Page 9

Chapter 9

Jersey Bound

Delilah

T he bag’s vintage—rich brown leather gone soft at the edges. It’s lived a thousand little lives before me. I found it buried at my favorite thrift store, marked way down because the clasp sticks and one strap had been restitched by somebody’s shaky hand.

It’s perfect, honestly.

Inside are three days’ worth of clothes, my laptop—because I’m technically “working” while I’m gone, or at least logged in to look like I am— chargers, makeup bag, and I’m also toting way too many butterflies I’m trying really hard to ignore. My guitar case’s in one hand, brown like my bag—I’m bringing a little bit of Mom with me.

Rae’s there when I come down the hall, leaning lazily against her doorway, her oversized Terrors jersey swallowing her up. She’s ditched the jeans for sweats, locked in for the night, arms crossed, and a smirk creeping up across her face.

Her eyes drag from my bag to me, and she whistles low. “Damn, mama, look at you.”

I laugh, nervous energy spilling out. “It’s a hoodie and sweats.”

Rae gives me a look—sharp, knowing, no patience for my deflection tonight. “You packed the good bra?” she deadpans.

“Rae—”

She grins, all teeth. “Don’t Rae me. That man looks at you like he’s already got it all planned out.”

My mouth opens, closes. Fake , I want to say. This is fake.

“Don’t overthink this. Don’t think about an end before you even allow him to get the tip in.”

“Rae!”

“Lala, you have not had sex since?—”

“Don’t even remind me.”

She arches a brow and drawls out, “Let him clear away the dust.”

The words get tangled up somewhere between my throat and my heart. Because it doesn’t feel fake. Not when Damien looks at me like he does. Not when I catch him staring like I hung the damn moon and he hasn’t figured out how to deal with that feeling when this is all fake.

Same.

Rae pushes off the doorframe and heads toward me. “Make it happen,” she tells me, soft but sure. “For once in your life, don’t overthink the good things that want to be yours.”

My chest tightens, but I throw her a lopsided smile. “See ya soon, Rae.”

“You bet.”

With the meeting of the minds being conducted in the front seat, I try to focus on the hum of the highway and not eavesdropping. But up front, Damien’s driving, one hand on the wheel, relaxed and in control, while Ty’s riding shotgun, sneakers up on the dash like he owns the world. Their voices float back easy and casual, the way best friends’ conversation have a way of doing.

“By the time we get back from Texas,” Damien says, voice low, almost distracted, “the guest house should be done.”

Ty lets out a low whistle. “That’s the one out behind the main house?”

“Mmhmm.” Damien nods. “Figured I’d use it for overflow when family comes through. Or like … offseason, if guys need a place to crash.”

“You’re … inviting people to stay?” Ty laughs.

“Fuck you, man.” He chuckles like it’s an inside joke.

“Did you end up putting the office in there, too?” Ty asks.

“Nah, separate.” Damien changes lanes without missing a beat. “Office is going in that little stone building. Should be finished same time. Few more weeks, tops.

Ty shakes his head, grinning. “Man’s out here, building a whole compound like he’s worried about the apocalypse.”

Damien just shrugs. “Not going to be driving all over the place for meetings and shit. Keep it close. Keep it easy.”

There’s a pause, the kind only longtime friends have—easy, comfortable silence.

Ty grins. “Or you just don’t wanna leave the house when you retire.”

Damien’s mouth quirks, barely there but real. “You plan on me retiring soon?”

“You just signed four more years. I’m sayin’ you like things your way.”

Another beat of quiet.

Then Damien’s voice, dry as hell. “Damn right, I do.”

Ty chuckles, leaning his head back against the seat. “Man’s got his own batting cage, gym, guest house, and an office about to be nicer than any MLB front office I’ve ever been in … but sure. Just a simple life.”

Damien silently chuckles. “Simple’s relative.”

I love their banter—real, no BS, no judgment … that doesn’t feel fake at all.

The sliding doors hiss shut behind me, and that old, familiar unease curls low in my stomach.

Flying.

God.

Not my first time, unfortunately.

The last time I was on a plane? Artist House trip to LA. Sponsored disaster. Economy middle seat, squished between a guy who took his shoes off immediately and a girl who FaceTimed her boyfriend the entire flight while sobbing about how “this wasn’t what she thought influencing would be.”

I cried on the way there. Cried harder on the way home. On the inside, of course.

So yeah, I flew. And I hated every miserable second of it.

Now, here I am, trailing behind Damien and Ty, who moved through the airport like they owned the damn place. Not stressed. Not rushed. Just … frequent flyers . All long strides and casual confidence in hoodie’s and ball caps.

Ty’s a few paces ahead, already jawing with someone on the phone. Damien glances back at me, takes in the white-knuckled grip I’ve got on my guitar case and the way I’m clearly walking like a woman heading to her death.

“You good?” he asks, voice low.

“Define good.”

That earns me a tiny huff of a laugh, barely there. “That bad, huh?”

I shrug, trying for cool. Failing spectacularly.

“Flew once with the music house,” I admit. “Trauma bonding with Spirit Airlines.”

His eyebrows lift. Impressed or horrified? Maybe both.

“That’s not flying,” he says. “That’s surviving.”

“Exactly.”

We hit security, and like he promised, it’s dead. No line. No chaos. Just the rhythmic shuffle of shoes off, belts off, bags on the belt. Muscle memory for him. Mild internal panic spiral for me.

By the time we clear through, they’re already calling final boarding for our flight. And, of course, he looks completely unbothered.

“Planned that,” Damien says casually, as I half-jog to keep up.

“You planned to almost miss the flight?”

“Planned to not sit around a terminal with bad lighting and worse coffee for an hour. Big difference.”

I snort under my breath, shaking my head.

We hit the gate, walking straight on like it’s nothing, and as we step onto the jet bridge—that gross little hallway of recycled air—he glances down at me.

“You’ll be fine,” he says, quieter now.

I roll my eyes, but it’s not mean. Not really. “You say that like you’ve never white-knuckled an armrest, praying to get off one of these things.”

His mouth curves slow, like he’s debating saying something or just letting me stew. “I’m not gonna let anything happen to you,” he says finally, easily, like he’s talking about holding a door open or grabbing my bag off the carousel.

Like it’s a given.

And I hate— hate —how warm that settles in my chest. Because the second we step on this plane? I’m ninety percent nerves. The other ten percent? That’s stupidity.

Boarding a discount airline with a professional athlete is … honestly, kind of hilarious.

No first class. No bougie lay-flat seats like I’ve seen in commercials. Just humanity in all its glory.

Baseball cap pulled low, hoodie up, shoving his duffle in the overhead, shirt lifting—he has a freaking V!—Damien’s drawing looks. He’s huge and, apparently, fully committed to pretending he’s just like the rest of us poor souls crammed onto this metal tube with wings.

Except, you know … he bought three seats.

Three. Whole. Seats.

Ty did, too, a few rows back, both of them stretched out like kings, feet up, hoodies over their faces. They’re living in their own little privacy bubbles while the rest of us try not to inhale each other’s elbows.

Meanwhile, me? I’m waiting to get into my seat—21A. Aisle seat. Assigned. Except, there’s already a woman standing there, shifting from foot to foot, bouncing a baby who’s red-faced and hiccup-crying like he’s two seconds from a full-blown meltdown. She’s got a toddler hanging onto the hem of her jacket like a human anchor. And she’s tall—like, really tall. Her knees will basically be in her throat when she sits.

Her eyes catch mine, wide and apologetic. “I’m so sorry. This is us. I … he … the agent wouldn’t?—”

I’m already shaking my head, smiling softly. “It’s okay. You take it.”

She blinks. “Seriously?”

I shrug. “You’ve got your hands full. And longer legs than me by a mile.”

She looks like she might cry for a whole new reason now. “Thank you.”

I wave it off and slide back a row to a middle seat, since the toddler has moved to the window.

“Jamie, you switch with the nice lady.”

“But Momma, the window.” Jamie pouts.

“Honestly, it’s all good,” I assure her. I’ve been in worse places.

A low voice comes from behind. “Dee.”

I glance back. Damien’s standing in the aisle, hood down now, staring at me like he’s trying to figure me out all over again.

“You good?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say, trying to sound casual.

He jerks his chin toward his little three-seat empire. “C’mon.”

“What?”

“Seat next to me’s empty.”

My stomach does that stupid flip. “You sure?” I ask.

His mouth twitches, something almost like a smile. Almost.

“Pretty sure this family could use the row. Much more pleasant experience.” He winks at Jamie.

I look at the mom, hoping she’s not offended; she’s not.

“I’d say sorry in any other situation but this. Now it’s you’re welcome .”

Laughing, I squeeze past her. “Right?”

Damien takes my bag. “You, uh, want the aisle or?—”

Pushing past him, I laugh. “Not sure there’s room in the overhead for your legs.”

“But what if I want the window seat like the little guy did?” He mock-pouts, making his dimple deepen, and my insides clench simultaneously.

“I suppose you’ll have to sprawl out across me.” I pull my phone out.

He slides into his seat as I open the text chain and turn my back, shielding the ridiculousness from anyone on this flight.

Heartbreakers who could ignore you?”

“You never noticed me. Then, during spring training, I realized no single woman?—”

“Or even a hot tub full of them.”

He rolls his eyes but continues, “I asked Ty to find out more about you.”

I laugh genuinely, more easily than expected.

“So, who was the last guy you dated? Maybe that’s when my fascination began, with no one claiming you.”

“I haven’t dated since the house. I guess that wasn’t real, either. What about you?”

He runs a hand over his face. “I don’t date.”

“Ever?” I ask, surprised.

He shakes his head. “I’m committed to this game, and it rarely allows for distractions. What about your last relationship?”

It’s a bit embarrassing, but I admit, “Not since the house.”

He looks surprised.

“My mom was sick, and Harlan was?—”

“You don’t need to explain,” he says, squeezing my hand. “You’re a good person, Delilah.”

Somewhere after that, amid the quiet hum of the plane, after snacks and silly stories, my eyes start to close. I don’t even mean to. But warmth is spreading through my stomach, and my nerves have slowly faded, replaced by the calming rhythm of his chest rising and falling beside me.

The last thing I remember is him shifting just slightly, enough to let me lean on. Just enough space to fall.

When the pilot’s voice crackles overhead, “ Flight attendants, prepare for landing ,” I jolt awake with a tiny gasp. And realize …

My head? Firmly on Damien Donovan’s chest. His hoodie soft beneath my cheek. His heartbeat steady, real, and a little too comforting for my own good.

He doesn’t move, and I just can’t.