Page 7

Chapter Seven

Jake

June 23rd

W aking up after a sweep should feel like a win and technically, it is.

I lie in my bed, the sunlight shining through my blinds landing right across my face, like it’s got beef with me.

Sharp.

Direct.

Mean.

I groan and roll out of its path.

My body is stiff and sore from yesterday’s game.

That diving catch in the fifth inning is being replayed over and over on the highlight reels.

It was so spectacular it was number one on The Den’s top ten last night.

I should be proud.

I am proud.

But the first thing I think about?

It's her. Tahlia. That’s what’s in my head first thing and I don't even know her last name.

I tried to scoop it that day in the mailroom, but she grabbed her mail and tucked it away so fast, I didn't get the chance.

Not the win nor the sweep over Madison. Not even the waiting texts or the trip to Texas. Just her with arms crossed, leaning forward in her seat behind the dugout. It was bottom of the ninth. I round second, hear the crowd roaring, feel the dirt ripping under me as I slide into third. The ump shouts “Safe!” and the stadium erupts. I’m sweating through my jersey, lungs burning, arm streaked with infield grit. Adrenaline in my throat. I stand, shake it off, ready to reset and try to steal home. Instead, there she is. Standing. Screaming my name. High-fiving the people around her like she gives a damn. But it’s not the noise that hits me. It’s her face. Her eyes. Locked on mine as if she can see something in me I haven’t shown anyone else.

And all thoughts of stealing home go out the door. Her look is not of a fan. And she doesn't have that groupie’s smile.

The one that says I'll do anything. Hers is more focused. Like maybe, just maybe, I’m not what she thought. My chest tightened right there on third. Couldn’t breathe for a second. Not because of the sprint, not because of the dirt but because of her. The way she looked at me, like we were in on something together. Like we were both breaking the rules just by holding that stare. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. And neither did I.

And now? I can’t stop replaying it.

I sit up, wincing a little as my shoulder protests. I swipe my phone off the nightstand without looking. It’s what I do every day. Muscle memory kicks in…turn the screen brightness down and pull up my notifications. First alert is the team group chat.

Roddy: Everyone’s already checked in. Don’t be late. See you at 2.

I reply with a lazy thumb’s up emoji. It’s too early for any form of conversation that is longer than two words. I continue my scroll. Twelve unread texts, two missed calls, and one DM in my IG account with a photo attachment and a little devil emoji. I tap the screen, even though I already know what’s waiting. One of the usuals, Aubree, or maybe its Audrey. Anyway, she’s arching her back in some bathroom mirror, lace barely covering anything, captioned: Missing you .

I stare at it. Not long. Just enough to register that, yeah, she looks good. Great even. She has a nice body, the pose is intentional and she knows her angles. Normally, that’d do something for me. Right now? Nothing. I hit delete without replying.

I toss the covers aside, plant my feet on the floor, and stretch. My back cracks like a glow stick. My whole body’s still riding the aftershocks of that slide. Shoulders are tight, ribs sore, thighs stiff from the sprint.

I stroll into the kitchen, open the fridge, and regret it. Nothing but two sad-looking protein shakes and half a lime I don’t remember cutting. I close it without taking anything out and make a mental note to call my personal shopper.

I grab a towel and head for the shower, as if hot water might wash away my thoughts of Tahlia. It won't.

I've been fighting this realization for days, and there's no point denying it anymore.

I'm thinking about her way more than I should be.

This isn’t usually how it goes. Women have always been easy—interested, available. Perks of being a pro athlete. I’ve never had to try.

But Tahlia doesn’t give a damn about any of that. She doesn’t laugh just because I’m Jake Reynolds, centerfielder for the Terrors. If she laughs, it’s because I earned it. And for some reason, that gets to me.

I step into the shower and let the hot water hit my back, muscles screaming as I lean into the tile. What is it about her? Yeah, she’s beautiful. So are a lot of women. Smart? She’s taking the bar—case closed. But it’s more than that.

It’s the way she looks at me like none of this matters. Like I don’t come pre-approved..

I turn off the spigot and towel dry, facing the truth I've been avoiding…

I want her to notice me.

Not the baseball player.

Me.

I rifle through my dresser for something that screams just-rolled-out-of-bed-but-still-look-good.

My fingers find my favorite navy joggers.

Soft and worn in just the right places.

They look casual enough, but the designer label means they cost more than most people's entire outfit. Not that anyone needs to know that part.

I pull them on and grab a heather gray hoodie from the back of my closet. Nothing flashy. No team logos or sponsor patches. Just simple, comfortable clothes that won't draw attention.

I run a hand through my damp hair, considering a quick style, but decide against it.

Instead, I grab my black ball cap with the worn brim and pull it low over my eyes.

When you're recognized everywhere you go, you learn tricks. Cap pulled low. Sunglasses if needed. No flashy jewelry. Keep your head down. Most days I don't mind stopping for autographs or selfies, that’s how I’ve met most of my female fan base, but today I've got a mission that doesn't include a crowd of fans.

Just a plan that might be the dumbest idea I’ve had in recent memory.

Trust me, I’m not short on bad decisions.

I slip into my sneakers, pat my pocket for my phone and keys, and step into the hallway, pulling my door closed behind me.

It’s quiet, like always.

Monday mornings in this building usually are.

Most people are either gone already or still trying to find their keys or motivation to start their day.

While I head for the elevators, my brain veers sideways and back toward the condo next to mine.

Tahlia’s.

Ever since she stormed to my door a few weeks back, she’s been in my head.

First it was curiosity about who lived next to me.

When that was inadvertently answered, there was a little tension because she interrupted my evening activities.

Now?

It’s borderline obsession-adjacent but not in a creepy way.

I’ve just noticed things like her routine.

She leaves early.

Well, maybe not for most, but it is for me unless we have an early flight to our next set of away games.

And if I'm heading out to an evening game here at home, she's always dressed as if she’s two steps ahead of everyone else when she comes back from what I can only assume is her job.

She goes into her place and locks up with confidence.

Doesn’t linger and doesn’t invite conversation.

I never see a boyfriend or a girlfriend for that matter.

No awkward goodbyes or overnight guests slipping out at sunrise.

It’s always just her.

That matters more than it should.

So maybe, just maybe, I'll grab her a coffee too.

Not because I owe her anything. Or I'm trying to impress her.

But because there’s this pull, I can’t explain.

I’m already halfway invested, and every time she looks at me, I forget what the hell I was doing.

The morning rush is starting to ramp up when I step outside the building.

Traffic is building, runners pound the pavement dipping around those who are casually strolling to catch the bus or trolley.

Luckily the café is only a few feet away.

When I enter, there are a few people scattered at tables, faces buried in laptops or books.

This is perfect for me.

Less chance of being recognized.

The barista looks up and gives me a nod.

Melissa, I think is her name.

She knows my order by heart but doesn't make a big deal about who I am. Just another reason I keep coming back.

"The usual?" she asks as I approach the counter.

"Yeah, thanks."

She reaches for a cup, marker poised. "Name?"

I smirk. It's our little game.

"Bob," I say, like I always do.

She writes it with a flourish.

I begin to speak when hesitation puts a pause on my momentum.

Drumming my fingers on the counter, I add, "Actually, I'll take another drink too."

"Oh. Did you have a hot date?" She raises an eyebrow.

"Nah. Neighborly gesture." My tone aims for casual, probably misses by a mile. Then again, maybe I'm trying to convince myself.

I stare at the menu board above her head, suddenly overthinking this simple task. What would Tahlia drink? Nothing too sweet—she doesn't seem the Frappuccino type. Something with an edge to it. Complex. Like her.

"Any recommendations for someone who probably judges people based on their coffee order?" I ask.

Melissa laughs. "That narrows it down to everyone who's ever worked in a coffee shop."

"She's smart. Probably too smart, if you ask me. Serious, but not boring. The kind of person who probably color-codes their calendar."

"Hazelnut oat milk latte," Melissa decides with conviction. "It's sophisticated but not pretentious. A little sweet, a little nutty, but still serious coffee."

I nod, impressed.

"Sounds about right."

"Name for the second cup?"

I want to put her name on it, but then that reeks of desperate.

"Just leave it blank."

“Okay. One medium black drip and one neighborly latte. Coming up.”

As I wait for the drinks, I pull my phone out and scroll through my new messages.

Another photo pops in and this one from a different name, a different angle, a different bathroom.

Same desperate energy.

Another one for the trash bin.

I go to tuck my phone away but am stopped by it ringing.

Caller ID announces Troy - Agent.

I answer with a sigh.

“What is it? It's too early for bullshit.”

“You sound chipper,” he says. “Did you not get your booty call last night? Or did you get hit by a truck on the field?”

“Both. Not that either will stop you from whatever it is you're calling about.” Troy doesn't do, nice. He's damn near lethal with his clients. He runs a tip-top agency and allows no errors with his clientele. Quick to drop you if there is even a hint of trouble.

“You got that right. We’ve got things to discuss.”

Here comes some PR bullshit. “Can it wait until after I’ve had caffeine?”

“Not really. Max wants to make sure you’re actually showing up to his fundraiser next week. Says he’s already got the photo op blocked off.”

“I told him I’d be there.”

“You also told the DEN you’d do the postgame interview yesterday, and then you dipped.”

Fuck. That's when I left to catch up with Tahlia. “I had people to see.”

“Judging by your social media posts late last night, ‘people’ means your ceiling fan and the Uber Eats guy.”

“Well, he is a person,” I quip before continuing. “I’m going to the fundraiser, Troy.”

“You wearing a tux or that tight Henley your PR team loves?”

“Bye, Troy.”

He laughs and hangs up.

Troy would have a damn field day if he knew what I was doing this morning.

My agent’s always on my back constantly making sure I show up for every charity event, hold a kid during press ops, smile for cameras, stay out of tabloids unless I’m hitting dingers. He’s the king of PR panic attacks, always reminding me to get tested and hand out NDAs like Halloween candy. If he knew I’ve just placed an order for two coffees, one for me and one for a woman who doesn’t know what I’m doing, he’d have me carted off for a concussion scan.

I begin to wonder if this is too much, too soon. Do I reek of desperation? But then I picture Tahlia's face if I time this right with that mixture of suspicion and curiosity that shows up whenever I do something that doesn't fit her preconceived notions about me. Like the VIP pass to the game. Took her by surprise and she even came.

Yeah, this is worth the risk. But now I have a new plan.

“Here ya go, Bob.” Melissa hands me my order with the stoppers inserted and protective wraps around them for holding. The blank one has a tiny heart drawn where the name should be. I raise an eyebrow at her.

"For luck," she says with a wink.

I smile and drop a twenty in the tip jar.

“Thanks, Bob,” she says with a laugh.

“Appreciate you,” I reply walking out the door.

Warm coffee cups in hand, I head back toward our building.

This isn't a bribe, I tell myself. It's not even flirting. It's just… neighborly. That's what neighbors do, right? Bring each other overpriced coffee on Monday mornings?

Who am I kidding? I've lived in this building for two years and never once brought coffee to the elderly couple on the sixth floor or the finance bros on the fifth. But somehow, I've convinced myself Tahlia needs a hazelnut oat milk latte hand-delivered by yours truly.

I check my watch and if she's as predictable as I think she is, she'll be heading out for work soon.

The more I play this over in my mind, the more I realize I want to see her. Make her smile that reluctant smile again. It's been a long time since I've had to work this hard for someone's attention, and I'm surprised by how much I'm enjoying the challenge.

Though if anyone asks, I'll deny it completely. This is just coffee between neighbors. Nothing more, nothing less.

I reach our building and nod at the doorman, who's used to my comings and goings. The elevator is empty when I step inside, which gives me a moment alone with my thoughts. And my coffee. And her coffee. That I bought. Without being asked. Fuuuck. What is happening?

"It's just coffee," I mutter to the empty elevator. "If I start baking muffins, somebody stage an intervention." Great, now, I'm talking out loud to an empty steel with wood paneled, box.

The thought makes me snort. Jake Reynolds, professional baker. Jake Reynolds, whipping up blueberry muffins at six a.m. Jake Reynolds doing all that just to see if Tahlia might crack a genuine smile.

My friends would laugh themselves stupid if they could see me right now. Three-time All-Star, carrying coffee like a damn intern, timing my morning around the schedule of a woman who probably has a spreadsheet dedicated to all the ways I annoy her.

The elevator dings at our floor, and I step out. This little coffee mission feels loaded with meaning I didn't anticipate when I left my condo. It's just caffeine, for god's sake. Not a marriage proposal.

The soft echo of a closing door gets my attention and I realize I’ve timed this perfectly.

She’s locking it just as I turn the corner. Monday morning professional mode activated. And goddamn if she doesn’t wear it well.

Plum blazer, with matching pencil skirt, white blouse, and heels that click like a warning shot. Her braids are pulled back tight and in a bun not a single one out of place. Her tote hangs from one shoulder, filled with what I can only assume are law books, flashcards and whatever case files people like her carry around when they are on a study mission.

She doesn’t see me right away which gives me a second to appreciate the view and I'm storing a mental picture.

I hold out the latte when she finally looks up. “Morning, counselor.”

Tahlia pauses, mid-step. One hand on the strap of her bag, the other hesitant about her next move. “This isn’t a bribe, is it? Cause that’s highly unethical.”

I grin. “If it was, you’d know. I bribe with pastries.”

She arches one eyebrow, accepts the cup like it might bite her, and sips once. Then again.

Her mouth curls just a little. “Not bad.”

“Wow. High praise,” I say. “I feel honored.”

She hums, sips again, and walks toward the elevator without another word. I fall in beside her.

Silence stretches between us for a beat and I take note of her fragrance. She smells like something expensive. A blend of sweet and something warmer, like sandalwood or maybe vanilla. The kind of scent that doesn’t announce itself but hangs in the air just long enough to ruin your concentration. She presses the call button for the lift and without missing a beat we step inside the elevator when it arrives. The doors slide shut and it's still quiet.

“Nice game Saturday,” she says, glancing at me over her cup. “The whole dive-and-roll thing really sold the performance.”

I smirk. “So, you were watching?”

“I mean, I was there. Had decent seats. Figured, may as well see what all the fuss is about.”

“I thought you were too busy judging my form from the high horse you rode in on.”

She gives me a side-eye. “Please. I was critiquing the fundamentals.”

“You clapped. Don’t act like you didn’t clap.”

Tahlia shrugs, sipping again. “Polite golf clap. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“Ruthless.”

“You’ll live.”

The elevator dings and we exit, stepping into the garage. The smell of oil, exhaust, and a hint of coffee fills the air. Her steps are echoed by the concreate. We walk in step until she presses her key fob and a sleek midnight blue BMW lights up three rows over.

I stop. Whistle. “Damn. I see you, counselor.”

She turns with a hint of suspicion. “What?”

“I just wasn’t expecting you to be a luxury SUV kind of girl. Thought you'd have a sedan. Something low-profile. Sensible.”

She shrugs. “It was a graduation gift. Big enough for law books, small enough to parallel park.”

I lean against the hood like it’s my car. “Nah, this screams ‘My daddy pays for therapy and premium parking.’”

Tahlia crosses her arms, one brow lifting. “Big talk from a guy who probably drives a G-Wagon or some tricked-out ego mobile.”

“Well, actually? I drive a blacked-out Chevy Silverado.”

“Let me guess. Something about horsepower and masculinity?”

“Nah,” I say. “It reminds me of home. I grew up around trucks and pastures. Ranch life. Silverado’s for when I want to feel like me again.”

She tilts her head. I can tell she didn’t expect that.

“And?” she prompts.

“Aston Martin DB11 for when I need to feel like James Bond.”

She rolls her eyes. “Of course you do. Anything else?”

I grin wider. “Ducati Panigale V4.”

Her brow arches.

“Impulse buy,” I admit. “Post-win high. Adrenaline in my veins, champagne on my jersey. Saw it in a showroom, signed the papers on the spot. I ride it maybe once a month. Tops.”

Tahlia laughs, the sound bouncing off the concrete. “So… you’re Mr. Ducati now?”

“Don’t act like that didn’t sound sexy as hell coming out your mouth.” Cause it sure as hell did.

She laughs again. The kind that hits somewhere low in my gut. Warm and real.

“You’re ridiculous,” she says, shaking her head.

She steps toward the driver’s side, and I move with her. Not close enough to crowd her, just enough to be there.

“Hey,” I say, instantly regretting this moment if she says no. “There’s this fundraiser next Monday at Max Murphy’s house. It’s what he does yearly for youth athletics.”

She pauses, one hand on the handle and I seize the moment to continue. It's not a no yet.

I explain. “It’s upscale, but not weird. Food, drinks, people writing checks.”

“Let me guess.” Her smile curves. “You want me to schmooze with CEOs while you flex in a tux?”

I take this as an opening and lay on the incentives. “Yes. But you get free champagne while doing it. And shrimp cocktail.”

“On a Monday?”

“Yep. It’s usually the day after Sunday. I’m sure you’ve heard of it or at least circled it a few times on your desk calendar.”

She exhales as if she’s debating saying no, just for sport.

I glance at her, trying not to be obvious in my stare. “Besides, I think you’d look good dressed up. And your blazer collection deserves a day off.”

Tahlia opens the door and starts the engine.

“Like I said, ridiculous,” she repeats.

“And yet,” I say, gesturing to her cup, “here you are, drinking my coffee.”

She looks at me with a curious gaze. “How about I’ll let you know when you’re back from Texas.”

“Wait. How do you know I'm going to Texas?”

“I may or may not have looked at the schedule when I got home Saturday night.”

“Fair. Just don’t make me chase you down with another latte.”

She shifts into reverse, then pauses. “Bye, Mr. Ducati.” She smiles. It’s barely there, but it hits like a fastball. Then she eases out of the spot, turns clean, and pulls toward the exit without looking back.

I lean against the concrete pillar, sipping the rest of my coffee, watching the taillights disappear.

Most girls show up at games or appearances, smile, flirt and want something, but not her. Tahlia calls me out, drains the latte, and dips. And I want more of it. More of her.

She’s focused. Grounded. She doesn't care about the jersey or the money. She doesn’t even blink when I drop the Aston Martin line. I don’t know if she’s unimpressed or just doesn’t give a damn.

Either way, it’s kind of hot.

I finish the coffee and toss the cup into the bin. My phone buzzes again — another reminder for the airport. Another photo waiting in my inbox. Another reason I’m not even tempted.

Because this morning? She’s the only thing I want to think about. Three days on the road.

Three days to figure out what to do with this feeling.