Page 11

Chapter 11

Holidazed

Delilah

I wake up to the sound of Harlan gasping like we just won the lottery.

“Ohmygod!”

Groggy, still tangled in blankets, I sit up, rubbing my eyes. “What?”

“There are Easter baskets ! In front of our door. Like, actual baskets. With our names.” Her voice is high-pitched, bouncing between shock and full-on little sister glee.

I blink and slide out of bed. And, sure enough, propped against the doorframe like something straight out of a childhood Easter morning I never really got are two huge, pretty, damn perfect baskets, with little name tags hanging off them, handwritten.

Delilah.

Harlan.

Rae.

And tucked under mine? A folded piece of hotel notepad paper, in all-caps handwriting.

FIGURED YOU DIDN’T HAVE TIME TO DYE EGGS.

HAPPY EASTER, MONROE GIRLS.

— D

My throat goes tight so fast it actually stings.

Harlan’s already half-tearing hers apart, giggling like a kid.

“Look at this hat!” she shouts, holding up the Terrors cap like it’s made of gold, then pulls out a jersey. “Freaking awesome!”

“Jesus,” I whisper, hands hovering over my own basket like I’m afraid to touch it. Like it’s a dream.

Fancy chocolates.

Wildflower seeds that I will plant … somewhere.

Chocolate eggs.

Gourmet Jellybeans.

Peeps.

Guitar picks. And not just guitar picks, Blue Chip picks.

There are printed gift cards … to several restaurants around Nashville and one to O’Donnell’s Pub here in Trenton.

The tiny bottle of George Dickel makes me laugh out loud.

And then a box, a jewelry box, and inside, a charm bracelet with tiny trinkets: a microphone, a guitar, and two tiny state-shaped charms, Tennessee and New Jersey.

“I have one, too!” Harlan holds out the same silver bracelet with the two state charms and a pair of glasses, the emoji by her name in the text chain.

I kneel down and fight emotion because, although emotions are too real for a fake relationship, Damien freaking Donovan does friendship and family to a level deserving.

Ty … Ty stole his girlfriend, and he’s still in his life. Either he’s a glutton or just a good damn man.

Behind me comes a deep voice, so casual it makes my heart flip over.

“Thought y’all might sleep till noon.”

Damien.

Leaning against the doorframe to his suite across the hall, barefoot, sweatpants, hoodie sleeves shoved to his elbows, he’s all casual, like he didn’t just knock me sideways without even trying.

Harlan barrels past me, full of little sister energy, and hugs him like she’s known him forever.

“You’re ridiculous,” she tells him, grinning up like he hung the damn moon.

He settles a hand on her shoulder, quietly pleased. “Yeah, well, it’s a holiday, and families celebrate those, yeah?”

Family …

He reaches just inside his door and grabs his duffel. “See you two after the game.” He nods to the basket. “Jags hit a place called O’Donnell’s after their games. Meeting the folks and Dawson here. Come?”

“Heck yes, we will! Right, Lala?”

“Heck yeah.” I smile softly at the world’s best fake boyfriend.

“Spam, Lala. He put Spam in my basket.”

Fuck … this may hurt a little.

“I don’t know what I was expecting,” I mutter as the SUV pulls up to the private entrance, “but it wasn’t this. ”

Harlan leans over me, peering out the window. “Tell me that doesn’t look like a spaceship.”

She’s not wrong.

The stadium rises out of the ground like it landed here—glass, steel, curves in all the right places. The edges glow with soft white lights, and behind it, the Delaware River glimmers. You can see the water from the gates. You can probably see it from the field. Hell, it feels like this whole thing is floating.

“I feel underdressed,” I say, tugging my jacket closed like that’ll hide the jeans and scuffed boots. “This place has better bone structure than me.”

“Relax.” Harlan grins. “You’re hot, and you have a VIP pass that says you belong to Mr. Major League himself, Damien Donovan.”

The SUV pulls over, and a huge man in a suit opens the door. “Welcome to Revolutionary Field. Your passes?”

We flash the silver embossed badges hanging from the navy, red, and silver Jersey Jags lanyards.

“Right this way.”

“This part still throws me,” Harlan whispers. “Your label isn’t just in the music business—they own the Jersey Jags luxury baseball spaceship.”

I grin at her. “It’s wild.”

We step through a gate manned by more security. They scan our passes, nod once, and let us in.

It’s silent in this entrance tunnel. Carpeted. Cool air. Spotless walls lined with blue and red portraits of players. Real dramatic, moody lighting. I spot Dawson’s.

“We need a selfie with bae bro’s pic.”

“We don’t?—”

“Um, we do. Content is everything,” she reminds me.

I groan, but throw on a stage smile as she clicks.

“You ever think you’d be playing a show in a place like this?” Harlan asks as we continue to walk.

“Never dreamed of doing stadiums,” I admit.

“Time to dream major bigger.”

We reach the glass doors and step out onto the main concourse, and it hits— the open-air rush, the sound of the river behind us, the blindingly perfect view of the diamond under crisp lights. The jumbotron’s alive with pre-game footage, and everything smells like popcorn, cedar, and … money.

“It’s like Fenway and SoFi had a baby,” Harlan says. “And that baby has a private chef and an Instagram deal.”

I let out a laugh, but my eyes are scanning the field. Because somewhere down there is the guy who made us—all three of us—Easter baskets.

We’re hurried through tunnels and halls to an elevator that takes us up to floor … S ?

When the elevator stops, the doors open to the owner’s suite. “Welcome to the box.”

The whole room is full of people saying, “Congratulations, Delilah.” There’s even a sign. And it’s not just people; its full of faces anyone would recognize. Country music star Brand freaking Falcon, all four members of the rock band Steel Total Destruction, the members of the girl band Foreplay, and the lead singer, Tris, who left a few years back. And so many people who look too much like Partick not to be family.

A heavily tattooed man steps forward and wraps me up in a hug. “Welcome to the family, kid. I’m Xavier Steel.”

“He’s mine’s Poppa X!” little Journey says, pushing between us to hug me. “We share him with you.”

“Oh my God, you are so adorable,” Harlan gushes over the little beauty wearing a Jags ball cap, navy blue sparkly tutu, a Journey tee under a red and blue flannel, and on her feet are white chucks with baseball stitch-looking laces.

“You, too!”

Lennon huffs. “She’s nice to look at, better if she loosed the shirt.”

Muffled laughter echoes around the room.

Sutton glares at them in a warning and asks him, “You don’t like her shirt?”

“Nope.” He shakes his head. “The Terrors?”

“Be nice, Len. We celebrate our Delala.”

He lifts his chin and looks me over, thankfully not seeing the Terrors jersey under my sweater. “Welcome to the fam.”

“Come, eat; we have a whole Easter spread for you girls,” a beautiful older woman with a thick Italian accent says.

“That’s you Momma Joe. She maked it all with hers hands,” Journey informs us, doing jazz fingers.

“Lala’s baby sis will never turn down a meal.” Harlan smiles.

“Who?” Journey asks.

“Delilah, I call her Lala,” Harlan explains.

“Me, too?”

“Of course, we’re all fam.” Harlan winks at her.

Tris, the original front for Foreplay, walks up to me, phone held up. “Hey, monsters, it’s T live from the Jags bouj box, here to prove, no matter who you root for, we’re still happy to call you family.” She’s beside me now. “Has Tricks made the announcement yet?” she asks, and I look around for … heeeellllppp .

“I’m going to take that as a no.” She giggles. “Forever Fours has been courting you for months, and you finally signed?” She shakes her head as I smile at the screen, still saying nothing. She continues, nonetheless. “It’s all a little sus, if you ask me.”

“Jesus, Trouble.” Xavier appears behind us.

“You ever think the big league boyfriend convinced her to play double agent to?—”

“Damien knows music is to me as baseball is to him.” I smile. “Priority one.”

“I feel that.” She pulls me into a side hug. “So we agree that music is always first.”

“We do.”

“Then let’s you and I make a friendly bet on the game.” She smirks, and I reluctantly nod. “The Jags win today, you have to wear the other Donovan’s jersey when you sing for the Jags tomorrow. The Terrors win, I open with you at your first stadium show.”

“I’m liking where this is going.” Xavier nods approvingly. “Nah, I’m not just liking it—I’m McLovin’ it!”

She holds her hand out, and I shake it, wondering all the while how long my knees can shake like this while meeting Tris for the first time.

“Stay tuned, monsters.” Tris blows them a kiss before ending the live.

“I, um … thank you?” I laugh.

“You good, Trouble?” X asks her.

“Uncle X, I’m not off my meds, for fuck’s sake. I’m livid that the public is saying the shit they are.” She looks at me. “You’re amazing, and fuck them.”

“Mom,” comes from behind us, and I turn to see two boys—twins—approaching.

Everything hard about Tris softens. “Niko, Nash, this is Delilah Monroe and the reason you will now love country music.”

“Hey,” one says.

“Hi.” The other smiles at me then looks at his mom. “Can we go down to the seats? It sucks up here.”

She looks at me. “Do the family thing and come down?”

I nod. “Thank you, Tris.”

She holds up a fist. “Girls gotta have each other’s backs.”

I tap it.

“Now it’s time for the eat and meet.” Xavier grips my shoulders and walks me toward people whose music I know. Hell, I’ve covered all of them.

***

Exhausted from all the excitement, my belly is full of all the delicious food I’ve eaten way too much of while sipping champagne from a glass that costs more than my rent and sitting three feet from one of the most powerful families in baseball.

“This is incredible,” Harlan says, leaning her head on my shoulder.

A hand grips my shoulder, and Harlans, too.

Xavier Steel.

“Voices that need to be heard get heard. Trouble was right; fuck them.”

“Thank y’all so much,” I say as tears brim my eyes.

“Fuck that. Thank your momma for giving us you.” He winks.

And that does it; both Harlan and I shed some tears we haven’t allowed ourselves to shed since we lost her.

When we’ve gathered our shit, Sutton sits beside me in a crisp linen dress, sunglasses tucked into her hair, mouth moving fast as she runs down media targets with Patrick, who’s too busy checking three phones at once to look up. The rest of the box is dotted with people I’ve only ever seen in headlines and tabloid photos.

That’s when the announcer’s voice booms over the sound speaker. And my eyes? They’re on the field.

On him.

Damien Donovan.

Number 7.

Our Easter bunny … also fake but whatever.

Sutton leans in. “You’re going to get used to that sound.”

“What sound?”

“The one of you falling for him,” she says. “The world falling, I mean.”

I don’t answer.

She smiles. “I have it on good authority he’s doing the same for you.”

***

I am trying to behave, trying to sit still, trying to sip my champagne and keep quiet. Keep my face neutral. But the Terrors are winning, and Damien is playing like the star he is, and I am seconds from absolutely embarrassing myself in the home team’s suite.

I cross my legs. Uncross them. Tap my fingers on the rim of my glass like that’s gonna stop the scream building in my throat.

He’s made two jaw-dropping plays, already has a double and a stolen base, and looks like every country song I’ve ever written about a man you shouldn’t fall for but always do.

Sutton leans toward me. “You look like you’re trying not to explode.”

I open my mouth. Close it.

Harlan laughs into her soda.

“Girl, just go sit with his family,” Sutton says, grinning. “They’ve got field-level box seats right next to Tris and the rest of the family. No one down there expects you to pretend.”

I blink. “Seriously?”

She nods toward the lower level, where Loretta and Deke Donovan are waving foam fingers, one on each hand, each team.

“Go on,” she says. “Take Harlan with you. It’ll look good for the cameras.”

Harlan raises her brows. “We’re doing this?”

I’m already half out of my seat. “We’re doing this.”

In minutes, we’re behind home plate, sliding into two open seats next to Loretta, who immediately pulls me in like I’m blood. I love her.

“You made it, baby!” she hollers. “Terrors are hot today.”

I nod, a little breathless, watching Damien step into the batter’s box with that same focused, sharp calm that makes my stomach twist in knots.

And then? He glances up. Right. At. Me.

I smile.

And then, because I’m a menace, and because this fake thing stopped feeling fake night one, I pull up my sweater and flash him the jersey underneath. His number on my chest, name on my back.

His eyes lock on mine for half a second longer than feels right, and then he turns right as the pitch comes in. And he swings.

Crack.

Gone. Over the left field wall, three rows deep.

The Terrors are up by one.

The crowd explodes.

Loretta screams loud enough to rattle the sky.

“Oh, honey,” she says, grabbing my hand like we’ve been doing this for years, “you’re good luck.”

I laugh.

She leans closer, dropping her voice quieter, softer. “You know,” she says, eyes still on the field, “the last girl he ever brought around was way back in high school. Middle school through freshman year, really. Sweet thing. Sang in the church choir.”

My heart slows a little.

Loretta’s voice stays gentle, steady. “She dated Ty for a while after that. The three of them were inseparable. Real tight.”

I nod, not quite sure what to say.

“She passed,” Loretta adds, voice breaking just a little. “Cancer, the kind that hides in growing pains and mood swings. Happened a week after Damien left for the minors. Ty was a mess, poor boy. His parents were the town doctors. They blamed themselves. And Ty … he said he didn’t, but Lord knows nothing’s been the same. I don’t think either one has ever really let themselves care for somebody since.” She shakes her head. “But my boy, he doesn’t talk about things like that.” She squeezes my hand. “But we don’t talk about things like that, either.”

I swallow hard, give her hand a squeeze, then look back out at the field. At Damien rounding third, head down, smile just barely tugging at the corners of his mouth. And I realize, this thing between us? Whatever it started as? It’s not just healing me.

It’s healing him, too.

***

The game ends with the Terrors beating the Jags, last season’s world champs, by one.

“Guess this means we’re not going to that pub?” Damien’s father asks.

“Nope, only wins,” Loretta concurs then adds, “Good thing I brought enough pecan pies to fill Dawson’s freezer.”

“That’s my girl.” He winks at her.

“They’re the real deal,” Harlan whispers.

I nod. “Yeah.”

Tris yells to me, “I owe you!”

I smile. “I know.”

“That means you owe him.” She winks.

And me? I blush.

***

“Welcome to Slugger Row,” Loretta says as we pull into the parking lot behind a row of townhomes. “The second baseman, Roman Hart, and his wife live in that beautiful Victorian next-door and own this property. She’s a vet. Sweet girl. Southern Texas, right, Deke?”

“Texas.” He nods. “Small town. Maybe we’ll camp there one day.”

She looks back at us, smiling. “In a yurt.”

“Damn boys of ours got us glamping now.” He then mumbles, “Nothing wrong with a tent.”

“His roommate is AJ; he plays centerfield. New York City boy. Good boy,” she says as she turns back around.

“Good boy?” Deke snorts. “Maybe when we’re here, but the others? Vanders, Henley, and Masters? Them damn fools are runnin’ with more women than they got sense. Ain’t nothin’ but a headache waitin’ to happen. You juggle that many firecrackers, you’re bound to lose a finger.”

Harlan and I both hold back the laughter deserving of such pearls of wisdom.

“Rudy, now he’s a nice boy,” she says.

“Ain’t nobody that quiet unless they got somethin’ worth hidin’.” Deke puts the SUV in park.

“Boys are bringing home takeout,” he huffs, putting the rental in the park. “Damn good thing you brought pie.”

“As long as they’re together and eating, they won’t fuss about the game.”

He gets out, and she sits there, waiting for him to open the door.

“Let Deke get your door, or you won’t hear the end of it,” she whispers.

When he opens hers, she laughs. “Do you remember the years all we could afford is Spam?”

“Remember them? I miss them days.” He laughs, taking her hand. “Remember when we told the boys we were saving electricity when we were short twenty bucks to make the light bill and they wouldn’t turn it back on till Monday when we ran to the city to pay it?”

“Oh my God, Spam fried over a fire,” Harlan says wistfully.

“Who doesn’t love Spam?” I laugh, remembering how often we ate that and butter noodles.

“But, was it on purpose?” Deke asks.

“Oh, heck no. We went weeks without power,” Harlan tells him as she answers a message from Rae, who is strictly texting her because I should be dialed in.

“Her flight gonna be on time?” I ask as we follow Damien’s parents.

“She’s going to be on time.”

“So we need to leave here and meet her in?—”

“I got this, Miss Monroe.”

I roll my eyes. “We can’t be like that, not ever.”

“You deserve this.”

“We—we deserve this.”