Page 17

Chapter Seventeen

Jake

July 5th

T he smell hits me before I open my eyes.

Crispy bacon.

Cinnamon.

And a sweetness in the air that says someone got up early and gave a damn—even if she’ll never admit it.

When I sit up, my ribs complain.

Not as bad as yesterday, but enough to keep me from getting cocky.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and take a beat before standing.

When I finally make it to the kitchen—slow, barefoot, shirt sticking a little at the back—Tahlia’s already there, plating food as if she didn’t just fall asleep with a guy who kissed the hell out of her under a sky full of fireworks.

She doesn’t see me right away.

Or maybe she does and just doesn’t care.

Her hips sway with each step as she moves from the stove to the counter, bare legs on full display, her tank riding up just enough to remind me I’m in dangerous territory.

The kind of territory that makes a man forget he’s still on injured reserve.

“Morning,” I croak, rubbing a hand over my face.

She doesn’t turn around.

“Hope you like your bacon crispy.”

“I requested it crispy.”

“Yeah. And French toast, too. You’re pushy when you’re injured.”

“You’re hot when you pretend not to care.”

That earns me a quick glance over the shoulder—neutral expression, but I catch the twitch at the corner of her mouth.

I slowly and carefully ease into the barstool and sit at the island while she sets a plate in front of me.

French toast, eggs, and bacon.

All of it is perfect.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” I say.

“I did it for me,” she replies, taking the seat next to mine.

“You just get the leftovers.”

I smirk.

“Lucky me.”

We eat in silence, not awkwardly, just being aware.

Every time our hands brush while reaching for the syrup or our knees bump under the counter, it feels like a damn fuse is lit.

“I’m heading to the facility after this,” I say, wiping my mouth.

“Get stretched out, check in with the trainers.”

“Good. Maybe they’ll tell you to sit your ass down somewhere.”

“They might. But I need to move.”

“If you overdo it, I’m not fixing you.”

I grin.

“Noted.”

She gets up to rinse her plate, and I damn near bite my tongue off watching her reach for something on the top shelf.

Those shorts ride up another inch, and all my good intentions start peeling off like old batting tape.

I can’t do this.

Not here.

Not now.

I grab my empty plate, rinse it under the tap, and head to the bedroom to throw on something clean.

Loose joggers?

Check.

Team hoodie?

Check.

No eye contact with temptation on my way out?

Triple check.

A ‘see you later, bye’ is all I can muster up.

Because if I stick around to watch her stretch, bend, or breathe the wrong way in those damn shorts, my self-control won’t stand a chance.

The door clicks shut behind me, but I’m still thinking about her.

Her mouth.

Her shorts.

That last smirk she threw like a fastball I never saw coming.

Fuck.

I enter my place, grab my duffel, and throw in the basics—sneakers, change of clothes, wrap supplies, and the muscle gel I don't really need but might as well bring. My ribs ache as I bend to zip the bag, a dull throb that reminds me I'm not invincible, no matter how good last night felt.

It also serves as a reminder that I may need to use Uber.

I stand at the mirror and do a simple check.

I'm steady on my feet, not hunched, and breathing evenly. Yesterday's stiffness is still there, but today, I can move without gritting my teeth.

Truck it is.

I snag the keys from the hook by the door and test my grip around the fob.

There's no shaking. I haven't taken my meds since Wednesday, and today is Saturday.

I’m good.

Still, just in case, Uber Executive is on standby.

I shoot a quick text to Troy letting him know I’m headed to the facility, then make my way down to the garage, duffel slung over one shoulder, still favoring my left side just enough to notice.

The elevator ride’s quiet.

My reflection in the steel doors looks better than I feel—hair slightly tamed, beard cleaned up, but there’s still a tightness around my eyes I can’t shake.

Before I get in the truck, I check my phone.

There are a few missed texts and calls, but nothing urgent or surprising.

The team chat is still full of memes, inside jokes, and a few jabs about “Grandpa Reynolds” milking his injury for sympathy points.

I thumb through them with a faint smile.

I scrolled into my DMs expecting to see the same old thirst traps, but to my surprise, they were gone.

No selfies, no “what you need tonight” messages, no invitations wrapped in cheap filters and heavy implication.

It’s not that they disappeared because I asked.

I didn’t.

But somewhere between a knock at my door at two a.

m.

and our picture from the fundraiser, I stopped replying, and they got the hint.

I open a text from Zoey, my sister.

Zoey: Gif of a miniature toy bat on a tiny plate with a get-well card that says: “Don’t swing at bad pitches.”

I snort and shoot back.

Me: “You really should’ve gone into comedy.”

Troy calls just as I’m pulling out of the garage.

“Morning,” I answer, adjusting the AC with one hand.

“You alive or just ignoring me?”

“I’m still breathing and the truck’s moving. That count?”

“Barely. Trying to make sure you don’t do anything to screw your recovery, Jake. You’ve got ESP appearances coming and All-Star weekend behind that. Don’t be stupid.”

“Little late for that. I should’ve followed the pitch. I would’ve known to dodge the ball.”

“Yeah, well—don’t make it worse. I’ve got half of California prepped to roll out the red carpet for you. Don’t limp down it like some cautionary tale.”

I adjust the seatbelt across my ribs and wince.

“Relax. I’m good.”

He pauses.

“That woman’s got you in a chokehold, huh?”

I grit my teeth.

“No. And we’re not doing this.”

“Just saying—if you’re this deep already?—”

“You’ve been on my ass for three years telling me to stop living like a goddamn bachelor,” I cut in.

“Now I’m not, and suddenly I’m distracted?”

“I’m not saying that?—”

“You are . And if you bring it up again, I’ll find another agent.”

“All right. I hear you. I’m just… looking out for you. I don’t know anything about her.”

“Then ask,” I say flatly.

“Don’t make assumptions and definitely don’t act like you know shit. You look like a total ass.”

“Duly noted.”

There’s a beat before he exhales.

“So, tell me about her.”

I shift in my seat, tension in my jaw.

“Her name’s Tahlia. She’s a law clerk at Marshall, Wynn & Wolfe. Smart as hell. Doesn’t take shit from anyone, even me. She graduated in the top one percent of her class and passed on a dozen family favors just to earn everything herself."

“Did you say Carter?” he asks, tone suddenly alert.

“What?”

He cuts me off. “Frederick Carter. Her dad’s the Frederick Carter?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Jesus Christ, Jake,” he mutters. “That man is a legend. Retired criminal defense attorney—he consults with our agency sometimes. Helped us rewrite the NDA clause two years ago. He’s the reason some athletes never even make it past orientation.”

I blink. “You’re telling me this now?”

“I didn’t know it was her,” he says. “I just—damn. Small world.”

"She's nothing like him,” I say, tone dipping low. “But she’s got that same spine. Same sharp mind. And if you’d asked instead of assuming, you’d already know that.”

After a brief pause, Troy sighs. “I get it now. That’s all I needed to hear.”

“Good. And make sure she’s down on all my lists. Health, guests, party, all of them.”

“I’ll make the calls and send the emails… promise me one thing?”

“What is it?”

“You’re still Jake Reynolds—the centerfielder. The competitor. The brand.”

I smirk. “Still me. Still hungry. Still here. Just got taken out by a fastball, not by love.”

Troy exhales, amused now. “All right, all right. Go get stretched out. I’ll call later.”

“Yeah. Later.”

I end the call and pull into the private side entrance of the Terrors training facility, duffel bag still in the back seat, ribs already tensing in anticipation of whatever the trainers are about to put me through.

Let’s get it over with

The training facility’s already buzzing by the time I check in. Coaches, staff, rookies on rehab, a few vets getting in early. No media. No fans. Just the kind of quiet grind that feels like home.

I nod at a few guys but keep it moving—head down, duffel in hand, ribs tight.

“Reynolds,” D’Andre calls out from across the therapy wing. He’s been patching me up since I was twenty-two and bulletproof. “Damn, look who’s vertical.”

“Barely,” I mutter, tossing my bag near the table.

He gestures for me to sit and starts peeling off the wrap like he’s unwrapping a busted Christmas gift.

“How’s the pain?” he asks.

“Still there. Less when I move slow. Breathing’s better.”

He grunts in approval and prods at my side—fingers practiced, but still annoying as hell. I flinch as he checks my injury.

“Bruising’s starting to settle,” he mutters. “Still ugly, though.”

“Charming.”

He stretches me out—shoulders, core, careful not to twist. I wince a little but hold steady.

“You did clear me for some movement, right?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Bike. Maybe elliptical. Light stuff only. Just enough to stay warm.”

I nod, then wait for a beat before asking what I really came here to find out.

“So, off the record…”

D’Andre gives me a side-eye without lifting his head. “Don’t start, Reynolds.”

“I’m asking for medical purposes.”

“You’re asking if you can smash with bruised ribs.”

“Just light contact,” I clarify, deadpan.

He chuckles, then gets serious—just enough.

“You’re still tight, man. A few more days and it’ll be easier. But today? You’re playing with fire and risking being put on the IR for an extended time.”

I lift a brow. Not the news I wanted to hear. He must see the look on my face.

“Look, all I’m saying is… if you’re tryin’ to go there, be patient,” he says. “When you are ready, I’ll let you know. Even then, you’ll have to be gentle.”

“‘Gentle’?” I raise an eyebrow cause I don’t do gentle.

“Yeah. Like… rehab sex. Not World Series sex.”

I bark a laugh, even as it tugs at my side. “Understood.”

He rewraps me tightly and smoothly, then claps my shoulder. "Ice it when you get back. Stay stretched. And don't get cocky just ‘cause you can breathe again.”

“I’ll behave.”

He lifts a brow. “That’ll be a first.”

I open her door without knocking.

The place smells like lemon cleaner and fresh laundry. Low music is playing from her Bluetooth speaker, a mellow R&B track. I round the corner and stop dead in my tracks. If breakfast in her sleepwear was trouble, her cleaning outfit is downright assault.

Fitted T-shirt again with no bra, bare legs, and barefoot. Those cute little booty shorts that are closer to underwear than anything designed for public consumption. She’s got a spray bottle in one hand and a rag in the other, wiping down the counters and cabinets like this is any other Saturday.

She doesn’t hear me at first. Doesn’t see the way I’m frozen in the entryway, bag slipping from my shoulder, and injury forgotten entirely.

Because everything in me is screaming to touch her. I think back to what D’Andre said at the facility, and it reels me back to safety…for a moment.

I cough once, subtly, and she glances up.

“Oh hey,” she says, totally casual. “How’d it go?”

“Fine,” I manage, my voice tight.

She’s back to wiping before I can finish responding.

I watch the slope of her hip flare when she leans over the island, and I feel my resolve slipping.

Dropping my keys on her table by the door, I put down my bag, wincing slightly.

“You need to rest,” she says, not looking up. “You seem flushed.”

“I’m not flushed,” I snap—too quick. Then, softer, “Just… hot.”

“You can always go to your place,” she teases, sliding into a rhythm.

I cross the room slowly, not with swagger, but with intent. She's still wiping down the counter, completely unbothered by the effect she's having on me.

I step in behind her, close. Just close enough that my chest brushes her shoulder, and she goes still.

“Let’s get out of here before I ruin my recovery schedule,” I murmur near her ear.

She tilts her head, not facing me. “Why?”

I lean in, mouth low against her jaw. “Cause if I see you bend over in them damn shorts one more time, I’m gonna throw caution, recovery, and possibly my spine to the wind.”

Before she can reply, I turn her gently by the waist and press her back against the counter's edge.

Her breath catches—just barely.

Then my mouth is on hers.

Hot. Direct. Zero hesitation.

She gasps, but it’s not surprise—it’s surrender. She grips my shirt and pulls me closer, and I forget all about compression wraps and healing timelines. My ribs twinge, but I don’t give a damn. Not when she tastes like mint and want and something I didn’t know I needed more of.

I slide a hand down her side, palm skimming the curve of her hip, fingers pressing beneath the waistband of those dangerous-ass shorts.

My cock’s already hard—was the second I walked in and saw her, but now it’s a full-throated demand. Pressed between us, aching for friction, for more.

She breaks the kiss first. Breathing hard, lips wet, eyes half-lidded.

“Thought you said you are on a recovery schedule,” she whispers.

“Yeah,” I say, voice thick. “And it’s currently in jeopardy.”

She laughs—soft, breathless, as if I’ve just knocked the wind out of her in the best way.

Then she pushes against my chest, teasing. “Go change, Reynolds. Before you rupture something important.”

I groan, adjusting myself through my joggers as I step back. “You’re gonna be the reason I end up on the extended IL.”

She smirks, still breathless. “Better me than another fastball.”

I shake my head and walk toward the bedroom—ribs on fire, blood hot, and self-control hanging by a thread.