Page 8

Chapter 8

Call From Home

Damien

S omething heavy always comes over me after a win. It’s heavier when we’ve won three in a row. That weight of responsibility to play even harder is ever present, and nothing supersedes it. But the moment I see her in the tunnel with Ty and Rae, surrounded by the people who don’t take the field but are as vital a part of this organization as the players are—the families—I don’t feel it.

Standing there in that damn jersey like she’s always belonged in my world, like this field was just waiting for her to walk across it …

Ty was right; her friend, Rae, is a stunner, and she seems to carry the same energy Delilah does. Arms crossed, chin up, she’s already sizing me like I’m both the opportunity of a lifetime and a walking red flag.

Respect.

I head over, still riding the edge of post-game adrenaline, wiping sweat off my neck with the edge of my sleeve when I hear her.

“Oh, look,” she says loud enough for the next three zip codes to hear, “if it isn’t Mr. Home Run himself, Sir Smash-A-Lot.”

I damn near trip.

Delilah is dying beside her, flushed so red I half-expect her to just spontaneously combust.

I glance between them. Rae looks smug. Delilah looks like she wants the earth to swallow her whole. And me? I’m grinning like an idiot because this is so my kind of post-game chaos.

“You sizing me up, Rae?” I ask.

She tips her sunglasses down and looks me up and down. “Bet your fine ass, I am. A man with miles of broken hearts laying in the dust behind him, who looks at my best friend like she’s the star of his spank ba?—”

“Rae!” Delilah cuts her off.

And here’s the thing. She’s not wrong. Two afternoons in a row, and once again at night. So I don’t bother denying it.

I look at Rae. “No broken promises mean no hearts broken at my expense.” Then I look at Delilah, who’s still standing there like a girl stuck between two disasters, and tell her the truth. “But not wrong about the other.”

Rae laughs and claps. “Well, fuck me standing. I like an honest man.”

Something causes Delilah to jump, and then she digs in her pocket and pulls out her phone.

Over her shoulder, I see it’s a notification for an email from Sutton Steel.

Subject: Travel Details – Trenton Series

Hey there, Delilah,

Below are your confirmed travel details. We booked a direct flight tonight. Everything is booked and good to go.

Flight Information:

Departing: Nashville (BNA) – 6:00 PM CST

Arriving: Trenton Mercer (TTN) – 8:05 PM EST

Airline: Frontier Airlines (yes, bring headphones, patience, and maybe a snack)

Note: You’ll be on the same flight as Ty and Damien. The team is flying in separately. Damien’s coming early to have dinner with his brother and their parents before the series kicks off.

Upon arrival, Harlan will be waiting for all of you at pickup.

Hotel Information:

Trenton Grand Hotel

Players Suite – Top Floor

Reservation is under Delilah Monroe.

Room keys will be available at check-in.

Travel Stipend:

$500 per day has been deposited into your artist account ending in 3908 for travel expenses—food, Ubers if needed, but a car will be available to take you to and from Revolutionary Field. You’ll have options for your wardrobe available in your suite, but wear whatever makes you … you. Please use it. That’s what it’s for.

Tuesday:

Late check-out is confirmed for you (2:00 PM EST).

We will touch base Sunday night with your exact soundcheck time for Monday’s game. Although, as we saw tonight, it’s probably unnecessary. You were amazing!

Wi-Fi is great at the hotel and included in your flight if you didn’t get the time off.

You have three tickets to each game in our box. We’ll go over your contract and give you an idea of what we have lined up there.

Let me know if you have any questions or if you need me to change anything for you.

Travel safe, show up stunning, and don’t forget, you are going to shine.

x,

Sutton don’t laugh—I lose hours. And hours means no benefits. No benefits means no meds.”

Delilah winces.

“Yeah, sucks. I have the next two off, but?—”

“What’s your flight info?” I ask Rae, dead calm.

She blinks at me.

Delilah blinks at me.

“Do your shift. Keep your insurance. I’ll put you on a flight tomorrow night. You’ll be there when your girl sings.”

“MLBae, I appreciate your hustle, but the flights are all booked.”

I hold up my phone. “Philly’s only an hour away, and you’ve got a ten o’clock flight.”

“Rich people’s customer service is wild.” Ty chuckles.

I give him the you’re-not-hurting look.

“You always out here, fixing other people’s problems, or just the ones who look this damn good in your jersey?” Rae asks.

I grin. Slow. Easy. “Just the ones I like.”

Rae’s already grumbling as I pull up outside their apartment.

“I swear to God, if Knotty what did it ever do to you?”

“We can watch good TV, The Masked Singer instead of 90 Day Fiancé, just for you, hellion.” Rae giggles.

I glance at Ty, catching him watching me like he’s already clocked what’s happening.

I lift a brow. “What?”

He doesn’t even hesitate. “You know this is fake, right?”

I exhale through my nose, leaning back against the seat. “Yeah, I know.”

Ty snorts. “You sure? ’Cause you’re sitting here like a man ready to put a ring down.”

I shake my head. “Relax.”

“You relax, Romeo.”

I glance up at her shitty building, one she tried to hide. She deserves better than this. I won’t fuck it up for her any more than I will for me and Dawson.

“It’s professional,” I tell him, low and even.

“Uh-huh.”

“I told her I’d keep it clean. Keep it easy.”

Ty lets that hang in the air.

Until he goes for the kill.

“Deisel … you just sat through a five-minute conversation about matching Easter pajamas, fully invested, like it was the bottom of the ninth and the Terrors were one down.”

They get out and somehow manage to both remain glued to the phone as they make their way inside. Delilah mouths, “ I’ll be quick .”

We’re parked outside, truck idling low, sun starting to dip, the sky pulling that late Nashville orange that always makes me think about little league summers and staying out too long.

Ty is leaning back in the passenger seat, scrolling through his phone.

“You ready for your life to change?” he asks real flat.

I snort. “Little late for that.”

He glances at me, eyes sharp under the brim of his hat. “I’m not talking about Delilah.”

I side-eye him. “Then what?”

He flips his phone around. Email from Kicks.

Subject line: Partnership Opportunity – Donovan Brothers Campaign.

Seven zeroes.

I stare.

“Kicks wants in?”

“Not just in,” Ty says, shaking his head like even he can’t believe it. “Ten million in. You and Dawson. Legacy brother campaign. Modern faces of baseball bullshit. Commercials, billboards, probably some corny-ass Christmas ad where they make you two throw snowballs in slow-mo.”

I lean back in the seat, exhaling low.

Ten million.

Four point two five after Ty’s much-deserved cut.

Me and my kid brother, the golden child with the perfect swing and the dumb smile everybody loves. And me? The cleanup hitter with the tabloid reputation and a fake girlfriend upstairs who smells like summer and peaceful soft destruction.

“That’s not even the wildest part,” Ty adds, thumbing through his phone again.

I glance over. “What now?”

He hesitates then flips his phone again.

Rae’s Instagram.

A video.

Delilah—mine for now—standing there in my jersey, all boots and blonde waves, singing like the whole damn world didn’t matter.

It’s live footage from the anthem, caught right before I walked out there like a lovesick idiot and made my PR manager’s blood pressure spike.

Hundreds of comments flying under it. Half of them? Love. The other half? Poison.

“@SavSings, @RealElliotJames, and @CallMeMel are all from that house.”

“The house she left without raising hell, without defending herself, without torching it all down like they deserved.” I white-knuckle the steering wheel. “They made her the villain because they protected the man with power who abused the fuck out of it.”

“She talk to you about it?”

“Little bit.” I clear my throat then pull out my own phone and look at the feed.

Ty reads them out loud like he’s spitting bullets.

“Savannah,” he says. “Elliot. Mel. All from that little influencer clown house Rae keeps receipts on.”

I scroll through their comments.

Backhanded as hell.

Fake sweet.

Completely snake-coded.

“ Knew she couldn’t stay out of the spotlight long. ”

“ Some girls are addicted to attention, huh? ”

“ Wonder if he knows the real her. ”

“ He ever hear lay with a dog and you’re gonna smell like one? ”

“ RIP hot tub hottie. ”

“ He’ll get sick of her. ”

My jaw flexes so hard it aches.

I keep scrolling.

More.

Worse.

People parroting rumors.

“ Who’s she sucking off now? ”

“ Doesn’t she know eventually her hands will get sick of holding coattails? ”

“ Should have stayed away. No one wants to see you fail again. ”

“ Can’t keep bitches like that down. ”

Ty exhales hard through his nose. “This is why she doesn’t like the attention.”

I nod once. And then I do the only thing that feels right.

Under Rae’s video, under all that noise, all that bullshit flying around, I type three words.

“ She’s with me. ”

Posted.

Stamped.

Non-negotiable.

Ty leans back slowly, glancing at me like I just punched a paparazzi without lifting a finger.

“You sure about that?” he asks.

I don’t even hesitate. “Yeah, I’m real sure.”