Page 16
Chapter 16
Mavericks
Delilah
I hear footsteps before the knock—three solid taps against the metal door.
“You expecting someone?” I ask Rae, setting down my laptop, not caring that they’ll know I’m not working.
She shakes her head and pulls the blanket over her.
I open the door slowly, one chain still on, because that’s what you do here. But then I see him.
Damien.
Ball cap low, hoodie half-zipped, arms full of grocery bags—plastic, canvas, brown paper—the whole damn farmers’ market stuffed into his arms like he’s prepping for a weeklong snow-in.
He looks up. “You gonna let me in, or am I feeding the hallway?”
I unhook the chain and step back, still blinking like he’s a mirage.
He walks in and sets the bags on the counter—all eighteen inches of it—and then starts unpacking like he’s done this before. “Bone broth, turmeric, ginger, spinach, golden milk paste, almond milk, whole grain rice, bananas for blending. Oh, and tea. The good kind. Some brand my mom swears by.”
I can’t speak. I can’t even blink.
He keeps talking. “She said warm food, soft food, food that fights back. And no sugar. No dairy. Nothing Rae’s body has to battle on the way down.”
“She?” I whisper, stepping closer. “Your mom?”
He nods. “RA. Started hitting her when I was in the minors. She doesn’t tell anyone outside of her circle.” He unpacks several containers of soup. “This is all Loretta approved. Homemade is better, and I’ll have my chef make?—”
“He said my chef ,” Rae mumbles from under the blanket.
Me? My throat tightens.
“She’s emailing me some recipes. Might be tomorrow before I can get them to George since Ty’s too busy to do everything I need. Put up a job for a personal assistant on my foundations page.”
“Your foundation?” I ask.
“Have to have an official nonprofit org, so you can host events, grant scholarships, donate to other nonprofits. Started it a while back; need to ramp it up.”
“Do you sleep?” I ask.
“Seven hours a night.” He steps away from the unpacking when there’s no room left.
I step forward and wrap my arms around him. “You showed up with half a health store.”
And Damien, solid and warm, smelling so damn good, he hugs me back and kisses the top of my head.
“Gotta get to the park. Rae, when you’re feeling up to it, apply. The job has kick-ass benefits, and the schedule is flexible.”
I squeeze him harder.
“Or as flexible as you make it. You can write the damn job description. And when you’re running Delilah’s life, you can quit and help me find a replacement.”
“I think I love your not-so-fake boyfriend,” Rae says quietly.
He takes my cheeks in his hands and kisses me nice and soft.
In my head I’m saying, Me, too .
***
The schedule came in a text from Ty, all bullet points and professional.
In a nutshell, it’s Damien’s free blocks this week if you wanna sync. Home game tonight. Then the next day, an afternoon game. After that, they’re in Texas for seven days.
I’m still reading it, blinking through Rae’s leftover immune-boosting tea when she nudges me.
“What’s that look?” she asks, grabbing the heating pad from beside the couch.
“I don’t have a look.”
“You do. It’s the I’m-thinking-about-skipping-something-fun-because-I-feel-guilty-for-having-a-life look.” Then she tilts her head. “Is it Damien’s game?”
I hesitate, and that’s all the answer she needs.
She lifts the heating pad like she’s about to toss it at me. “Go.”
“Rae—”
“You missed the first one, and he’s only home for tonight. They fly out after tomorrow afternoon’s game.”
“But I?—”
“I’m fine. Seriously. I slept, I ate, I pooped.” She grins, but I can tell it pains her. “All signs point to stable.”
I smile, but the guilt doesn’t fade entirely.
Still, by the time I’ve changed, I’m already buzzing. I threw on his jersey, which smells like his soap, and maybe something worse because I haven’t washed it yet, and I live above a laundromat. Now my rideshare is here.
When I walk out, Rae’s asleep in a ball.
“Love you, Rae,” I whisper before I leave.
***
The stadium is alive. Not loud, not overwhelming— electric . The kind of hum you feel in your ribs.
Fans are already yelling, and the announcer’s voice booms through the speakers as I find my spot just behind home plate, in the row Ty’s held for me.
They won last night. Walk-off double. I told him—on a half-sleep, post-orgasm whisper—that game-winning nights earn him game-winning rewards. So, technically, I owe him. And after this one, I’ll owe him double.
I spot him in the dugout, stretching. Calm, steady, like he’s already two plays ahead in his head. And then, almost like he senses it, he looks up. His eyes sweep the crowd then lock on mine. And then … he smirks. That slow, cocky, I-know-what-you-promised-me smirk.
My stomach flips.
***
He plays like he’s floating—smooth, fast, locked in. He hits a triple in the fifth and scores on the next pitch. Every time the ball’s near first, he’s there like he knew it was coming before it left the bat. And when he jogs back to the dugout, he doesn’t glance at the scoreboard. He looks at me. Every time. And I melt.
The Terrors have another win.
***
After the game, he drives me home [KG1] , where he walks me in and closes the door behind him as we step into the stairway. Then I hear the click of the deadbolt.
My body is already heated from the way his thumb brushed across my knuckles as he held it all the way from Music Park.
I turn and look up at him. “You won.”
His lips hit mine first, and then he presses me against the wall with the kind of heat that’s been burning all night. Hands on my hips, mouth already on my neck, his tongue slides down, down, sending chills up my spine and gasoline down to my greedy little Miss Thang.
He stalls on that spot, the one that bears the scar from my fall. “Never gonna let you get hurt.”
“Here I am, feeling all sexy, and you hit me with that sweetness.”
He laughs low and deep and says, “You wore my jersey.”
“And you won,” I whisper back.
“I won twice.” His breath is hot, lips grazing my ear. “You said game-winners get sex. That was two in a row.”
“I keep my promises.”
“I’ll cash ’em in another time. Right now, I wanna taste all your pretty parts.”
Sweet, deep?—
“Can’t wait to taste your pussy.”
—and a little filthy. The perfect combination.
His lips are on mine as he lifts me, kissing me, and then my ass hits the stairs and he’s unbuttoning my jeans.
“Fuck yes,” he groans as his finger dips down low. “So hot.”
In seconds, I’m bare from the waist down and he’s on his knees, licking me.
“Tastes so damn good.” Lick. “Sweet.”
“Damien,” I pant, fingers sliding into his thick, silky waves.
“I’m gonna make you come right here on the stairs.”
His finger inside me takes my breath away, and I moan, “Yes.”
“Jesus, Delilah, you’re on fire.”
I moan and bite my lip. “You—” My head falls back as he feasts on me like a man starved, bringing me so close to the edge. “More.”
He pulls his lips away from my hot skin. “Yeah?” Then his finger moves faster deep inside of me, and he sucks on my clit, and I fall apart.
“Beautiful. Fuck yes,” he says, continuing. “Yeah. Oh … shit, just like that. And how about this?” he asks as he slides another finger inside of me.
When I lean forward and bite into his shoulder, he groans, “I’ll take that as a yes.”
He pumps his fingers in a little deeper, curling them. “Yeah. Give me more.”
More? Is it …?
“Yeah, just like that,” he growls.
“Yeah. Yeah, okay, that’s … more,” I cry out.
“I need to taste your tits.”
“Yes. Yes. Oh yes.” My thighs tighten around his hand, and my legs … they shake.
“You drive me insane. Fucking insane, Delilah. Pull it up. Show me.”
I do.
His hand is at the front clasp of my bra—a good one, thankfully. He flicks it open, and my tits spill out.
I quiver when his thumb brushes over my straining nipple.
“Christ, I am so glad your tits are sensitive. And, apparently, I’m now a titty man.”
Before I can respond, his fingers are pulled from my rioting pussy, and he’s palming, plumping, kneading them. “I wanna fuck these so bad.”
I reach between us, shove my hand down his sweats, and pull him free. “Then do it.”
He stalls, like a stick shift on a hill with my hand on the gearshift—rough, tense, and about to lurch forward.
“Yeah?”
I realize that as he’s undoing me, I’m doing the same to him, and I love it.
I pull him forward and use his dick like a pencil drawing a line between my tits. “Oh yeah.”
He finds his gear and begins to drive. “Shit, yes. Shit, yes.”
I push the girls together, like their holding him captive.
He braces a hand on the wall above me, head tipped back, breath stuttering like he’s trying not to lose control. And God, he’s beautiful like this. Not just hot , though that, too, with flushed skin painting heat up his neck, the way his abs twitch under his tight tee every time I move—no, it’s deeper than that.
It’s the way his jaw clenches like he’s trying to hold something in. The way his lashes lower then flutter when he feels too much. The way his lips part when he exhales my name like a prayer and a warning all at once.
Damien Donovan, the man who never lets anyone see him crack, is coming apart in front of me, for me, and it feels like the most intimate kind of power I’ve ever held.
And I don’t look away. Not when he curses under his breath. Not when his knees nearly buckle. Not when his eyes find mine and soften into something wrecked and raw.
“Need inside of you.”
“Need that, too.”
***
The day after the Hall sex, they lost to the Mavericks. I was a little freaked out, because … sex and a loss… voodo vag. I don’t like thinking that way, but I cannot control my thoughts.
Before leaving for his back-to-back series in Texas, for a whole week, he picked me up for lunch before heading to the airport, and he told me that he’d take his wins where they matter the most. He likes me better than baseball, his words, ones I am smitten like a kitten over.
He kissed me in a restaurant full of people, and the next day it was all over social media.
I don’t hate that.
I fell deeper … and it has only been ten days since we’d first met.
***
Love Island is on, and I realize how boring it is to watch when that horrible disease takes me from my best friend. I mean, she swears she’s feeling better with all Loretta’s magical potions, but she also admits it may be a placebo effect.
Rae’s laptop dings, and I look away from the screen to see her grabbing for it.
“Whatever it is can wait,” I remind her.
But when she opens it, she pulls a face. Not her usual someone-tagged-me-in-a-playlist face. This one’s different.
She blinks at the screen then sits up, pulling her blanket tighter around herself.
I glance over. “You okay?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Then … “Did you know about this?”
“About what?”
She turns the laptop toward me, her face somewhere between confused and amazed.
Subject: Welcome to the Donovan Foundation – Personal Assistant Role Offer
“What the?—”
“I didn’t apply,” she says quickly, reading faster. “It says they’ve been ‘monitoring my work ethic and contributions to your launch’ and believe I’m a ‘perfect fit for a dual role as both personal assistant and liaison.’ Delilah, there are benefits . And a salary. Starting immediately. ”
I move closer and read the whole thing while Rae clutches her heating pad like a life preserver.
“Wait,” I murmur, “is this … from Damien’s foundation?”
She nods, wide-eyed. “Apparently.”
“And you didn’t apply?”
“Was waiting, so nope.”
“And you’re already on payroll?”
“Yup.” She scrolls down further. “My first assignment, when I’m up for it—and they actually wrote that —is to get in contact with the Terrors’ social media coordinator and post an official photo of you two. Because, apparently, the internet is already shipping the hell out of you, and Forever Fours PR team wants to ride the wave.”
I feel my cheeks flush. “They’re … shipping us?”
She grins, smug now. “Hard. Hashtag and everything. There’s a pic of you two from lunch yesterday.”
I break my rule of looking at social media without prior Rae or Harlan permission.
“So, let me get this straight,” she says, sipping her tea. “You’re going viral for being in love, and I just got a dream job because your vag is hexed.”
“You’re underselling yourself. He sees how you manage and handle me.”
She grins. Then her face softens, eyes glassy again. “Lala … I think I might actually be okay. Like … for real and not just because I know how we rally, but because …” She points to the screen.
I hug her. “I love our lives either way.”
“We’ll love our loves more when you have your own room and aren’t”—she makes sexy kinds of noises—“in the damn hallway of this shithole.”
I mock gasp. “Don’t you defame our palace. This place is iconic.”
She huffs.
“It’s where all our dreams came true.”
“Oh my God, we need to write a song about this place.”
“Oh, we will.” I laugh.
“Quit your damn job now?—”
“I can’t, not yet.”
“Did you see my salary? We can afford your insurance, especially now I don’t have to pay for mine.”
***
On my self-imposed break, I check my email and squeal when I see one has landed in my inbox.
“What is?—”
“It’s from the label!” I hurry to Rae and sit beside her as we open it together.
Subject: Forever Four Release Update – CONFIDENTIAL
I blink twice, heart already picking up speed as I click it open.
Delilah,
We’re thrilled to let you know your debut single with Forever Four will be “More Than Gone.”
Your voice, your words, your story—it’s all right there. This is the one. Our whole team agrees.
We’re moving into production immediately. Rae is coordinating with your assigned studio and production lead. Full band. Top-tier producer. Your lyrics are untouched. Xavier called them “brilliant,” and we don’t mess with brilliance.
Let’s make some damn music.
— Team Forever Four
I sit back on the couch, eyes still on the screen, blinking like the words might disappear if I breathe too hard.
“‘More Than Gone’ is going to be the first release.”
“Told you. Knew it. That song guts people.”
“I thought they’d go with something more upbeat.”
“Not when they’ve got a song like that. Not with your voice.”
I nod, blinking back the sting of it all hitting at once—the song, the label, the weight of my name under a spotlight I never thought would find me.
Rae shifts on the couch beside me, still wrapped in the blanket, and props the phone up so I can see the screen. Harlan’s face flickers to life—grainy and sun-lit, somewhere on campus up in Connecticut.
She’s sitting on the grass, hair pulled up in a lopsided bun, earbuds in, squinting against the glare like she’s between classes and only half-focused. Still, her voice tightens the second she sees my face.
“What’s up? Everything okay?”
I bat away tears and allow my smile to shine through. “Yeah, everything’s fine.”
She doesn’t believe me. I hate that. Hate that her instinct is to brace for impact every time we call, like Rae or I might be bleeding off-screen and just haven’t said the words yet. We’ve tried to protect her from it—from the late bills, the landlord threats, the grocery store ramen dinners—but I guess when you grow up like we did, you always fear the worst.
Our mom taught us that. Not with words, but with everything else. She was messy. Strung-out some days; glorious and glowing the next. But she loved us—a loud, fierce, all-consuming love. The kind that burned through the fog of whatever she was battling. The kind that made us believe we’d survive, even when we shouldn’t have.
I glance back at Rae, who gives me a half-smile from under her blanket, like she knows exactly what I’m thinking.
“They picked the debut.” I laugh.
“It’s ‘More Than Gone,’ isn’t it?” she asks, eyes filling up with tears.
I nod, batting away some more of mine.
“Sing it to me?”
Two minutes later, I’m dragging my guitar out of Mom’s case.
“Mama always said when the storm rolls in,
Plant your feet, pull your heart back in,
Keep your chin up even when it shakes.
They can take your name, but they can’t take your faith.
She left a Bible with her old blue pen,
Half the pages underlined again,
And every word still sounds like her to me.
She’s in the fight in my bones.
She’s in the dust, long walks home.
She’s every scar they thought would break me,
Every line they tried to erase me.
She’s in the fire, in the fall,
In every rise, lost it all.
Still standing here ’cause she taught me to be,
More than gone ? —
She lives in me.
Old cassette tape in my secondhand car.
Mama’s voice, our Northern Star.
Told me love’s not loud, it’s steady hands,
Holding tight, baby girls, when you don’t understand.
I hear her hum in the kitchen light.
I feel her ghost in a neon night.
And every dream still sounds like her to me.
She’s in the pain, in the mess,
In you leaving, in what’s left,
In the fire that keeps on burning,
In the girl who’s back, returning.
She’s in the fight in my bones.
She’s in the dust, the long walk home.
She’s every scar they thought would break me,
Every line they tried to erase me.
She’s in the fire, in the fall,
In every rise when I lose it all.
I’m standing here ’cause she taught me to be,
More than gone ? —
She lives in me.
Yeah, she lives in me.”
***
The next morning, I wake to a message. Rae’s already sending me studio links from the living room.
By lunch, we’ve got it locked in—a studio in East Nashville with that vintage soul meets pro polish vibe, the kind of place where guitars hang on the wall and the engineer drinks espresso out of a chipped “ SEC Champs 1994 ” mug. Not hard to get in when they charge a grand a day. We also had no problem finding a top-notch musician who, like Rae and I, has been overlooked … and women.
We update Sutton and Patrick and get a response that they’ve booked a producer, someone Forever Four trusts with their top-tier artists, and they will handle the mixing and mastering.