Page 15

Chapter 15

Still Winning

Damien

“Again,” I bite out, dragging a hand down my face, “not a blowout. They won by a run two of the games, and we won the first.”

The reporter raises his mic like he wants more, but I’m not playing.

I shift my eyes to Dawson, who’s got that shit-eating grin stretched across his face, the one he saves for just me. Asshat .

“I’m just sayin’”—Dawson smirks—“baby bro shows up and you forget how to swing?”

I give him a look, one that says, Have your fun, but kiss my ass.

“Or was it the crowd? All that pressure? Or maybe”—he grins, tilting his head toward the tunnel, where I know Delilah is waiting—“maybe you were distracted.”

My jaw clenches. He smirks.

I wanna remind him that I’m not the one who popped out with the bases loaded, but fuck it, he can have this.

“You enjoy your win. You deserve it.” I pause and smile, saying, “ Little D .”

The press thing ends, finally, and I peel out of it with my hat low and my patience lower. Dawson ran his mouth, but that’s nothing new. He earned it. He can have his laugh.

The series was close. Could’ve gone either way. It didn’t. That’s baseball.

It’s not the loss that’s tugging at me.

It’s her.

I step into the tunnel, and she’s there, leaning against the wall like she doesn’t want to take up space, like she wasn’t the loudest thought in my head the whole damn game.

Her fingers twist a water bottle like she’s bracing for bad news, and I hate that.

“You here to check if I’ve emotionally unraveled?” I ask, walking toward her.

She lifts a brow, sharp and beautiful. “That bad, huh?”

I shake my head. “Dawson’s got jokes. Let him have ’em.”

She studies my face, searching for cracks. “You don’t seem … I don’t know. Wrecked.”

“I’m not.” I mean it. “I don’t play this game to be undefeated. I play it because I love it. Even the losses. Even the ones that sting.”

And this one? It doesn’t even sting that much.

Because I already won.

“You’re here,” I say, and it slips out soft, honest.

Her eyes warm, she steps into me like she belongs there—hands on my chest, grounding me more than the field ever could.

“You wanna go home?” she asks.

Only if she means with me .

I lean in. “Only if you’re coming with me.”

She groans.

“That is not the reaction I was expecting.”

She doesn’t look at me, just hands me her phone. “I wish I could go with you, but …”

Rae: I just got out of the manager’s office. The girl who was supposed to cover my shift never showed. They fired me.

Delilah: Are you okay?

Rae: I’m sorry. You’ve been doing everything lately.

Delilah: You don’t have to say that. We’re fine. We have the travel money we never spent and money coming in. We are going to be fine.

Rae: That’s not the point. You shouldn’t have to carry all of it.

Delilah: You took care of me when I didn’t have a clue what I was doing. When Mom died. When everything fell apart. Now it’s my turn.

Rae: I have lupus. I’m not made of glass. I can still fight for myself. We’ll figure it out. Together.

The message hits me right in the chest.

I hand the phone back, and she swallows hard, blinking fast as she stares straight ahead.

“She’s been fighting a flare,” she murmurs. “Too much stress. I have to go back to my place.”

“Not mad. In awe of you,” I say quietly. “And her.”

“Thank you. Like, seriously, thank you for seeing how awesome she is, even when she’s making prank calls.”

“She’s a pain in the ass, but she’s your pain in the ass, and”—I nod toward the car waiting to take us to the airport—“you met my family. We both bring some fun to the table.”

She smiles that big Delilah smile. “We do, don’t?—”

I step in and grab her face with both hands, slow and sure, like I’ve been waiting all night for this exact second—because I have. And when our mouths meet? It’s not sweet. It’s not careful. It’s taking—claiming her and everything she brings with her.

She gasps against my mouth, and I take that moment to slip my tongue past her lips, tasting her. She presses into me with this needy little sound, fingers curling into my shirt, gripping like she doesn’t trust her knees to hold her. Same, Songbird, same.

And God help me, that sound? That desperate, breathless sound she makes when I deepen the kiss? I could die happy right here.

I slowly stroke my tongue against hers, teasing, coaxing, and then colliding with the kind of heat that says we’ve both been imagining this for too long. Our teeth clash for half a second—too hungry, too much—and I swear it only makes her kiss me harder.

She tastes like mint and something sweeter I can’t name, something that already feels addictive. Her lips are soft but demanding, her body molded to mine like she belongs there. I drag my hands down, one sliding into the curve of her waist, the other pressing flat against her spine, anchoring her to me.

It’s not just a kiss. It’s a goddamn claim.

By the time we break apart, we’re both breathing like we’ve run sprints. Her eyes are glassy, lips kiss-swollen, cheeks flushed, and I’ve never seen anything so wrecked and beautiful.

The Uber honks once. Impatient.

She turns her head just slightly, still catching her breath. “You coming?” she asks, voice low and wrecked.

I grin. “Almost did.”

She smacks my chest, laughing, but there’s still fire in her eyes.

We climb into the back seat like nothing happened, but my hand stays on her thigh the whole ride.

“Tell me what to expect with Rae when she’s feeling like this.”

“Yeah, lupus is autoimmune, like RA or MS, but it’s wildly unpredictable and hits like a shotgun blast instead of a sniper. One day, it’s fatigue; the next, your kidneys are freaking out, and then it backs off like nothing happened. And half the time? It looks invisible. Until it’s not.”

I should tell her Mom has RA, and I will, but not now.

“It’s not always dramatic. Sometimes it’s just … this slow unraveling. But sometimes her joints swell up. Like … her body just turns on her. Wrists, knees, her jaw sometimes, and it makes it so that it hurts to sing. The pain gets into everything. Even holding a fork can become this whole battle.”

I don’t breathe. Not really. I just listen.

“She’s had one major one after we left that house, but it’s been a while. But it never goes away. When it was really bad, she slept for hours and still woke up like she never closed her eyes. Her skin flared up—red and angry. She said it’s like a sunburn that never cools down. And her brain … Rae’s sharp , so freaking smart, Damien, in that cutting, funny way that makes everyone else feel slow. But when she’s flaring?” She shakes her head. “She forgets things—words, names. She’ll stop mid-sentence and just … look lost.” Her voice breaks on that word, and I feel it hit something deep in my chest.

“She hates when I see it. Hates looking weak, hates crying. But that one time, she just folded in on herself, and I sat there on the floor beside her bed, holding her hand, saying whatever I could to make it pass faster.”

She finally looks at me. And damn, the weight in her eyes guts me.

“She says she’s fine. Every time. But she’s not. And I can’t fix it. I can’t fight it . All I can do is make sure the lights are dim, her meds are lined up, and she’s got water, soup, and something soft playing in the background, like the world can’t find her in that little cocoon.”

My throat’s tight. Too tight. I reach for her hand, wrap her cold fingers in mine. Her skin’s soft, but there’s strength in the way she grips back.

“I didn’t know,” I say quietly. “I didn’t know it was like that.”

She nods, silent.

“I’m sorry,” I say, and I mean it in a thousand ways. “What do you need? Right now. What can I do?”

She blinks hard, and I swear the smallest smile flickers at the corner of her mouth. It’s tired, but it’s real.

“Understand she never turned her back on me, and I’ll never turn mine on her.”

“Done. What else?”

“You’re already doing it,” she whispers.

***

Ty had driven us to the airport, so a car is waiting to take us and drop Delilah off. The whole way to my place, I am on my phone, sending messages to Ty when it hits me—I need a fucking assistant, and who better than a smart, strong, pain in the ass who can answer more than half the shit I asked Ty to dig up when my girlfriend was fake.

I feel damn giddy knowing I can put her on my payroll and offer insurance like I do the property manager.

At home, I message Ty and ask him to post a job opening for an assistant with a flexible schedule and hours.

He FaceTimes me immediately.

“What’s up?” I answer.

“You need an assistant?”

“Can’t keep leaning on you, can I?”

“Guessing you have someone in mind?”

“Rae.”

“Your fake girlfriend’s wild best friend? I see this ending horribly.”

“Real girlfriend now and?—”

“Fucking knew it!” He laughs. “Called that when Sutton and I were tossing the idea around.”

“Great.” I roll my eyes. “Add matchmaker to your list of accolades and post the job?”

“You better get to bed, pretty boy. You have a game to win tomorrow.”

I lift my chin. “Thanks, Ty.”

***

I wake to growling, hissing, snuffling, snorting, thumping, and scratching.

“What in the actual fuck?”

It doesn’t stop. Something is out there , and it’s either possessed, dying, or auditioning for a horror film. [KG1]

I roll out of bed, still half-asleep and half-pissed. It’s pitch-black outside, and the clock reads 2:47 a.m. There’s no way I can perform tomorrow with this little sleep.

I pull on a pair of sweats then head to the door, slide shoes on, and grab the bat from beside my door, not the signed one, the beat-up aluminum one I keep just in case.

Shirtless and growling myself, I step out onto the porch. “All right, motherfucker,” I mutter, “let’s do this.”

I expect a possum. Maybe a raccoon. Worst case—some feral cat fight.

What I don’t expect is a tiny, shivering, fluffy baby raccoon to come running toward me.

“Don’t make me hurt you, ya tiny terror.”

Big eyes. Small paws. Tail curled under like it knows it’s not supposed to be here but doesn’t care.

We stare at each other.

It huffs.

I blink.

It snorts again, a high-pitched, ridiculous little sneeze, and waddles toward me like it owns the damn place.

“Nope,” I say, backing up. “No, no, no. Don’t do this to me.”

It squeaks.

I turn around to go inside, thinking that’s that, problem solved. Until …

Skkkrt.

The little shit darts right past my foot, through the crack in the door, and into my living room.

“Jesus Christ, ” I hiss, dropping the bat as I scramble after it. It disappears under the couch like it’s done this before.

I stand there, hands on hips, staring at my own floor in disbelief.

Back in the kitchen, I pull out my phone and type with one finger, “ What the fuck do I do with a baby raccoon? ”

Google doesn’t judge me. It just delivers.

Nocturnal? Yep.

Will scream all night? Probably.

Might carry diseases? Also probably.

Too young to survive alone? Most definitely.

I scrub a hand down my face, sighing like I’ve just been handed a newborn. “Okay, fine.”

I gather more info from Google, all while questioning my sanity, and then get to work.

I fill a bowl with water, find a ratty fleece hoodie from my days in the minors, and make a nest in an empty laundry basket. The raccoon doesn’t move when I set it down, just curls up in a tight little circle and stares at me with eyes too damn big for its body.

“This is temporary,” I tell it.

It squeaks.

Then I head to my room, lock the fucking door, and hit the web again.

“ Can baby raccoons pick locks? ”

***

After my work out, I head in and call Eddie, my land manager, before I even start my coffee.

“You’re not gonna believe what I woke up to,” I say.

“You finally catching raccoons under your porch?”

I glance at the ball of fluff sleeping like a baby in my hoodie nest. “Just one. And it broke into the house.”

He chuckles, but there’s a pause. “Out by the gate, right?”

“No, right there on the porch.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “That checks out. Momma was hit on the road two nights ago. I had to move her. Big female.”

My stomach twists. “So, this guy’s been … what? Wandering alone since then?”

“Probably hasn’t eaten. Probably followed your scent and warmth up to the house.”

I look over at it again. It’s stretching now, yawning with tiny little teeth.

Eddie sighs through the line. “You should keep it.”

“What?”

“Better than dumping it at a shelter that’ll put it down. You’ve got the land, the hands, the heart, whether you like to admit it or not.”

I don’t answer. Not right away. I just look at this weird little wild thing that somehow decided I was the safest place in the world. And I know— fuck —I’m already in too deep.

“Can send you the vet’s contact information? Got no problem with having a vet checking it out, but I’m not keeping it,” I mutter.

I call the vet then check the clock, only to see it’s too damn early to text Delilah, and then I attempt to get back on my damn schedule.

***

Dr. Mackey pulls up the gravel drive in an old green SUV with a bumper sticker that reads, “Talk to your animals, not your neighbors.” A beat-up vet bag swings in one hand, and she’s already got her sleeves rolled up like she’s ready to wrestle a bear instead of a raccoon the size of a sandwich.

I meet her on the porch, rubbing the back of my neck. “Appreciate you coming out.”

She lifts a brow. “Anytime someone texts me, ‘What do I do with a baby raccoon that broke into my house?’ at seven in the morning, I make room.”

I step aside. “He’s inside. Sleeping, I think.”

The moment she walks in, she spots the laundry basket near the fireplace, lined with a folded hoodie, and the tiny water bowl.

She walks over, crouches down, and gently lifts the tiny thing like she’s done this a hundred times, because she probably has.

He squeaks once then nuzzles into her hand like she’s got the answers to the universe.

“Well,” she says, tilting her head, “you’ve got yourself a bandit.”

“He broke in.”

She grins. “Sounds about right.”

She checks his limbs, his belly, his mouth, all while talking softly, like he’s made of glass. Then she straightens, cradling him in one arm like a baby. “You warm him up?”

I nod to the basket. “Gave him a hoodie.”

“You feed him?”

“Put water out. Google told me not to do milk.”

She nods. “Then you did almost everything right. Pedialyte instead of water—he’s probably dehydrated. A heating pad would be good, too. He may not be regulating his own body temp. My best guess is this little guy is between four and six weeks old and has a decent chance of making it.”

“Making it?” I ask, and she nods.

“The next couple days will determine his outcome.”

I scratch at my jaw. “I can get all that. Eddie, the land manager, he found the mom dead out by the gate. Figured this one wandered up the property.”

Her face softens. “That tracks. He’s probably been alone for a couple of days. Cold, dehydrated, scared.”

“And now?” I ask.

She exhales. “Now you’ve got a decision. You can call a rehabber—I can give you names—but I’ll be honest: most don’t have room. Especially for a single. And if he’s not weaned yet, they might not even take him. The most humane thing to do would be to put him under.”

I glance down at the basket, at the ridiculous fuzzball inside. “What if I kept him?”

Her eyes flick up. “Legally?”

I shrug. “I mean, at least get him where he can make it on his own.”

She smiles. “Then here’s what you do. You keep warming him, feeding him—puppy formula or Esbilac, if you can get it. Tiny amounts. Let him lap it. No syringes. He’ll need to be fed every three to four hours, like clockwork. Keep him in a quiet place. No bright lights. No stress.”

I nod slowly, committing it to memory like it’s a game plan before a doubleheader.

“And no naming him unless you’re serious.”

I say nothing.

She eyes me. “You already named him, didn’t you?”

“Maybe …”

She chuckles, shaking her head. “You’re in deep, Donovan.” She nods toward the door. “I have some things in the vehicle that should get you through.”

***

Eddie and I set up my mudroom with all the shit Doc just happened to have in her vehicle—a cage, fucking litter box, and a pen to wrap all around it to keep him contained.

He and his teenage son are going to take turns feeding him when I’m not around, and no, I haven’t told a soul about this insanity because I’m betting on his son falling in love with the little shit and giving him a forever home.

Rae’s down and out, and I get that Delilah doesn’t wanna leave her side, but that isn’t going to stop me from swinging by.