Page 16

Chapter Sixteen

Jake

July 4th

F rederick leads me to the back patio as if he's been waiting all day for this. His setup is serious—double-barrel grill, smoker on standby, folding table covered in foil pans, sauces lined up like a curated tasting flight. He doesn't say much at first, just steps aside like this isn't his first time sizing someone up with silence.

The grill's already open, coals glowing, smoke rising, ribs caramelizing just right.

This man isn't playing.

"You cook?" he asks after a beat, voice low and even.

I smirk. "Texas-born, sir."

He hands me a pair of tongs and steps aside like this isn't his first time sizing someone up.

I flip a rack slowly, careful not to jolt my ribs.

The smell is unreal—sweet, spicy, and rich.

Frederick nods toward the smoker.

"Put the slab on that tray. Let 'em rest before I slice."

I do what he says. Still no small talk. Just heat, tools, and fire.

"You were hurt worse than I expected," he says, addressing one of the elephants in the room.

"Yeah. The pitcher says the ball got away from him, but I don't believe that bull—," I stop my word vomit before it goes further, trying to show respect.

"Shit, son. It's bullshit. Don't try to be all best behavior with me." He laughs.

"I did promise Tahlia."

"She'll be all right." He takes a minute, then looks at me with unspoken questions.

I flip the last rack, lower the lid, and step back, bracing myself to imagine how I will answer the other elephant in the room.

"Yeah, those ribs are so tender, they just melt in your mouth. Watch, you'll see."

"I don't doubt it."

Frederick wipes his hands on a towel and gestures toward the lawn chairs near the fence.

I follow him, taking a seat when we reach our destination.

"How's the recovery?" he asks with a caring and concerned tone.

"I'm good," I reply. "Stubborn, but good."

"Didn't know you were this bad off. Hell of a way to spend the Fourth."

"I've had worse," I say, then glance over. "You practice law your whole career?"

He leans back, arms crossed. "Thirty-two years. Criminal defense and appellate. Retired now. Still consult occasionally, but I like watching from the sidelines."

I nod. "That's impressive. I barely survived in college."

His eyes narrow slightly.

"Oh, yeah. Down there in Texas. Glad you finished. What was your degree?"

"Sports medicine."

That earns a rare look of approval.

Before he can respond, Tahlia cracks open the back door.

"Dad, the food's ready." She looks at me with a smile.

My heart flutters at her gesture.

She disappears before I can say anything, and I'm left catching the last glimpse of her silhouette in that long navy skirt and tank top that should probably come with a warning.

Frederick grins. "Perfect timing."

I ease out of the chair, with Frederick nearby. Protective, like a father. Now I get why Tahlia stresses about not letting her parents down. Most of all, her dad.

Inside, the kitchen smells like soul food heaven. The ribs we just took off the grill, greens steaming, mac and cheese, and homemade dinner rolls piled high. Everyone finds their place. Joi's pouring drinks. Lauren is fixing her kids a small plate of mac and cheese. Tahlia hands me a small throw pillow without saying anything and places it behind me when I sit down.

We join hands—everyone around the table and Frederick leads grace. Short, grateful, and a little funny.

Food hits the table like a celebration. The energy is easy and warm—the kind of thing that doesn't need explaining. I don't talk much. Just watch. Tahlia is moving between her mom and niece, her eyes tracking Ellis when he tips his cup too far. I can feel the comfort she has here and the pride radiating off her family. They built this space.

And tonight, they're letting me into it.

We're halfway through dessert when Frederick pats his napkin on his knee and says, "All right, are we ready to head to the ballpark?"

"Yay!" Ellis jumps up and down, happy to go to Nashville Celebrates.

"Come here, Ellis, so I can clean your face," Lauren calls him from the living room.

Everyone starts moving at once. Tahlia loads the dishwasher, Marcus puts away the food, and Joi cleans the table and chairs.

And I feel like a lump on the log.

After five minutes, we are ready to go. There's chatter about parking, bug spray, and who's sitting where at Music City Park.

Tahlia grabs her keys and starts heading toward the front door.

"Hey," I say, catching her wrist gently. "What if we skipped the stadium crowd?"

"You sure you don't want to go see your teammates? I know the guys would love to see you."

I shake my head.

"Not today."

She nods, seemingly pleased.

"Where would we go?"

I shrug one shoulder, careful not to pull.

"Memorial Bridge. Less noise. Better view."

Her lips curve like she's trying not to smile.

"I'll drive," I joke, mainly for the reaction.

She snorts. "You can't even sneeze without holding your ribs."

I grin. "It was still worth a shot."

She glances back at her mom. "We're headed out. Might watch the show from a different spot."

Angela nods. "Be safe, and make sure he doesn't do anything stupid."

I shoot her a grin. "No promises."

We park a little off the bridge, away from the crowd, and walk the rest of it slowly, because I have to, and she keeps pace without making it obvious.

The night hums low around us with distant music, vendors calling out about glow sticks and kettle corn, and laughter from somewhere behind us.

Fewer crowds, more nature. Firework bursts echo against the bridge supports. The sky's already starting to light up with white trails breaking apart in flashes of gold and red, reflections dancing in the Cumberland like sparks trying to hold their breath.

Tahlia steps up to the railing, extending her arms at her sides—a change from her standoffish stance.

She doesn't say anything; she just watches, jaw set, eyes distant.

I stay behind her for a minute just watching her. I take her in—the way the wind shifts her braids, the slope of her shoulders, the calm she keeps like armor.

"You all right?" she asks.

I move beside her. Close, but not touching. "Better than I should be," I add. And I mean it.

"Did you enjoy yourself today?"

"I had a great time. Kinda missed my family a little."

I speak before I think. "Thanks for today."

Her mouth twitches. "You earned it. Got grilled and interrogated and tackled by a three-year-old."

"She tried to steal my ribs."

"Jake, she's three and has no sense of boundaries."

"Must run in the family."

That earns me a sideways glance with a chuckle. It's not a full laugh. But close.

More fireworks go off in the distance. Greens and blues this time. Then silence, as if the sky is taking a breath.

"You ever think about how weird this is?" I ask, waving my finger between us for emphasis.

She finally looks at me. "What part?"

"All of it. A month ago, you were banging on my door at 2 a.m. because I was too loud. Now you've seen me shirtless and spoon-fed me ibuprofen."

She lifts an eyebrow. "To be fair, I didn't ask for any of this. You were banging on my wall with your ball girls, then showed up on my doorstep, injured."

"I showed up with coffee first."

"That was strategy. This is different."

"I agree."

She pauses, eyes flicking back to the skyline. "This can't be real, not like this. You're you. Mr. Centerfield, with major sponsorship deals and The DEN clips on repeat. I'm studying eighteen hours a day and trying not to fall apart while working my nine-hour-a-day job."

I nod. Let her have it.

"You're on just about every billboard in the city, Jake. You don't even know what a normal life looks like."

"Maybe not in the last four years, but I do know what this feels like."

She presses her lips together, but I can see the cracks forming behind her eyes.

"I don't have time for heartbreak," she says. "Not now. I've worked too hard to get here."

I wait a beat. Then two. And I step closer.

"I'm not asking for forever, Tahlia," I say, voice low. "I'm asking if this—right here, right now—means something to you too."

She doesn't answer, at least not with words.

So, I kiss her. Not rough. Not rushed. Just real.

She freezes at first, caught mid-thought. Then her fingers find the front of my shirt—hesitant, unsure—and I almost pull back.

But she kisses me back.

Soft at first, then she deepens it as though she's making up for all the time we didn't. One hand at my chest, the other curling around the back of my neck.

I feel her exhale against it. Her body leans into mine just enough that I have to brace a hand against the railing to stay steady.

And I lose my breath.

Her lips taste like the peach cobbler she tried not to eat more than two bites of. Sweet. Familiar. And something deeper underneath—maybe her lip gloss, or just how she makes even sugar feel sharp.

When her tongue meets mine, and everything behind my ribs clenches—pain and want and relief, all tangled up.

I pull her closer, one hand finding the curve of her hip just to see if she's still in it.

She is. God, she is.

I've kissed girls before. Too many. Some I can't even remember names for.

But this? This is the one I'll remember like it's burned into bone.

We break apart eventually. Breathing hard. Eyes still locked.

She doesn't say anything right away.

Neither do I.

Because whatever we started here?

It's not just a kiss.

And we both know it.

We don't say much on the drive back.

She keeps one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift like it's the only thing anchoring her in place.

Every now and then, I glance over and watch the way her bottom lip catches between her teeth, how she holds it there for a second too long before slowly letting it go. Controlled. And the second her teeth release that soft curve of flesh?

Yeah. I feel it. A pull in my stomach. A sharp one lower.

She's trying to stay quiet, keep whatever's building behind her eyes locked down—but my body doesn't give a damn about logic.

I want to ask if she's okay.

But we both know the answer and still allow the kiss to hang between us, unspoken but nowhere near forgotten.

We don't say anything on the way up to our floor. I can honestly say that because we do live next door to each other. But she's my sworn caretaker, and I'm still at her place.

I text the team doc, my agent, and trainer, and shoot a reply to the team chat telling them I miss them too when asked why I wasn't at the ballpark tonight.

Tahlia unlocks the door and walks in as if it's muscle memory. I trail behind her in silence, still tasting her on my lips.

She tosses her keys in the bowl, places a small container of goodness from her parents on the island, and heads straight to the bathroom to start the shower.

"The shower is ready if you are," she comments when she returns.

"Okay, thanks," I reply, unsure if I should say anything else or just force us to return to our usual sarcastic communication.

I grab a clean T-shirt and shorts from the pile she folded yesterday and go shower. Stripping out of my clothes and compression wrap, I step into the shower.

The water's hot as I let it hit my shoulders and back. I scrub off the grill smoke, the tension, the pressure I've been carrying all damn day. But the steam doesn't help me forget how she kissed me back, as if she meant it. As if it scared her.

I towel off, change, and walk back out. Tahlia is sitting on the bed with her clothes, waiting for me to come out.

When I do, she stands and goes to the bathroom.

"Did you leave me any hot water?" she asks over her shoulder.

"Doubt it," I say, smirking.

She rolls her eyes but doesn't stop. "I'll be out in a few to help with the compression wrap."

I put my clothes in the little laundry bag Tahlia set up yesterday while I was sleeping, and take out a clean wrap to apply.

When she returns, her skin's still dewy, her braids wrapped up, her oversized sleep shirt clinging in just the right places. She moves through the room with this calm, effortless grace—and somehow makes it feel like there’s space for both of us here.

She climbs into bed without a word.

I'm already there, turned onto my good side, facing her. The space between us is small. The silence between us is smaller.

She studies me in the dark for a second, then whispers, "So…"

I nod. "Yeah."

"You kissed me."

"You kissed me back."

Her lips curve, just a little. "Fair point."

She goes still for a second, just enough to let the words land. Then the corner of her mouth lifts, like she’s trying hard not to smile.

The room's quiet—just the soft hum of the fridge down the hall, the occasional creak from the building settling, and the unspoken tension from that kiss.

Tahlia shifts beside me, not closer, not away—just enough that I know she's still awake.

Her voice cuts through the dark. Quiet. Direct. "Jake."

"Yeah,"

"Where'd you get that scar above your eye?"

I exhale through my nose, not even pretending to play it off. "Bar fight."

She waits.

"College. Some asshole at a dive off-campus wouldn't shut up. Started running his mouth after a game—talking shit about our team, our girls, our record. Real loud. Real drunk. Real confident."

I pause, searching her face for her reaction.

"I told him to shut it. He didn't. Said something slick about one of our trainers. That's when I stopped talking."

"You threw the first punch?"

"Yeah," I say. "And the second. Took a bottle to the face before the bouncer broke it up."

There's a short beat of silence.

Then she hums, a little surprised. "Huh."

I glance over. "What?"

"Nothing. I just figured you were more… calculated."

I smirk. "I am. Until I'm not."

"Noted," she says, voice dry but amused. "Remind me never to piss you off in public."

"You don't piss me off."

"Oh, so it's just everyone else?"

"Pretty much."

We fall quiet again, but the tension is no longer heavy.

I shift, careful of my side, and glance her way in the dark.

"Why do you live alone?"

She doesn't answer right away.

"I mean," I add, "Your parents live here. You could've stayed there. Saved money. Gotten home-cooked meals. Probably had a garage spot too."

A beat passes. Then another.

Finally, she sighs. "I needed my own space."

Her voice is low and steady. Not defensive—just real.

"I didn't want to take the easy way. My parents have connections, money, and influence. I could've leveraged all of it and never had to grind the way I did. But I wouldn't have known if I was succeeding because I earned it… or because someone cleared the path for me."

I nod, even though she can't see it.

"I get that," I say. "Needing to prove it to yourself."

"Yeah. And also—" she pauses, the next part sounding almost shy. "I like my quiet. My routines. My weird habits. I like knowing if something's out of place because I put it there."

I grin. "So you're a control freak."

"I'm a woman who likes order."

"Same thing."

She shoves me gently with her foot under the blanket. I wince, fake-dramatic.

"Careful," I whisper. "You'll knock the ribs loose again."

"That's not how anatomy works."

"Still hurts like hell."

She shifts, settles again.

"You miss it?" I ask after a while. "Home?"

"I miss pieces of it. But I don't regret leaving."

Her voice softens. "I think I just needed to be… me. Not someone's daughter. Not Lauren's little sister. Just Tahlia."

I stare at the ceiling.

"I think you're doing a pretty damn good job of that."

Silence again.

"Are you gonna hog the pillows all night or…?"

I chuckle, shifting one toward her without hesitation.

She takes it, her fingers brushing mine for a second longer than necessary.

Nothing else is said.

But the space between us is warmer.

She shifts beside me, voice quieter now. "Can I ask you something else?"

I hum. "Figured you would eventually."

"Did you finish college? Or go pro early?"

I glance over, even though she's still staring at the ceiling. "Finished. Got my bachelor's in sports medicine."

She turns her head slightly. "Really?"

"Yeah. Stayed all four years. Played center, studied the human body, and learned exactly how much I never want to work behind a desk."

She smiles. "So that's why you don't take the pain pills."

"Pretty much. I've seen what narcotics do to guys—getting hooked, getting numb, losing their edge. I'd rather feel everything than lose control."

"Even if it hurts like hell?"

"Especially if it does."

She's quiet for a second. "That makes a lot more sense now."

I glance her way. "You profiling me, counselor?"

"Maybe."

A small laugh escapes me. It pulls at my ribs, but I don't care.

We go quiet for a while. But it's the kind of quiet that doesn't press.

Then I adjust my position, just enough to breathe a little easier.

"Tomorrow morning, I want French toast and bacon. Crispy, not that sad, rubbery shit."

Muffled under the blanket, she says, "You're in no position to make demands."

"I'm injured. I'm allowed."

"You're milking it."

"You say that like it's not working."

She huffs out a laugh, low and reluctant. "Fine. French toast. Bacon. But you're getting scrambled eggs again because I'm not doing a whole brunch menu."

"That's fair."

"And no fresh-squeezed juice. Don't push your luck."

"Noted."

The quiet that follows stretches, easy.

“You should come with me,” I let out my intrusive thoughts.

She raises an eyebrow. “To where?”

“L.A. first for the ESPs and then Atlanta for the All-Star break.”

“Make it official. Show people you’re stuck with me.”

She snorts. “You sure that’s a good idea? Cameras. Questions. Baseball groupies throwing drinks.”

“I can handle it. Besides…”

I shrug.

“I want you there.”

Her gaze softens, but the sass doesn’t leave. “You inviting me or issuing a press release?”

“Depends. You saying yes?”

She holds it—just a beat longer than I expect—then nods.

“Yeah. I’m saying yes. Goodnight.”

She rolls onto her side, facing away, and pulls the blanket over her head like she's clocking out of the conversation.

But I catch the curve of her smile before it disappears beneath the covers.

I stay still for a minute, soaking it in.

I'm falling for her.

Not because she's taking care of me.

Not because of the food, jokes, or how she caught me before I could hit the floor.

But here, I don't feel like I have to perform with her. I just get to be.