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six

. . .

[India]

Sometimes, Isaiah can be incorrigible, like insisting that I go to Declan’s apartment with them.

Despite Declan’s kind offer, I’m still uncertain this is a good idea, but I’m not in the habit of declining my brother.

It’s so rare we have time together. With my dad in town, I need the reinforcements that come with spending time with my big brother.

I’m not on speaking terms with Richard, so I’m honored Isaiah wants to see me over him.

Then again, they see one another often enough I imagine.

I’m not privy to where all the players and coaching staff reside, although I have a general idea based on personal discussions and teasing banter.

Apparently, Declan has a place close to the ballpark that he claims he selected because of the proximity.

The irony of him having an apartment in a high rise is that Declan hates tight spaces.

Having grown up in a small town, he isn’t a fan of a crowded metropolis.

He loved visiting us in Colorado where fresh air and vast mountains felt less constricting than skyscrapers and smog.

The second we enter the elevator for the eleventh floor, I question what Declan is doing here. Not here in Nashville. Not even his position with the Terrors. Just here, in this downtown neighborhood.

Once again, I take in his features. The weathered lines near his eyes, signs of both age, concern, and years in the sun. The tightness of his mouth surrounded by that thick layer of autumn scruff powdered with snowy flecks. He’s both rugged and refined . . . and I’ve missed him.

When we arrive at his place, the view of the river gives me a clue as to his reason for picking this place. From his balcony, the curve of the Cumberland River is apparent and the setting sun spectacular. The day has been warm, and the night continues the trend.

When Declan passes me for the sliding glass doors of his balcony, I don’t miss the slight brush of his hand on my lower back. A familiar shiver ripples through me. While the air conditioning is on to cut the humidity, he opens the wide doors, allowing a rush of warm air into the space.

Declan’s apartment screams that a bachelor lives here.

Dull gray furnishings and simple decorations are stark, uninviting, and standard, like they came with the apartment.

The only bright spot is a smattering of photographs on a shelf suspended near the large-screen television.

Black frames contain photos of a young girl.

Declan’s daughter.

I’ve never been the maternal type. Never dreamed that one day I’d have kids or felt particularly upset that I don’t have children.

Too late, I’d learned that Malakai wanted kids when I didn’t feel comfortable having them.

What if they had what I’d had as a child?

What if I lost one to a childhood disease, and it’d been my fault? I’d never forgive myself.

But when I’d learned Declan was having a child, how I learned he was having one, something inside me yearned for a baby. For a blip of time, I’d hoped he’d reach out and invite me to join him in parenting. Through Isaiah, I’d learned Declan was not marrying the mother of his daughter.

Declan was in Chicago by then and our weekend together had recently passed. On a rare assignment to visit the Windy City, I’d reached out, cautiously expressing my interest and availability to see him. I didn’t want to seem overeager.

After our weekend together, it wasn’t like we said we’d never speak again. Promises also weren’t spoken that we would, though, but I’d been craving another Declan fix. The casual text messages that had infrequently passed between us were not enough.

My shock, and subsequent disappointment, came when he told me by text that he was having a child.

Part of my disappointment wasn’t that he was having a child, but he was having one with someone else, which made no sense. I hadn’t wanted children, right?

Even stranger was that I’d been willing to help him raise his.

He never asked.

“That’s Montgomery.” Declan clears his throat behind me.

He’s close enough I can smell him. A mixture of cinnamon gum, sunflower seeds, and lingering ballfield.

The heat of his chest radiates toward me although I’m certain I’m imagining the effect.

He couldn’t possibly be so close that all I’d need to do is lean back and he’d brace me.

A level of love and pride fills his voice when mentioning his daughter’s name. A sound I’m not certain I’ve ever heard my dad use when referencing me.

“She’s beautiful,” I admit about the images before me.

A toddler in a pink bathing suit. The same child as a young girl in a softball uniform, kneeling for a formal picture.

Her hair is brown with hints of red. Her eyes are bright and blue.

Her smile is all Declan. A more recent photo shows her in a short, bright sapphire-blue, strapless dress.

Her hands wrap around her father’s arm, and she pops her foot in the air behind her.

“Fourteen?” I question, unable to recall her age. The teenager in the photo still has a girlish face despite the subtle curves and grown-up formal wear.

“Fifteen this fall,” he answers, his breath tickles the side of my neck as I’ve scooped up my hair into a knot on the top of my head.

The age of his girl makes sense. Isaiah got married sixteen years ago.

Well aware that Declan and I had no commitment to one another, the news about his daughter still came as quite a shock.

Of course, he most likely slept with other women before and after being with me.

He was in his early thirties then, young and attractive, and a hot commodity.

A rising star in baseball. I hadn’t been a saint either.

But in the back of my head, I always hoped that Declan and I would reunite in some manner. Seattle had been a missed opportunity. A foul ball. But Chicago was clearly a strike. He couldn’t entertain a new relationship amid the uncertainty of his impending fatherhood.

Crossing my arms, I stare into the eyes of a child that isn’t mine, forcing away a pinch of regret. I’m forty now. Motherhood is an opportunity I won’t ever have, but I always thought I’d make a great bonus mom.

The thought catches me off-guard as much as another whisper taunts me.

You’re so career-driven . My ex’s voice in my head nearly chokes me. As if having determination and a goal were somehow wrong, when my drive was something he always said he admired about me. Admired, not loved.

“First base?” I question, pointing at the photo of Montgomery in a softball uniform, wondering if she plays the same position Declan once did .

He chuckles, low and sweet, behind me. I can hear the smile in his voice. “No. She’s a pitcher.”

“Yikes. Not a pitcher,” Isaiah mocks, turning both our heads in his direction, and reminding us of his former position on the field. Somehow, Isaiah already holds a glass of amber liquid. He takes a hearty sip, then exaggerates a full-body shudder.

“Tennessee whiskey,” he sighs, holding up the glass in a short salute before taking another drink.

Declan chuckles again before addressing me. “Would you like something? Wine? Beer? Tennessee whiskey?”

Slowly unfolding my arms which I hadn’t realized I’d been tightly clenching across my midsection, I shift and answer him. “Wine would be wonderful.”

From my position, I notice a butcher-paper wrapped package on the L-shaped peninsula counter that separates the kitchen from the living space.

“Steaks,” Declan clarifies, following my line of sight. “I’d been planning to grill tonight.”

“Date?” I counter before I can stop myself, realizing that Declan might have had plans for this evening. With someone else.

Isaiah invited himself to Nashville because of the series. The Victors against the Terrors was something he couldn’t miss, he’d told me. Essentially, it was a battle of our dad against Declan.

Because there are two more games in the series, and the fact I need to work during them, I hadn’t thought about the national holiday. I figured I’d work and return to my home to rest before starting the process over again.

I am career-driven. But the drive can be lonely sometimes. And the last thing I want to think about is Declan having a date that we’ve interrupted.

“Uh, no,” he sharply quips.

“Our boy here doesn’t date,” Isaiah says, waving the hand holding his glass a bit precariously, causing me to hold my breath, anticipating he might spill some of the liquid over the rim.

Is he drunk? I have no doubt my brother enjoyed himself at the game, taking a seat in the Vegas owner’s suite because of our connection to the team through our father.

When our dad took the job, Isaiah was an instant fan of the new-to-the-league program. I hadn’t been so enthusiastic as I’d been ripped from my beautiful Colorado home at a pivotal age and plopped into the Nevada desert to finish high school.

With that thought, I spare another glance at the image of beautiful Montgomery Wylde in her yellow softball uniform. At fifteen, I openly rebelled. Not enough to be arrested, but enough to make Dad notice me, even if the attention was negative.

Greatness lay on Isaiah. He was going to be a star. A professional baseball player. A champion.

“Does she want to play softball when she grows up?” I suddenly ask, worried about another almost fifteen-year-old girl and her relationship with her father.

“God, no.” Declan chuckles, the sound light, pleased even. “She wants to be a doctor. But next week she might want to be a teacher.”

Turning to fully face him, I catch his shrug, but his expression isn’t as nonchalant as the shoulder movement. He lights up when he talks about Montgomery. “Doesn’t matter to me. She’ll be an MVP at anything she does.”

The simple praise of his daughter almost brings tears to my eyes. I bet he’s the best dad. A true girl’s dad. Proud of her accomplishments no matter what they are.

“You don’t want her to play a sport?” I question, like I’m still that fifteen-year-old girl, who did play sports in hopes to impress her father, but my dad didn’t think there was a future in them for me .

Title IX ruined men’s sports , I once heard Richard Baker quip to a friend.

“I want her to do whatever she wants to do. Be whoever she wants to be. For now, she loves softball, but she doesn’t have passion for it.

” Declan makes a small fist to emphasize the grit of a game, then loosens his clenched fingers.

“But that’s okay. I just want her to have fun.

Be on a team with friends. And if she changes her mind, well, . . . then we’ll see where that leads.”

He offers a smooth smile, confident in his daughter’s abilities while equally content to let her shine without pressure to perform.

“She isn’t with you this weekend?” I know nothing about Declan’s arrangement with Montgomery’s mother other than they never married.

Isaiah once mentioned they were friends, not lovers.

I have no idea if they did the every-other-weekend thing or how that would even work with the hectic schedule of a professional coach.

“She’s away with friends for the holiday.” He smiles wider, staring at the image of his daughter in that short blue dress. “She’s getting to the point she wants to spend more of her free time with them than with her old man.” His smile softens but sadness twinges his eyes.

It’s hard to imagine how quickly fifteen years has passed, and yet how painfully slow at the same time.

“Off to college soon,” I tease.

Declan’s eyes snap to my face. His hand slaps over his chest, covering his heart with his large paw. “Don’t remind me.” His smile grows wider as our eyes hold on one another.

He’s lethal when he looks at me with love for his daughter in his eyes. She’s a lucky girl to have him as a dad. And he’s a lucky man to have her.

“Loosen up,” Isaiah practically shouts, startling me by suddenly wrapping his arm around my neck, and jostling me .

“I am loose,” I counter, and glance at Declan for some reason. My cheeks flame.

“You’re not loose,” Isaiah slurs, jostling me beneath his arm.

“You’re wound up tighter than the last at bat, bottom of the ninth, bases loaded, two outs.

” With his drink in the air as he speaks, he twirls it while pointing one finger, then brings the glass to his lips to finish off the alcohol in one deep swallow.

With Declan’s back to us, he walks into the tight kitchen space, which is fully exposed to us from the living area.

“How much have you had to drink today?” I ask, side-eyeing my brother with concern that he overindulged during the game.

“Not enough,” he whispers toward the glass, lifting it for one more sip to discover nothing remains.

“Good fellow.” He releases me and stumbles toward the kitchen counter. “Hit me up with another.”

Declan’s gaze leaps to me and my brows pinch, uncertain what has gotten into my brother. Sure, he likes to have a good time. Yes, he likes to drink. But I haven’t seen him inebriated like this in a long time.

Isaiah sets his glass down with a heavy clink and Declan pours him another two fingers worth of whiskey.

Our eyes meet one more time over my brother’s shoulder before Isaiah lifts his glass, points at Declan, then at me, and with an accusatory glare in his dark eyes, he blurts.

“Are you two sleeping together again?”