Page 39

thirty-nine

troy

No Regrets

M y hands white-knuckle the rail of our dugout as the roar of forty thousand fans at the Blazers’ stadium blares inside my ears like pounding drums. Or maybe that’s my heart, thumping so fucking hard, it feels like it’s been replaced by a damn race horse.

And it’s not just me.

My entire team that’s not on the pitch at this exact moment is right up alongside me, the anxious energy radiating off them enough to choke on. Some are praying while the others look like they’re barely breathing. And the guys on the field right now? I don’t have to use much imagination to know they’re focused on blocking out the noise, the pressure, and the weight of this moment pressing down on them, fueling themselves with a singular obsession—to win this damn game.

We’re up three-two in the top of the ninth in game five against the New York High Risers, and one out away from seizing the World Series. One out away from the perfect ending to my MLB career.

I pitched a solid seven innings in game four, tying the series at two games a piece for both teams, but tonight I’ve been a spectator. Well, sort of. I’ve been ready in case Coach needed me for relief, but it looks like Cody Martinez will close it out. Still, I’m living and dying with every pitch he throws like it's my own. I may not be physically on that mound, but every fiber of my being feels like it is.

My gaze scans the crowd, finding my parents, my best friends—all the guys from the Hens chat—and their wives sitting in the family section behind home plate. But it’s the three people beside them I can’t seem to get enough of, the compass points that keep me grounded. My beautiful girlfriend, her adorable son, and my little princess wave at me from their seats.

Pearl is sitting on Sarina’s lap holding a large sign that’s more glitter than words and says, ‘My Daddy Is An All-Star Pitcher And A Champion!’ Rome stands next to them, signing something to Pearl. From what I can read of his hand movements, he’s telling her how important this last out is for the game. When my eyes land back on Sarina, she presses her fingers to her lips and throws a kiss in my direction. I pretend to catch it and place it on my heart, totally unfazed by my teammates’ taunts about me acting like a lovesick puppy. It’s a badge I wear with pride for the woman who can send a jolt through me with a single glance.

Soon after Sarina and I got back from Colorado, we sat down with the kids and told them how we’d fallen in love and wanted to be together. Their reactions were akin to watching someone realize they had a jackpot-winning lottery ticket in their hand. Rome practically launched himself across the table, nearly toppling his drink to hug me, while Pearl erupted in cheers, her eyes wide and her little hands over her mouth in disbelief. Our kids hugged us and then each other so tight, you’d think we’d just told them we were celebrating Christmas twice this year.

They had a similar reaction when we asked if they’d want to move into the same house together once the World Series ended and I was officially retired.

The plan is for Sarina and Rome to move in with me and Pearl, and we’ve been preparing for it over the past few months, excited to finally live together as a family. And I can’t wait for all the beautiful chaos of a family that was always meant to bet—from waking up with the woman of my dreams in the morning, to our kids bounding into our room demanding chocolate chip pancakes, to late nights with Sarina curled up next to me while we watch those Unsolved Mysteries reruns she’s so obsessed with.

The entire stadium rises to their feet, the roar lulling slightly, as they watch the High Risers’ top cleanup hitter, Archer Stevens, take his position in the batter’s box. He’s already hit one homerun this series and is possibly one of the best power-hitters in the MLB.

I hold my breath as Martinez checks the High Risers’ runners on first and second, then winds up and releases a fastball. It catches the outside corner at ninety-six miles per hour. Stevens doesn’t swing, taking the first strike.

The second pitch is a changeup that arrives slow and misses. Ball one.

Martinez nods to our catcher before checking the bases again and delivers another fastball. This one catches too much off the plate, and Stevens swings, making contact.

The crack echoes off the bat, forcing a momentary silence through the crowd. Like me, they’re all holding their breaths. The ball sails toward the right field, and my heart hikes up to my throat as I watch it carry in the October breeze. For a stomach-dropping moment, I’m sure it’s going to leave the park, but then I watch our right fielder track it against the evening sky. He stretches out, looking almost acrobatic before he crashes into the warning track.

But the entire stadium takes a gasping breath as our outfielder raises his glove, showing off the ball in his hand.

The umpire signals the out and, just like that, the Bay Area Blazers have won the World Series!

Holy fucking shit, we just won the motherfucking World Series!

Somehow, I lose track of how I got to the pitcher’s mound where Martinez is, but within seconds I’m engulfed by my teammates and I realize I’m screaming. Bodies press against me on all sides before both Martinez and I are lifted off our feet. Seconds later, fireworks are painting the sky with pops of reds and greens.

After all the hugging, cheering, and back-slapping each other with tears in our eyes, I wriggle free of my celebrating teammates and push my way through the crowd. Cameras flash and microphones are thrust in my face, but I sidestep them all in my effort to find my girlfriend and our kids.

They’re the only ones whose arms I want around me.

I reach them a few minutes later, pulling all three into my arms, their emotional praise making my heart feel so full, it threatens to burst through its cage.

I gently fist Sarina’s curls, pulling her face from my neck to look at her before pressing my lips to hers in a heated kiss. “I love you.”

Her tear-filled gaze meets mine, and I brush my thumb along the white patch of skin around her eye. Pride swells my chest at how far she’s come, no longer hiding her face—from me, from the cameras, or even from herself.

“I love you,” she whispers, her bee-stung lips stretching into a smile. Looking down at our kids, she brushes Pearl’s red locks with her fingers before squeezing Rome’s shoulder. “I love us.”

In that moment, with confetti raining down and my friends and family gathering around us, waiting to congratulate me personally, I know with perfect certainty that it’s not just the championship I won today.

I won the beginning of the rest of my life.

* * *

“I don’t know whether to cheer or cry.” Dean takes a swig of his beer next to me. “I kind of feel like doing both. I can’t believe you’re not going back to the MLB, man.”

I turn the bottle in my hand, the amber liquid inside catching the lights from the bar the Blazers have booked to celebrate both our big win and my retirement. “I’ve had a good run. A great run, actually. And I get to leave with a win and a ring.” I tap the neck of my bottle against his. “I’ve got no regrets.”

“True.” Dean nods thoughtfully. “And since you’re leaving with a ring, what are the chances you’ll give me the jersey you wore tonight?”

“None,” I reply dryly, making the other guys in our small circle chuckle.

Garrett jabs Dean with an elbow, flashing him a taunting smile. “Looks like you’ll need another hobby now that you won’t be collecting any more Troy memorabilia, bro.”

“There’s always that mooing contest you’d wanted to get into as a kid,” Darian chimes in, a retaliating smirk playing on his lips from all the shit he takes from his older brother. “Bet you’d be really good at it.”

“Do not make me pull you into a headlock in front of everyone here, brother.” Dean gives him a sidelong glance, his eyes narrowing in both amusement and irritation. “You know I’ll do it.”

The guys laugh, but my eyes drift upward, drawn by that inexplicable pull that’s been there since the night we met. Near the bar, but not too far away, Sarina’s gaze finds mine. With a flute of champagne grasped between her delicate fingers, she’s been chatting with my friends’ wives and her sister, but her attention shifts the moment our eyes connect.

My gaze trails down the length of her curves, and something primal and possessive surges through me. Suddenly, I have this intense need to walk over, pull her into a heady kiss, and make it clear to everyone here that she’s mine.

She’s wearing my jersey, tucked into a fitted black leather skirt, paired with black stockings and ankle boots. The way that skirt conforms to her perfect ass has me taking another long swig of my beer, desperately trying to douse the heat rising inside me. When her lips lift into that warm smile—both soft and private, like it’s a whispered secret meant just for me—I nearly forget we’re in a room full of people.

Even surrounded by my teammates, management, and our friends celebrating this enormous night in my career, she makes everything else blur into the background. I might have won the greatest prize in baseball tonight, but my biggest victory still remains the woman who showed up to claim me wearing a Sasquatch costume.

We sent the kids back with my parents after the game today, promising them a sugar and soda-filled celebration tomorrow, just like they insisted on. But now, despite the celebration around me, all I can think about is getting Sarina alone.

The need tingles over my skin—to feel her writhe beneath me, to celebrate with my face in between her thighs—like tiny sparks determined to ignite a fire.

Her eyes darken, reading the hunger in mine, demanding and insatiable, just like my appetite for her. Without breaking our gaze, I lift my hands and sign to her, knowing she and Nisha are the only ones in this room who could understand. Thankfully, her sister’s too busy laughing at something Piper has just said to notice.

“No victory feels complete unless it’s celebrated inside your pussy.”

The flush that spreads over her cheeks, the tremor that shakes the liquid in her glass, is all the answer I need. Fuck, I can’t wait to take her home and make good on my promise.

“Dude, can you guys get a room?” Dean says, following my line of sight to my girlfriend. “Good thing I don’t know ASL, because if something you said could make her blush like that, I know it was filthy as fuck.”

“At least his bedroom talk is silent,” Hudson drawls, taking a sip of his whiskey. “You, on the other hand, texted us the dirty talk you intended for Mala last year.”

“I’d just forgotten about that recently, Hudson.” Dev shakes his head disapprovingly. “Thanks for the reminder. Think I’m going to need another finger of this scotch to burn away that memory again.”

Dean’s about to respond when there’s some commotion at the entrance of the bar, and everyone turns to watch the Blazers’ PR director escort a small group of people inside. But there’s no mistaking who’s in the center.

A hush washes over the crowded room, but it’s not them I’m looking at. My gaze goes rocketing toward the bar, where Nisha stands frozen, her flute of champagne halfway to her lips. Beside her, both Sarina and Piper stand with their mouths agape.

“Why the fuck is Patton Pierce here?” Dev hisses in a whisper, his protective instincts spiking just like mine as he glances toward the bar.

“Not sure,” I murmur.

Sure, many celebrities attend the World Series and will often come to meet the team, but this event tonight was a private event held for the team’s closest families and friends, which is why I’m confused as to why Patton is here.

Though Nisha and I have never discussed her previous relationship and resulting divorce, I know enough from Sarina to know there’s still resentment and heartbreak there.

Apparently, Patton and Nisha were friends as teenagers before they’d fallen in love and married young. Except, their marriage had crumbled a few years later under the weight of his skyrocketing fame, their endless separations due to his job, and private heartaches they’d never shared publicly.

On paper, they’d split amicably— “Hollywood Golden Boy and Childhood Sweetheart Claim Irreconcilable Differences.” In fact, enough time had passed that most people didn’t even remember they’d once been together. But the way Nisha’s face fell anytime someone brought up his name told a different story entirely. Perhaps the world had forgotten, but she hadn’t.

The award-winning actor moves through the room, shaking a few hands and flashing his famous smile before his gaze lands on me. Before I know what’s going on, his decisive steps lead him and the small entourage he’s with to the group of guys I’m standing amidst.

“Troy Winters,” Patton says, hand extended for me to grasp as the guys beside me shift to give him room. “I’m Patton Pierce.”

I reluctantly shake his hand, my gaze inadvertently finding Nisha, hoping to convey a silent apology. I might not have been there to see the dissolution of their marriage, but as I see it, my loyalties are clear—and they’re with her.

When I turn back to speak, I notice Patton has followed my eyeline and has gone completely rigid, just like his ex-wife. It’s as if he’s seen a ghost, or perhaps a living, breathing reminder of a past he thought he left behind. His Adam’s apple bobs with a hard swallow, and for that brief moment, his confident Hollywood facade slips, revealing something wounded and unresolved underneath.

Seconds later, both Patton and Nisha avert their gazes, retreating behind practiced masks of indifference, as if the awkward exchange never even happened. But then I notice Sarina take Nisha’s hand and pull her closer to us so they can hear.

“Uh, good to meet you,” I state, feeling Nisha’s and Sarina’s gazes burn the side of my face. The rest of the crowd might not feel it, but the tension between the two floated in the air like a thick fog. “How can I help you, Patton?”

Before Patton can say another word, my agent, Ben, materializes at my side, practically vibrating with excitement like a golden retriever at the sight of a tennis ball. “Troy! Patton! Glad you were both able to meet.”

He leans in closer to me, whispering in my ear, “This is a pretty big deal. Patton’s going to be starring in a new baseball comeback film, and he’d like you to be his technical consultant. This could be a really good transition opportunity for you.”

“First, I just want to congratulate you and the Blazers on the incredible victory tonight. I’m a huge fan,” Patton says sincerely. “And second, I don’t want to take you away from your party, but your comeback to the sport after your injury is exactly the story we’re telling in this film. We can discuss more about it at a later time, if you’d like?”

Coach Bellman appears on my other side, placing a hand over my shoulder. “You’ve certainly got the experience they’re looking for. The organization would support you, no matter what you decide post-retirement, but this might be something interesting to work on.”

“I agree!” Ben says enthusiastically. “It’s a great opportunity, Troy.”

“I, uh,” I sputter, feeling caught between worlds. “I was actually planning on coaching my dad’s private league. I also have that offer to do MLB commentary?—”

“I understand. No pressure, Troy,” Patton says with a genuine smile. “I can imagine you’re looking forward to retiring and spending time with your family. But if you change your mind, I’d love to connect.”

Shit. Something isn’t adding up here. Based on the little I know about their split, I’d assumed Patton was the villain. But the seemingly sincere and self-aware man in front of me makes me wonder if the dissolution of their marriage has layers I might not be privy to. And I know I didn’t imagine the hurt that clouded his expression—the same as Nisha’s—only moments ago when he looked at her.

“How long would the project be for?” I don’t know what compels me to ask the question just as Patton turns to leave. Call it something in my gut urging me to ask or just simple curiosity about the opportunity. Under different circumstances, I might not have hesitated at all in taking it on.

“A month,” my agent answers before Patton can. “The contract is all written up and looks solid.”

My eyes find Sarina and Nisha again. Sarina’s expression is a mix of protective wariness for her sister and trust in me to do the right thing. Nisha, however, looks like she’s trying to process a plot twist in a movie she never saw coming. But surprisingly, there’s no anger or irritation in her expression. And if I’m not mistaken, I could swear that beneath the initial shock and distress I catch a flash of longing, but she quickly masks it, turning to engage Rani in conversation.

When I turn back to Patton, there’s a shift in his expression, a subtle change in his posture, as if his previous unease has been replaced by something that looks a lot like . . . determination. Like in the brief exchange of glances with his ex-wife, he’s written an entirely new story.

Or perhaps it’s an alternate ending.

Patton slips his hands into his pockets, attempting a casual stance, but his newfound conviction surrounds him like a looming promise. Except, I’m not sure who he’s made the promise to.

“Some of the film is actually being shot at an older field near San Jose,” he says, confidence strengthening his tone. “We’d need you on set for four weeks. I know it’s asking a lot, especially since you just announced your retirement, but it’s a film I’m really passionate about. It’s not just another role for me; I have personal interest vested in it.”

It’s then that I note his almost imperceptible glance toward Nisha again.

Interesting. Whatever’s happening between them feels bigger than the role Patton’s talking about, and somehow, I’ve become entangled in it.

“Can you excuse me for a moment?” I ask, not waiting for Patton’s reply before striding toward Sarina and Nisha. Gently taking Nisha’s elbow and curling my arm around my girlfriend’s waist before placing a kiss on her temple, I pull them both away from Patton’s earshot.

“How much of that did you both catch?” My voice is low, meant only for them, though I note their circle of friends lean in to listen.

“Most of it.” Sarina’s hand links with mine at her waist. There’s a shallow crease in between her brows, but I know it’s more out of concern for her sister.

I turn to her sister, who’s holding her champagne flute so tightly, I’m afraid she’s going to shatter the glass.

“If you say no, I’ll shut this down right here, Nisha.” I keep my voice firm, making sure she knows I mean every word. “You being comfortable with this matters to me.”

Nisha’s eyes soften, and I know she’s thinking about what this means—her ex-husband and me working together. Not just that, but we’d be very close to the salon.

A mixture of emotions cross her face, from apprehension to curiosity to something else I can’t quite name. Maybe that same longing I saw a flicker of earlier?

And then she squares her shoulders, glancing past me to where her ex is still standing. It doesn’t take a genius to see that an exchange takes place in the silence that stretches between them, with them being the only ones who could interpret it.

I watch resolution leak into her eyes, replacing the previous trepidation and making her stand taller. The transformation is almost visible, like I’m watching her slip into battle armor, preparing to face something she didn’t think she’d encounter again.

Her steely stare stays on him as she takes a fortifying breath. “Tell him you’ll do it.”