Page 11

eleven

troy

You’re A Caveman

“A re you excited to watch the game, sweetheart?” I sign to Pearl, who’s sitting on my mom’s lap, holding her Blaze the Bobcat plushie for my team. “If you get tired, just go to sleep, okay?”

It’s an hour before her bedtime but she insisted on coming, especially after I told her Sarina and her son would be joining us. She couldn’t wait to meet Rome.

“I’m not tired,” she signs back immediately, because as angelic as my daughter is, she’s still a headstrong four-year-old. Her earthy-hazels scan the friends and family section we’re sitting in near the dugout, drifting to the entrance, and I know she’s just as anxious to see our guests as I am.

I check my phone for what feels like the tenth time in the past fifteen minutes when I catch Dad’s knowing smirk from the seat next to Mom. “Seems Pearl isn’t the only one excited to see Rome.” He winks at me. “Or is it his mom you’re looking forward to seeing again?”

Thankfully, I’m saved from responding when movement at the entrance catches my eyes. Rome bounds down the steps, wearing my jersey and one of his space-themed glasses, practically bowling someone over.

But it’s his mom who snags all my attention.

Christ. Even wearing simple jeans and my team’s jersey and baseball cap, with her curls flowing down her back, she’s impossible to ignore. With her bottom lip tucked under her teeth, like she’s contemplating why she even decided to come, she’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.

“Coach Troy! Coach Anderson!” Rome waves, heading toward us, while Sarina follows him with more measured steps.

Her eyes lift at the sound of her son’s voice and she follows his gaze, locking with mine.

“Hi,” I mouth, staring at her like I’m star-struck, watching as her mouth curves up in a slow smile.

“Hi.” She waves back before dropping her hand and looking around at the crowd nervously, like she’s expecting someone to jump out at her.

I stand, grinning as both she and Rome enter our row. Then I look at Pearl, ready to make introductions. Except my little girl has decided to get shy all of a sudden, burrowing her face in her grandma’s chest.

I kneel in front of her. “You ready to make a new friend, Princess?”

Pearl shakes her head, her red pigtails waving and cheeks going pink as she tries to hide further into my mom’s neck.

I’m about to accept defeat when Rome reaches over, tapping Pearl’s shoulder to get her attention. And then, stunning us all, he signs, “Hi Pearl. I’m Rome.”

The surprise must be obvious in my expression because Sarina explains, “He never showed interest in it before, but when I told him about Pearl, he said he wanted to learn ASL. I’ve been teaching him a few things over the past few days.”

And for reasons I can’t explain, the fact that this little kid would go out of his way to learn to communicate with my daughter makes my chest tighten. Even the adults in our extended family haven’t bothered, content to just talk around her. But here’s this seven-year-old kid, learning her language and showing her he cares.

Pearl’s entire face lights up and she points to the field, coming out of her shell. “My daddy plays baseball, too.”

Rome turns to Sarina, a smile stretched on his face. “Mom, how do I say, ‘I know. He’s my favorite baseball player.’?”

Sarina shows him and my daughter watches in fascination as Rome learns the signs.

Before we settle into our seats—with Sarina on one side of me, my mom and Pearl on the other, and Rome in between my parents—Sarina introduces herself to my mom.

“I’ve heard quite a lot about you,” Mom says to Sarina, her eyes sparkling.

“Have you?” Sarina flushes, shifting in her seat as she glances at me. Her eyes question me— how much have you actually told them?

“Troy told us you knew ASL,” Mom responds easily. “It’s not every day you meet people who understand sign language. It’s nice to meet you.”

Thankfully, Mom gives no indication that I’d revealed more about the gorgeous woman beside me—that we’d met in Colorado and, through sheer fate, we’d recently reconnected. My parents aren’t the types to judge, so while I kept the details of our night vague, they both knew something more had occurred between Sarina and me.

“Likewise,” Sarina says, leaning forward to respond to my mom, but that’s when I see it.

Wait a fucking second.

Is that Cody Martinez’s name and number stretched across her back?

My molars clack, my entire body going rigid. I’m barely able to hear Sarina or Mom past the thunder of blood rushing through my ears.

A flash of primal possessiveness and jealousy courses through me as my eyes zero in on his number and the letters forming his last name.

Oh. Hell. No.

There’s not a chance in hell she’s wearing our rookie pitcher’s number on her back. He’s the one who took my position on the roster for the rest of the season. And while he’s doing great, she’s not wearing anyone’s number but mine.

“We’re going to the team shop.” I abruptly halt her conversation with my mom and get to my feet.

Sarina looks up at me, bewildered. “What?”

“The team shop,” I repeat, holding my hand out to her. “Right now. Let’s go.”

Her eyes narrow under her cap and she wraps her arms around her chest defiantly, a hint of a knowing smile playing on her lips. The brat knows exactly what this is about. “And why is that?”

I lean down to her ear, failing to keep my growl in check. “You know damn well why. There is no fucking way you’re sitting next to me wearing another player’s jersey.”

One perfect eyebrow hitches. “No? Well, I can always switch seats with someone.”

“Rina.” My voice holds a warning.

“Troy,” she sasses.

“I’m going to ask you once more,” I murmur, my lips brushing her earlobe, sending a shudder through her. “Otherwise, I’m hauling you over my shoulder and taking you there. And if you think I give a damn about who’s watching, you’d be wrong.”

“Pretty sure that’s not recommended with your physical therapy,” she retorts haughtily.

“It’s not.” I smirk humorlessly. “Which is why I’d prefer you not test me.”

Sarina forces her head back and stares into my eyes, her mouth agape. “You’re a caveman, you know that?”

I flick a quick glance at my parents and our kids. Thankfully, they’re all wrapped up in a conversation, so I grasp Sarina’s chin between my index finger and thumb, my eyes smoldering. “If you’re expecting an apology, you’ll be waiting a long time. Now, we can do this the easy way or?—”

“Fine!” she blurts exasperatedly before she reaches for the neck of her jersey, glancing around to make sure no one is looking at us. Then, in one fluid movement, she pulls it over her head.

My heart nearly buckles for a moment, thinking she’s about to strip in a stadium full of people. If she thinks I’m a caveman now, she’ll be in for a surprise if she does something as crazy as that.

But my momentary panic transforms into something else entirely when she turns to reveal what’s underneath—another jersey. My jersey. My name and number emblazoned across her back.

The possessive thrill that shoots through my veins is both elemental and untamed. She’d planned this all along, the little minx! She knew I’d lose my shit, and I fell right into her trap. I literally have to fist my hands to stop myself from pulling her against me and kissing that defiant, smug smile off her lips.

“Better?” she asks quietly, folding Martinez’s jersey and placing it inside her large handbag under a few packets of mustard. “Now, will you please sit down or do you want me to wait while you do a dramatic Tarzan chest-pound to stake your claim?”

I drop back into my seat. “You knew exactly what you were doing.”

“Maybe.” She shrugs, her bottom lip pulled into her mouth to hold back her smile. “Can’t say it wasn’t worth seeing you nearly pop a blood vessel.”

“Trouble,” I mutter, forcing myself to face forward before I do something stupid, like kiss that fucking smart mouth of hers in front of everyone.

The announcer’s voice booms through the speakers, telling us to rise for the national anthem. Sarina’s arm brushes mine, and I chance another glance in her direction. Maybe she’s right and I am a caveman. But seeing her in my jersey, watching her interact with my kid, and taking note of the sweet and respectful boy she’s raised . . . I realize I’m right, too.

I’m in a whole heap of trouble.

But a little trouble with long curls and plump, kissable lips might be exactly what I’ve been looking for all my life.

* * *

The Blazers won the game six to two against the Boston Revs. Not an easy feat, given what a great team they are, but Martinez was having the kind of night pitchers only dream about—eleven strikeouts and only three hits allowed.

The kind of night I used to have . . .

It was incredible watching my team play today. I’d even taken Rome to visit them in the dugout at the bottom of the seventh inning, well past when Pearl had fallen asleep. The guys had lit up at meeting Rome, though the feeling was mutual for him. The kid practically vibrated with excitement as he rattled off several players’ stats from memory before boldly announcing that he was my biggest fan, making them all laugh.

They’d slapped my back and told me how much they missed me, most of them asking how my recovery was going. I’d even congratulated Martinez on his huge night, meaning it when I said he was going to be one of the best in the league one day. But I can’t deny the heaviness in my chest as I watched the rookie who took my spot on the mound dominate, pitch after pitch.

Six hours of intense physical therapy, day in and out, over the past two and a half months, and I still have at least four more months before I can start the most basic throwing exercises. And even though my doctors say I’m recovering ahead of schedule, it’ll be mid-season next year before I can even think about taking the mound again.

But I will. And that’s what matters.

I will.

That doesn’t mean it doesn’t kill me to see Martinez throwing fireballs, working the corners of the plate the same way I used to.

The Blazers’ family lot is almost empty by the time we make it out—I’d ensured Sarina was cleared to park here as well. Dad carries a sleeping Pearl, while Mom walks ahead with Rome, who’s pointing out stars in the sky and giving her a rundown of the facts on each.

“You okay?” Sarina’s soft voice beside me makes me realize I’d been lost in thought. The dim parking lot lights catch the concern in her eyes. “You’ve been quiet since you came back from the dugout.”

It would be easy for me to brush her question off, but amidst the easy banter between us, I want there to be reality and truth, too. I want to give her my honesty in hopes that she can let her guard down enough to give me more of hers.

I take my cap off and run my hand through my hair. “I didn’t realize how hard it would be to not be playing with them.”

“It’s temporary, Troy.” She comes to a stop, turning to look up at me, and I take the moment to admire her once more in my jersey. She’s perfect. “You’re going to get back out there before you know it.”

“I hope so, but . . .” I shrug, not voicing the next part—that it’s all so uncertain—because we both know that truth.

“Hey.” Sarina’s voice softens as she closes the distance between us. She trails her hand over my recovering arm, making my skin tingle. “Maybe this season hasn’t turned out the way you’d planned, but from what I know, you’re the best pitcher this team has ever had. I can’t imagine you got to where you are by giving into defeated thoughts.” Her lips quirk. “You’re too bullheaded for that.”

Despite her opinions on pro athletes, her words have warmth spreading through my chest. There’s no reason for her to make me feel better, not when her past has taught her to distrust and avoid us. Yet here she is, giving me her complete sincerity.

“Have breakfast with me.” Yeah, so maybe I am bullheaded.

“Troy . . .” She drops her hand to her side, leaving my skin yearning for her touch again.

“Just pancakes, Rina. No other intentions or expectations. Just a meal with someone who wants to get to know you better.”

She hesitates, chewing on her lip and looking to the side like she’s thinking.

“Come on, Spicymustard,” I urge, leaning in to catch her gaze. “Don’t make me beg. Though I’m not above it, if that’s what you need me to do . . .”

“I don’t date?—”

“I know, I know,” I cut in, chuckling. “You don’t date athletes. You’ve made it abundantly clear. But guess what? I happen to be unemployed at the moment, so . . . I think we’ve found a loophole.” I wink at her when she rolls her eyes. “One breakfast. If you hate it or hate my company, I’ll never ask again.”

She takes a long breath, releasing it with a defeated sigh. “Fine, one breakfast. But”—she holds up a hand when she sees the ridiculous smile spreading over my face—“just as friends.”

“Friends?” I arch my brows. “Is that what we are after what happened in Colorado?”

She tilts her head, that stubborn set of her jaw making another appearance. “Would you prefer I change my mind?”

“What I prefer can’t be voiced.” I give her a shit-eating grin. “But how about we discuss this so-called ‘friendship’ between us over breakfast?”

“Why do I feel like I’m going to regret this?”

“You’re not. You know why?” I lean in, filling my lungs with her lilac scent. There’s also a faint scent of spicy mustard on her breath, given the woman devoured at least two large soft pretzels with probably twelve packets of mustard she extracted from her handbag. The thought of tasting those salty, spicy lips has my dick twitching inside my pants. “Because there hasn’t been a moment spent with me you’ve regretted so far.”