s shoulders sag a bit, but I’m watching India for a reaction. I cannot exclude her from this invitation.

I don’t want to exclude her.

Plus, Isaiah wants to spend time with both of us.

A strange prickle along my sternum confirms I want to spend the evening with both of them. Just like old times.

With hesitation, I watch India. Her expression matches another sensation inside me. One that counters the anxious excitement with ripples of uncertainty.

Does she really dislike me that much that she’d decline dinner at my place with the buffer of her brother?

“You should come too.” I extend the invitation, tossing in what I hope is a warm smile, so there is no doubt she’s welcome at my place. If she declines the offer, that’s on her.

With our eyes holding on one another, the shimmer of uncertainty in her silver gaze slowly melts. Her shoulders appear to release an invisible weight, and her arms slip free from the tight grip they’ve held around her middle.

“If you’re sure?” she questions, her voice falling small when this vibrant woman is normally larger than life. Bold. Fearless. Wildfire .

I’d like to reply that I’ve never been more certain of anything, but India and I have a long way to go before I feel confident about us.

Regardless, if I thought holding out my hand would reassure her, I would.

Instead, I tip up my chin. “Of course.”

The phrase does not encapsulate how very excited I suddenly am to have her at my place.