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troy

Did You Plant The Parsnip In Her?

“H ey, Mom,” I say, looking into my phone screen. “How’s she feeling? Have the fever meds kicked in yet?”

The sight of my mother carrying my listless four-year-old daughter in her arms sends a pang through my chest. Pearl’s head rests heavily on my mother’s shoulder, one of her two long red braids dangling limply next to her arm. Seeing my normally happy little girl so miserable tears me apart.

My mother bounces Pearl in her arms. “She’ll be alright, sweetheart,” she assures me, probably noting the utter despair on my face. “She just took the meds twenty minutes ago. They’ll take a bit to kick in, but I promise, she’ll be okay. We’re here for her. You have nothing to worry about. And we’ll get a hold of you if we need to.”

I sigh, grabbing the back of my neck. I came into the clubhouse lounge to call my parents as soon as I changed into my uniform. We’re about to start pre-game warmups, but I knew my head wouldn’t be in the game if I didn’t check up on my little girl one last time.

I nod. “I know, Mom. And, God, I . . . I—” I suck in a breath, my voice catching inside my throat. How can I express my gratitude for them? Helping to take care of my daughter—giving her the family she needs—while making it possible for me to pursue my career. “I can’t tell you enough how much I appreciate?—”

“Troy.” Dad’s voice, a mix of firm and gentle, cuts through my stammering. He takes the phone from my mom and turns it toward him. And though his features are nothing like mine, given we don’t share DNA, his eyes are warm and reassuring. “Son, how many times have we had this conversation? You do not have to keep telling us how much you appreciate us taking care of our granddaughter.”

“We’re more than happy to!” Mom chimes in, tilting her head to find me on the phone screen. “She means the world to us, honey. With both of us retired, you know we’re happy to take care of her.”

I take off my cap, scratching my head. “I know. I just miss her when I’m not there. Especially when she’s sick.” I pause, sucking in another long breath. “Sometimes I wish playing ball didn’t take me away from her so much.”

My admission isn’t surprising to either of my parents. They know how I’ve struggled with balancing being the sort of dad I want to be—like the man who raised me after my dad died almost twenty-five years ago—and playing the sport I love.

For the past ten years they’ve watched me work my ass off, not only to become the Bay Area Blazers’ best pitcher, but one of the most sought-after arms in the league. With ten years of pitching in the Majors, almost two thousand innings and more than twenty-four hundred strikeouts, I’m undoubtedly at the pinnacle of my career.

But I can’t deny that it comes with a hefty cost—one that includes weeks away from the most precious person in my life, my four-year-old little girl.

The game has given me so much—a life I could never have imagined as a kid with a beat-up glove and big dreams. But on days like this, when my little girl needs me to be the one holding her, I can’t deny feeling like I’m being pulled in two different directions.

My only solace is that Mom and Dad adore Pearl, even staying up with her all night to take care of her when needed if I’m on the road. She’s in the best hands. And between FaceTime calls and their constant support, somehow we’ve found a way to make it all work, even if today doesn’t feel like the best example of that.

Dad nods in understanding. “I know, son. I can imagine it tears you up, especially during times like this.”

“Can you bring the camera near her, Dad?” I ask, needing to see her face before I head back into the locker room. “I want to make sure she can see my hands clearly.”

Dad does as asked, bringing the phone toward my little girl’s face. Her head is still resting on my mom’s shoulder, but she’s not asleep yet. Her eyes, orbs of bronze and silver—the same shade and shape as mine—find me on the screen, immediately lighting up.

A little smile lifts the corners of her lips and she spreads her hand out, splaying all five fingers before tapping her forehead with her thumb. “Daddy.”

I smile through the jagged rock stuck in my throat, glad to have found a place to put my phone so I can use both my hands to respond to her in ASL. “Hi, Princess,” I sign back. “Are you tired?”

“Yes.” Pearl's smile wobbles as she fights a sob, and goddamn, if it doesn’t break me apart a little more inside. “Where are you?” she asks, pointing to me before putting her pointer finger up and waving it from side to side.

“I’m at the baseball field,” I explain. “At work. But I’ll see you in the morning when you wake up, okay?”

I’m not sure how much of my signing she understands, but she’s picking up more and more every day. We all are.

Neither me nor my parents are American Sign Language experts by any means, and up until last month, we had Pearl’s ASL tutor come by every day to teach us all to communicate better. Technically, she was set to move in with Pearl and me, but that’s not something we need to get into now. But ever since she left . . . or rather, ever since she was fired, we’ve all had to adjust, figuring out the language on our own.

The ever-present guilt resurfaces. I know I need to find another teacher for us but between flying out for games and reeling from the emotional upheaval over the past month, I haven’t had the chance.

My teammates laughing inside the locker room pulls me back to the present. They’re likely getting ready for the game by going through their pre-game rituals. But I take advantage of one more moment with my girl before I have to switch gears completely.

Lifting my hands to the camera, I sign to my daughter again, “Daddy loves you, Princess. Now get some sleep, and I’ll see you soon, okay?”

Pearl nods, sending me a flying kiss that I pretend to catch, like I always do, and stuff it into my cap, making her smile.

I end the call with my parents, promising to be home as soon as the game is over, but my thoughts are still with my little girl.

I’m not just Pearl’s father, I’m her only parent. Pearl’s mother literally gave up all connection and rights to her, handing her over to me in the hospital as soon as she was born. It was a responsibility I took on without hesitation, and even on days like this—when I’m actively juggling being a parent and a ball player—I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I turn back toward the locker room, massaging my aching elbow. The pain was manageable before yesterday’s game, but I know I fucked it up with that one pitch in the last inning—the slider that sent shooting pain up my arm.

It was probably stupid and risky to keep playing yesterday, but with all the bases loaded and a full count, I didn’t want to give up my spot on the mound. Thankfully, after I iced and wrapped it last night, it feels a lot better today, though there is a slight clicking sound when I rotate my arm.

A voice inside my head whispers, Tommy John, indicating the surgery many pitchers have to get, but I shove it off. That’s not what this is.

I’m just about to head back to the locker room when the lounge door opens, and Dev Menon walks inside with four men I don’t recognize.

Not only is Dev part owner of the Bay Area Blazers, but he’s also one of the richest men in the world—his net worth eclipses that of small countries. But what captures you about Dev isn’t the billions to his name, but his razor-sharp intellect and his disarming humility. The man has a way of making everyone in a room feel seen and heard.

Interestingly, this is the second time I’ve seen him in two days. The sight of him transports me back to yesterday’s chance encounter—or should I say, re-encounter?—with someone I never expected to see again.

And now, just the memory of seeing her —a woman I haven’t stopped thinking about since the moment I woke up alone in my hotel room a month ago—has my heart galloping.

It happened after the Seattle game. Dev had sent me a message asking if I could stop by the owners’ box to meet his wife Piper, her friend, and her friend’s son Rome. Apparently, the kid had recently become interested in baseball and was a fan of mine. But what should have been a simple meet-and-greet turned into something else entirely.

I had been chatting with Dev, Piper, and Rome when my eyes dropped to the floor. Honestly, it was as if I’d felt her before I’d even seen her. Like my body recognized her pull before my brain even registered who she was.

And when Rome pointed to the woman practically burrowing herself under a chair, seemingly looking for something but obviously hiding, that faint recognition crystalized into certainty.

From the curve of her shoulders, the fullness of her ass, and those gorgeous curls hanging around her, I knew it was her. Every detail about her was ingrained in my memory, like the delicate angle of her neck as she leaned forward and that sensuous honey-colored skin.

One month since our night together, which unexpectedly changed the course of my life, and there she was.

Rina Spicymustard.

I swear, everything dimmed around me as my heart tripped over itself. She was here, in San Francisco, at my game, nonetheless, on all fours looking for God knows what!

And then when she finally got to her feet, her hair a mess around her beautiful face, and our eyes connected—her beautiful almond-shaped, coffee-colored ones, framed by thick arched brows that held me captive—that same heart that was tripping and falling practically came to a halt.

Questions whirled inside my head like a tornado. Did she live here or was she visiting? How did she know Dev? Why had she snuck out that night without even saying goodbye? Why hadn’t she left me her number? And the one reigning above all . . .

Had she even thought about our night together since?

Because I had. Time and time again, she’d invaded my thoughts—her infectious laugh, the way her eyes glimmered when she smiled, and that intoxicating scent of lilacs that stayed on my skin long after she’d left.

For weeks, I’d been consumed by the loss of her, when in fact, I should have been mourning the loss of another woman entirely . . .

A woman who’d waited until fifteen minutes before our wedding to tell me she’d “gotten a little too drunk” and “made a mistake by sleeping with someone else” the night before we were to exchange vows. A woman who didn’t just break my heart, but my daughter’s as well. She was her ASL tutor, after all.

But before I could voice even a single one, Rina had grabbed her son’s hand and rushed out of the owners’ box like she was being chased by a grizzly.

“Troy Winters!” Dev’s face lights up with a genuine smile. “Just the man I was hoping to see!”

I return the smile, reaching out to shake his hand. “Good to see you again, Dev. You know, if we keep running into each other like this, people might start assuming things.”

Dev laughs, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners. He’s about as tall as me, but where I’m leaner through my torso, Dev is bulkier and more intimidating. “Twice in two days! Should we make each other friendship bracelets?”

I shrug. “I think it’s the logical next step.”

Dev chuckles again before turning to the guys behind him. “My friends and I decided to watch the game from the box tonight. They’re all huge fans of yours, so I figured I’d introduce them to you.”

His smile gets bigger when he indicates a guy with long blond hair, pulled into a half bun at the top of his head.

“Let me start with your biggest fan, my friend Dean.” Dev looks at me. “All kidding aside, this is the quietest and most well-behaved Dean has ever been. I swear, he almost shit a brick when I told him we were coming to see you.”

I laugh, reaching out to shake Dean’s hand. “No need to hurt yourself, Dean. Great to meet you. I’m Troy.”

Dean looks down at our clasped hands like he’s witnessing a miracle. “Holy shit, man. Is this the hand? The arm?”

“Jesus, brother. Calm yourself down before you spring a boner,” says another blond man behind him who looks enough like Dean that I can safely assume they’re siblings. His amused eyes find mine. “I’m Garrett, by the way. If my brother would release your hand before he passes out–” he gives Dean a pointed look– “I’d love to shake your hand, too. Preferably while it’s still attached to your body.”

I extract my hand from Dean’s vise grip, flexing my fingers dramatically. “Looks like I still have sensation in it. That’s a good sign.”

After shaking Garrett’s hand and then their other brother, Darian’s, I move on to Hudson Case. The name rings an immediate bell, given Hudson’s land excavation company is legendary throughout the West Coast. In fact, the very land we’re about to play our game on is his handiwork.

“So, Troy?” Dev’s amused eyes stay on my face. “I know you’ve got to run, but I have to ask. What the hell was happening between you and Sarina yesterday?”

Sarina . As in, my Rina.

Not my Rina, of course, but . . . my Rina.

Hands tucked inside my pockets, I aim for a nonchalant shrug, even though my pulse is racing. “Not sure what you mean. Was there something happening between us?”

Dev squints, and I know he’s too smart to be fooled by my lame attempt to play dumb. “The woman practically threw herself under a chair to hide from you. So, either you’re some sort of single woman repellant or there’s a story there.”

The other guys laugh and I try to join in, hoping to not have to talk about this right now. “Maybe she’s not into baseball and figured an impromptu game of hide-and-seek with herself would be more fun.”

“Right,” Dev drawls, clearly not buying it.

“Dude,” Dean chimes in, “did you plant the parsnip in her or something?”

Hudson and Darian make faces while Garrett and Dev struggle not to laugh.

“Plant the parsnip?” I ask.

“You know . . .” Dean continues. “Grind your corn? Wet your willy? Shake the sheets? Park the beef bus in tuna town?”

“Jesus,” Hudson groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What are you, eleven?”

Dean reels back dramatically. “I’m surprised you’re offended by these classics, old man. Most of them were created when you were fighting in the Civil War.” Dean turns back to me. “Now, as I was saying?—”

“Would you look at the time?” I cut him off, turning my wrist to look at my invisible watch. “I think I hear Coach calling.”

“Smooth deflection.” Dev grins, thankfully letting it go. “We’ll see you out there, buddy. Good luck.”

“But hey, Troy,” Dean shouts as I’m heading toward the locker room doors. I can tell he’s the type of ball buster I’d become good friends with quickly. “Try not to make any more women dive for the chairs on your way out, okay? It’s a matter of public safety.”

I flip him off good-naturedly, hearing the guys laugh before I follow my team outside. My head spins with new information, even as I go through pre-game warmups.

Sarina. Her name is Sarina.

Why does knowing that one truth about her make me want to know everything else?

“Your elbow okay, Winters?” Coach Bellman hollers at me while I’m warming up in the bullpen. He must have seen me massaging it.

“Fine,” I respond, winding up again and clenching my jaw through the pain. “A little stiff, but nothing I can’t handle. I’ll put ice on it while I’m in the dugout.”

That seems to appease him, and me, too, for that matter.

And for three innings, it is fine. More than fine, actually. Knowing that I’m going home to see my little girl after this game helps me push through the pain. Sure, I’m heading to Chicago tomorrow afternoon, but at least I’ll wake up and see her in the morning.

For three innings I’m almost invincible. And even though my fastballs are slightly slower than my usual of ninety-four miles-an-hour, I’ve racked up a cool six strikeouts, pitching slider after slider. Twenty-five pitches and twenty-one strikes, with not a single hit. My elbow is screaming, but so are our fans.

Until the first pitch of the fourth inning when their shouts fade into silence and the only sound I hear is a pop.