Page 5

five

sarina

Illegal In the Northern Hemisphere

“R ome!” I yell before shoving a piece of toast with spicy mustard slathered on it into my mouth. “Hurry up. You heard what Coach Anderson said last time. He’ll make you run four laps around the bases if you’re late.”

The house has been quieter in the mornings, given Nisha moved into the house next door a few weeks ago. After my divorce from Jamie, Rome and I moved in with her, creating a little family unit. But when the house next to us went up for sale, we both decided it was too great of a steal not to purchase. And since it was easier for her to move, she took the opportunity.

As usual, I’m doing the typical sports-mom thing, juggling his water bottle, granola bar, and baseball glove into his backpack, when Rome comes out of his room wearing his baseball uniform and cap.

It’s a welcome change, given the kid has spent most of his young life buried in books, only barely tolerating golf with his dad but never taking to it. But after attending a few baseball games with Dev over the past several months, he developed a genuine interest and wanted to sign up to learn.

“I’m ready, Mom,” he announces before his eyes bug out and he runs back into his room. “Actually, I forgot something!”

I suppress my groan. This kid.

“Rome!” I yell at his back uselessly, knowing it won’t make him turn around.

He comes back a few seconds later, slipping a baseball card into his back pocket. “Found it. I can’t go to practice without this.”

I shake my head, fighting a smile. Three practices at the private league Dev recommended and suddenly, the kid is Mr. Baseball Traditions. He’s got a ritual like he’s already a pro, and of course, that ritual involves keeping his favorite pitcher’s baseball card tucked into his back pocket. And who is his favorite pitcher? None other than Troy Winters.

Ignoring the tug inside my chest, I zip up his backpack.

As much as Rome’s hero worship of another pro athlete is adorable, I know all too well how that pedestal can crumble, how the man behind the stats and highlight reels isn’t really who he appears to be. Unfortunately, my son has seen it, too, given how many times his pro athlete father has disappointed him. He’s just more forgiving than I am.

“Are you finally ready now?” I ask him, wiping cream cheese off his chin from the bagel he ate earlier. “Any other rituals you need to do? A rain dance, perhaps? How about banging some pots and pans?”

“Nope,” he states solemnly, not picking up on my sarcasm, and plopping on our wingback chair to wrestle on his cleats. “You know what Troy does before every game, Mom?”

“Yes. You’ve told me at least five times this summer.”

“He kisses his daughter’s picture after taking the mound.” Rome rises to his feet, adjusting his glasses and tightening the strap around his head.

Today my son is wearing his favorite Saturn-themed frames. Because truly, my son’s first love is astronomy. In fact, I often joke that he came out of the womb holding a space facts book.

It’s not to say he doesn’t love baseball—to his pro-golfer father’s dismay—but it’s still a close second in comparison to all things space.

“You know, the sportscasters were saying that the reason he messed up his arm two months ago is because he never kissed his daughter’s picture. He didn’t do his ritual!”

I frown, knowing it wasn’t his ritual that caused Troy to leave the season, though my stomach still flips whenever I think about that game. One minute we—I mean, Rome, because he was really the one watching—were glued to the screen as Troy threw nearly perfect pitches, one after another, and the next . . . he was being hauled off the field.

I can still feel the way my stomach had hallowed out, the way I tossed and turned the entire night, not able to get a wink of sleep.

Dev told Piper, who told me, that Troy has done tremendously with his post-surgery recovery and will likely be getting his brace off permanently this week.

Not that I have any interest in the news. I’ve just been keeping track for Rome’s curiosity.

“Sports Center said he’s going to be starting therapy?—”

Rome’s words are cut off when the doorbell’s aggressive double-ring blares through my house, making my stomach tighten.

There’s only one person who can signal his impatience and entitlement without having spoken a word. But Jamie isn’t supposed to pick up Rome until next weekend.

“Great,” I mumble, knowing Rome is definitely going to be late to practice. “Exactly what we need this morning.”

“Is that Dad?” Rome asks, his excitement about baseball dimming slightly. The last time he spent time with Jamie, he belittled our son for wanting to play “such a simpleminded game”.

“Baseball is full of nothing but dumb brutes who never grew past wanting to catch and release a ball. You’re not a dumb brute, are you, Rome?”

It’s the same thing he says whenever he sees Rome reading a book about space, telling him that his dreams about becoming an astronaut are clichéd.

“Every Buck and Billy wants to be an astronaut, son. You’re not one of those lame kids, are you? No! You’re Jamie Weston’s kid. You were born for greatness. Knowing a bunch of space facts isn’t going to help you get to space. Find something better to do with your time. Practice that golf swing we worked on last time.”

I take a deep breath. “Remember, sweetheart, if he starts to lecture you about playing baseball again?—”

“I’ll tell him I like both sports,” Rome cuts in. We both know that’s not true, but it’s how he’s figured out how to navigate his dad’s expectations.

“You don’t have to do that, Rome,” I say, trying to persuade him gently. “You can just tell him the truth.”

“It’s just easier to tell him I like both.” Rome looks down at his cleats. “I don’t want to disappoint him.”

“But—”

The doorbell double-rings again, making me groan. Before I open the door, I take a quick glance in the mirror, ensuring the makeup around my right eye isn’t smudged. The last thing I need is a comment from Jamie about the white patch there or worse yet, his feigned pity.

Instead, I steel myself to confront him about his constant disregard for our visitation agreement and his apparent vendetta against my doorbell.

He’s wearing his normal country club attire—a crisp white polo and tailored blue shorts—looking like a washed-up version of Ryan Phillipe who’s spent way more time perfecting his golf swing than his personality. His bleach blond hair is combed back with so much product, he should carry a “flammable” warning.

His eyes dart nervously around my entryway. Can’t say I blame him, given the calamities he’s befallen in this same spot, time and time again. I swear, even my doorway knows he’s unwelcome.

Last month, Mrs. Park’s miniature pinscher got loose and headed straight for Jamie’s golf shoes, leaving a few teeth marks in the front while my ex-husband screamed like a little girl.

A few weeks before that, one of my hanging plants mysteriously fell on his head. Thankfully— or maybe, not so thankfully —nothing more than his pride was hurt.

And then there was that time around Easter when he was leading Rome to his car, lecturing him about always having his nose inside a book, when a bird managed to deliver its own “special message” right on his perfectly gelled hair.

Jamie tries to step inside to our foyer, likely trying to avoid whatever calamity is headed his way, but I block him. The way he keeps scanning the area for rogue dogs, falling planters, and vindictive birds would be funny if he wasn’t ruining our morning.

His disapproving gaze finally travels from me to our son, assessing him in his baseball uniform. “I see you’re still letting him play that game.” He reaches inside to tousle Rome’s hair before giving him a tight smile. “Didn’t we talk about this last time, bud? Baseball isn’t the sport for you.”

“What are you doing here, Jamie? You seem to be visiting your San Francisco residence a lot more lately,” I clip, reminding him in a not-so-subtle way that his home is in Los Angeles, where he belongs. “I don’t recall you being scheduled to see Rome today. If you needed something, you could have called. As you can see, we were just headed for practice, which we’re now going to be late for.”

“What I needed ,” he asserts, straightening before sliding both hands into his pockets, “was to see my son. I’m hosting a junior tournament next weekend for charity, which is why I’m around all week. I’d love for Rome to join and thought he could practice his swing with me. You know, play a sport that actually requires discipline and strategy.” He winks at our son, and I have half a mind to punch him. “What do you say, buddy?”

Rome tenses behind me. “I . . . I have baseball practice right now, Dad. And Coach Anderson?—”

“Will understand,” my ex interrupts. “He wouldn’t want you to miss spending time with your old man, would he? You’ve only got one father, Rome. You can go run around on a dusty field any day. Plus, you had so much fun the last time we went?—”

Oh, for the love of . . .

Forget golf, the man could win the Olympic gold in emotional manipulation and false narratives.

“Rome has practice,” I grit out before turning to my son. “Baby, do you mind getting in the car? I need to have a quick conversation with your dad alone, and then we can head to your practice, okay? I’ll talk to Coach about being late.”

Rome hesitates, looking from me to his father, and it kills me to see the worry lining his brows. He shouldn’t have to feel torn and confused like this. He shouldn’t have to witness this contentious relationship between his parents, who are supposed to be examples of mature and reasonable adults.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” I assure him. “Go sit in the car. We’ll figure out another time for you to hang out with your dad, okay?”

Rome nods, sliding past my husband. I watch as he lugs himself inside my car before clicking the door shut. Next to him, Jamie’s hideous lime-green Cybertruck with the orange thunderbolt sits on my driveway like an oversized dumpster on wheels.

Pulling my entryway door closed behind me, I get right in Jamie’s face. After being married to him for three years, I’ve learned that giving him an inch will only lead to him taking a mile. It’s the way his controlling and manipulative brain works.

“Don’t ever ambush our son like that again,” I seethe, my blood boiling. “Rome has the right to choose which sport he wants to play, just like he has the right to choose the books he wants to read, or the career he wants to pursue. He’s not your little project, Jamie. He’s not another thing for you to bend to your will. He’s a kid who deserves a say in his life. So, if you don’t mind,” I raise a brow indignantly, “we’re late for?—”

But before I can finish, Jamie suddenly slaps his face. And then, he slaps his neck. His eyes go wide, his country club demeanor flying out the window when he frantically swats his hair and then his neck again, doing an undignified dance on my doorstep.

“Something’s”—he smacks his cheek again, his hair a mess— “crawling on me!”

I pause, watching him flail. A small part of me feels guilty for enjoying this karmic justice play out and the good Samaritan in me considers helping him. But ultimately, the exhausted mother who is tired of his manipulation wins out.

“Have a good day, Jamie,” I say, sliding past him toward my car where Rome is still waiting. Poor thing has both his hands clamped over his mouth, torn between laughter and concern about his father’s strange performance. It’s not the first time he’s seen my cursed doorway attack his dad.

I lean out the window as I back away. “I’ve warned you about my doorway before, Jamie. It doesn't like you. Maybe try calling ahead next time.”

* * *

“I’m sorry we’re late,” I say to Coach Anderson. “We have this cursed doorway and, well, it did a number on my ex again.”

He’s a man in his late fifties with gray hair peeking out from beneath his baseball cap and a full, salt-and-pepper mustache. I’ve never been a mustache girl, but I won’t deny this man knows how to don one better than the Marlboro man.

Coach gives me a sidelong look, his eyes lingering on my feet for a moment, before he turns to Rome. “Rules are rules, buddy. Go run four laps around the bases for me, then join everyone for warm-ups.”

Rome’s shoulders slump, but he sees another kid doing laps and his mood lifts. He runs toward him, already smiling again. It’s one of his best qualities—the kid refuses to let things keep him down for long, always seeing the silver lining in every situation.

“Sorry to be a stickler.” Coach Anderson’s eyes soften. “I don’t want others thinking I play favorites, you know?” He leans in, whispering to me conspiratorially, “Though, I won’t deny it, that kid of yours could become anyone’s favorite pretty quick.”

Pride swells inside my chest. “Thank you. He’s pretty great. Hope he didn’t miss anything important.”

“Just my riveting speech about not licking the baseball. Apparently, it needed to be said.”

I laugh, watching the kids in the distance do lunges in the middle of the field. “I’m assuming they’re creating their own rituals? Rome has one where he puts his favorite pitcher’s baseball card in his back pocket.”

Coach Anderson’s brows lift. “Oh? He’s still so shy around the team, he hasn’t mentioned it. Who’s his favorite pitcher?”

I roll my eyes, hoping I don’t give away how my stomach flips at even saying the name. “Troy Winters.”

“Is that so?” Coach sways back on his heels, his cleats digging into the dirt. “Well, this will be an interesting season for many of us, then.”

“How so?”

Coach motions toward the boys with his chin before waving over to the bleachers where a few parents are sitting. “Why don’t you join us? I’ve got a little surprise for the kids today.”

“Oh?” My question comes out breathless. “What sort of surprise?”

As I hurry after him, my gaze drops to my feet and I groan. Fucking dammit! With all the chaos this morning, I didn’t realize I rushed out wearing my house slippers—the one with the bare-chested centaurs standing erect. No wonder Coach Anderson had looked down at my feet curiously.

Coach turns over his shoulder, continuing to walk ahead of me. “My son will be coaching alongside me for the next few months while he recovers from surgery.” He pauses, and I hear the smile in his voice, like he’s waiting for me to put two and two together. “Some might say he’s well-experienced in baseball.”

Wait . . . what?

His son?

Recovering from surgery . . .

My stomach—which was flip-flopping at the mere mention of a certain someone’s name earlier—is now doing medal-winning gymnastics. The toast and coffee I downed earlier this morning threatens to make a reappearance.

God, please don’t let him say what I think he’s going to.

Coach Anderson claps his hands together. “Boys, come around a moment. I’d like to share some news with you and your folks.”

As the boys huddle around him, Rome joins me, breathing hard after his run. I can’t decide who’s more oxygen-deprived—Rome, who just ran all those bases, or me, who’s ready to pass out if my gut feeling is true.

“Everyone, I’d like for you to meet your assistant coach. Many of you will recognize him as one of the starting pitchers for the Bay Area Blazers?—”

Gasps ripple through the crowd like the beginnings of an earthquake. Then, Rome’s mouth nearly unhinges, his eyes locking onto someone approaching from my left.

And me? I think I’m having a brain aneurysm.

“The Tremors are lucky to have him working with us this season while he recovers. Welcome, the one and only, Troy Winters, everyone!” Coach Anderson finishes.

The boys erupt in excited screams, but all I hear is the blood rushing through my ears. The world slows to a crawl, each motion moving through molasses, as I turn my head in the direction Coach Anderson is pointing, and I lock eyes with a man I haven’t seen since the day I made a complete fool of myself by diving under a chair.

A man wearing a brace on one arm but looking like a model from a men’s magazine.

A man responsible for my missing heartbeat at the moment.

I blink, and the world snaps back into focus, with the team in a frenzy around me.

Rome tugs on my hand, his excitement palpable. “Mom! Oh my God, Mom! Troy Winters is going to be our assistant coach!”

I manage a wooden nod, watching Troy make his way to the boys, high-fiving them with ease. Rome rushes from my side toward them and makes his way to the front. I watch as he pulls out his baseball card, showing it to Troy with so much reverence, my chest feels like it’ll explode.

And it’s then that I know I’m in trouble. Big, ginormous trouble.

Because Troy kneels in front of my son, retrieving a pen from his back pocket before using his injured hand to sign it. And the look that passes between them? It’s a connection I’ve never seen in my son before—one filled with so much admiration, it leaves me both breathless and terrified.

I’m sneaking away from the crowd, making my stealthy escape to my car, when I hear a familiar voice call my name behind me.

Or rather, the name I gave him.

“Rina.”

The way he says it, with a mix of humor and vulnerability lacing that one word, sends a shiver down my spine, catapulting me to that night in Colorado when he whispered it in my ear as he hovered above me, rewiring my body with his touch.

I turn to face him, feeling breathless as my eyes collide with his. He closes the distance between us, moving away from the still-cheering boys with an athletic grace, despite keeping his injured arm close to his body.

“Troy Trojan,” I respond, keeping my face neutral despite the chaos in full swing inside me.

Did I mention he looks good? So unfairly good. So deliciously good that he should be illegal in the northern hemisphere. It’s very aggravating and . . . highly inconvenient.

My eyes track down his Bay Area Blazers jersey, clinging to his muscular frame like paint on a masterpiece. And suddenly I remember why I ran from him that day at his baseball game.

Why I need to run from him now.

Because men who look this good, who can destroy your body and resolve it with their hands, mouth, and tongue, and who also happen to have a direct line to your ovaries—making them dance on command like puppets on strings—are also more than capable of destroying your heart. Especially when they also come in the form of a pro athlete.

A devastating grin—the same one that got me in trouble the first time it was aimed at me—spreads across his face. His burnished and bronzed eyes, sparkling beneath his cap, drop to my feet, and I fight my mortification from showing on my face.

“What?” I demand tartly, squaring my shoulders while secretly hoping the ground will open up and swallow me whole.

“I see your taste in shoes hasn’t changed.” He leans in closer, his breath fluttering over the shell of my ear. “But let’s be honest, I’d spot you a mile away, weird footwear or not.”