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CHAPTER TWO

FORD

There’s no reason to be this excited at five in the fucking morning.

But standing at my door are my teammates, Carson, Smitty and Espinoza, wide-eyed like kids on Christmas morning, waiting for their parents to tell them it’s okay to go downstairs and rip into their presents.

Except it’s a random Thursday in May.

And there are no presents.

No.

These assholes are bouncing on the balls of their feet over someone coming to clean my apartment.

My silence is drawn out as I rub the sleep from my eyes and try to process the shit-eating grins plastered on their faces. There’s no way they actually hired someone to clean my apartment. Right? Then again, it wouldn’t surprise me considering the way the guys give me shit about the state of my home. The running joke in the clubhouse is I should get that woman from the Internet to come and help me declutter my living space.

Fat chance of that happening. I remember reading somewhere she believes owning more than ten books is wrong. Who the hell chooses to live that way? I give a side glance at the filled bookshelves lining my living room wall. That woman would have to pry my collection out of my cold, dead hands.

Even if it is true, and I am the messiest guy on the team, it’s an organized mess.

Mostly.

To anyone else, the clutter on every surface might be overwhelming, but to me, it makes sense.

That pile of clothes on the foot of the bed? It’s clean—because dirty ones go straight in the hamper. But if I put the clean ones away, I forget what’s in the closet and drawers and end up buying new clothes.

It’s ass backwards, but object permanence is a real thing for me.

That pile of books that’s been sitting on the coffee table for a month? They’re the ones I want to read through before the next team Dungeons and Dragons session.

That stack of mail? Letters from fans my agent thought I should read because he knows they keep me going.

The five blankets draped haphazardly over the couch? And the dining room chair? And the love seat in my bedroom? I’m a big guy and I’m perpetually cold.

Those dishes in the sink?

Okay, that was me being lazy last night after getting home late from our game. Dishes were the last thing on my mind after that embarrassing loss against Vegas. But I had every intention of cleaning them this morning before heading to the field.

What I didn’t have on my bingo card was being ambushed by my teammates at oh-dark-thirty with a plan to rectify my organized chaos.

“Are you going to let us in?” Smitty asks. The rookie back-up catcher isn’t one of the usual suspects when it comes to participating in our co-captain’s antics, but he’s got a wicked sense of humor, so I’d be foolish to think his presence makes this situation safe.

“That depends.” I shift my gaze between each of them, attempting to suss out all ulterior motives. “Are you seriously at my door before the sun has risen because you hired someone to clean my apartment?”

Carson Whitmore, the Renegade’s ace pitcher and co-captain in question, doesn’t bother to answer and instead slides past me.

“Sure, make yourself at home,” I huff, a little more snap to my tone than is probably merited. To drive my point home, I step back and sarcastically throw up my arm, inviting the other two in.

“Don’t mind if I do.” Carson chuckles, already heading straight for the coffeemaker. “And to answer your question, yes. We really are here at five a.m. for an apartment cleaning.”

“But why?” I complain more than ask, watching as he scoops way too much coffee into the metal filter. It’s going to be a bitch to clean later.

See, I can and do clean some things. Though I’m not sure pointing that out will get them to leave.

Carson moves methodically like he owns the place, filling the water reserve and starting the brew cycle. “Because between our upcoming road games, and the fact you’re at the field early every day with Smitty, this was the only time we knew you’d be here.”

The blank stare on my face should say it all: I hate you. Get the fuck out. Why would you think this is a good idea?

Unfortunately, it does nothing to deter the trio.

“We know you love your beauty rest, but I promise you’re going to thank us later.” Julio Espinoza, one of our relief pitchers and final member of the wake-up brigade, offers me a wicked smirk and plops down on the sofa, stretching his long arms over the back.

Carson holds up the half-and-half he must have pulled from the fridge. “Do you take cream in your coffee?”

“No.” I only keep it in the fridge for game night since Kiefer’s wife likes it in her coffee.

“Suit yourself,” Carson mutters and hands me the mug before doctoring up his own—more creamer than coffee.

I make a mental note to pick up more on my way home tonight as I turn back to Smitty, who is suddenly more interested in every aspect of my apartment than meeting my gaze.

Bingo.

He came on strong at the door, but it’s clear he’s the weakest link. The one who’s going to clue me in on what the hell is going on here. Because I know it’s more than a simple cleaning. No grown man smiles as much as the three of them over vacuuming and soap bubbles.

I zero in on the rookie, first-naming him for dramatic effect. “Noah.”

His eyes widen, and he chews his lip as if that will stop him from allowing any of their secret details to slip.

I pad around the kitchen island and sling my arm over his shoulder. “You going to tell me what’s really going on here?”

“I—uh—” His eyes dart from me to Carson, who is giving him a pointed stare clearly meant to remind him his silence is precious. “Uh—we just thought you might like?—”

He’s about to break when Espinoza chimes in from the sofa, “Ay, are these ones new, Penguino ?”

I glance over my shoulder at Espinoza, who is bent over the coffee table, examining the crystals in the cubby below the glass.

Damn it. Not this again.

Especially when I was so close to figuring out what the hell is going on.

I grunt an affirming “Yes,” and silently pray he’ll drop the subject as I turn back to Smitty, but Espinoza presses on.

“This girl must be worth it if you’re collecting all these pretty rocks for her.”

“They aren’t—” I’m not caffeinated enough to have this argument with him.

Again.

I’m not a fucking penguin. And the crystals aren’t for a girl.

Not really.

They’re a placeholder.

A promise.

I don’t even know if she collects the damn things anymore.

I scrub my hand down my face, eyes shut tight to assuage my guilt.

Fuck.

Every part of me regrets telling my teammates about those damn crystals. A standing reminder never to mix tequila and karaoke in the Vegas heat.

Carson slides up next to me and bumps my shoulder. “Any luck finding her?”

My shoulders deflate as I swivel my head toward him and sigh. “No. Willow’s attempt to trace her was a dead end, and the latest private investigator I hired came up empty too.” As did the three before him. “It’s like she became a ghost.”

Or died.

My guts twist, and I have to actively stop myself from going down that road.

There’s no way she’s dead. The universe isn’t that cruel.

Then again, maybe it is considering the whole reason I’m in New York is because Ivolunteered to be drafted to the Renegades after the universe decided it was okay with taking the lives of the previous team.

I still remember where I was when I heard about the crash. Sitting in the Chicago clubhouse, I didn’t want to believe it. I refreshed the news app over and over until finally one of my teammates took the phone out of my hands. In the blink of an eye, sixty-eight souls were gone. Children lost their fathers. Wives lost their husbands. And I lost my stepbrother.

Tyler and I might not have been close—let’s be real, we were never two peas in a pod—but it was a work in progress. Mostly mine, considering he hated my guts, but I tried.

My team at the time, the Blues, were supposed to play the Renegades the following week, and I had every intention of showing up and locking myself in Tyler’s hotel room until he would listen to me. In hindsight, I don’t think it would have worked, but desperate times called for desperate measures. And after my mom died, I was desperate.

Hell, maybe I still am.

Then the crash happened and now, instead of chasing Tyler’s forgiveness, I’m chasing his wife. Not for forgiveness, but because—I don’t know. I guess I feel responsible for her now that Tyler is gone.

That, and I literally have no one left.

The thing is, I’m beginning to believe she doesn’t want to be found.

“I’m sorry, Penguino ,” Espinosa chimes in. “I know you’ve tried everything to find her. Hopefully, we’ll be able to get your mind off it for a little bit this morning.”

Clearing my throat does nothing to help the way my heart is lodged in my throat, but I somehow manage to choke out. “Are you guys going to tell me whatever it is you’re hiding?”

“Nope.” Carson pops the p at the end. “It will be so much better if you’re surprised.”

“Fine,” I sigh, setting my mug down on the island. “At least let me get dressed before whatever shit show you guys have planned.”

Two out of three nod their heads, leaving Smitty as the only one with any apprehension on his face.

Once in my room, I tug off my sleep shorts, tossing them on the bed before sliding into a pair of jeans. A knock at the front door has my friends rustling in the living room, and I can’t help the soft chuckle that escapes me.

They mean well. They really do. This team—the Renegades—isn’t what I expected. Somehow, despite the fact we’ve all been thrown together under the shittiest circumstances, we’ve come together in a way I’ve never experienced before. In the short time of spring training and the first half of the season, we’ve become a family. Sure, there have been growing pains, but at the core we all want the same thing: to play baseball and honor the team that came before us.

Which is the only reason I didn’t tell them to go kick rocks. Especially after bringing up Juliet.

My thoughts stray back to those crystals.

Those damn rocks are a reminder of my failure.

Failure to speak up.

Failure to protect my family.

Failure to fix what I broke.

The list goes on and on.

But they also give me the tiniest bit of hope that maybe I can atone for those sins. Maybe I can be there for her in the way I wasn’t for Tyler.

I will be there for her.

Glaring at the clutter of clothes at the end of the bed, I heave the pile into my arms and shove it into the closet, but not before I grab a shirt for myself. Not that hiding my clutter will make a difference if this cleaner opens the door, but it makes me feel a little better.

My feet are sluggish as I head back to the living room, tugging on my shirt as I do. Might as well get this over with.

“Surprise!” my teammates yell the moment I enter the common area and at first, I’m not entirely sure what they’re talking about.

That is until my eyes track to the kitchen where a woman stands with her back to us. Her very exposed back. As in, she’s wearing nothing from the waist up.

“We got us a topless maid for the morning!” Espinoza clarifies, no doubt because of the confused crease in my brows.

“Us?” I mutter, still trying to put the pieces together on how they thought this was a good idea.

The maid in question still hasn’t turned to face us. Either she’s just not interested in what we have to say or she’s giving me a moment to come to terms with what is clearly an ambush.

“We know you’ve been down about the search coming up empty.” Carson beams with the ingenuity of his idea. “So, we figured we’d surprise you, but it only made sense to have all four of our apartments cleaned as well. So, we booked her for the entire morning before we have to head to the stadium.”

Ah, so this isn’t entirely about me. That makes a lot more sense. These three are the most single of single guys on the team. And while I fall in that camp, too, I typically don’t join them when they go out to the clubs or bring women back to the hotel.

Not that I don’t enjoy the fairer sex. I do. Immensely. And there was a time I didn’t mind entertaining women who were clearly after my name and bank account, but after that ruined the life of one of my teammates, and after the crash, it’s been the last thing on my mind.

Carson rounds the sofa and pads over to me, slinging his arm over my shoulder. “I know this isn’t your thing.”

I give him a pointed glare that asks then why did you think this was a good idea ?

“But you need to relax and get your mind off of things. Your game has been shit and your words rather fucking depressing.”

My words. The damn superstition Tyler and I shared. It was something my father taught me before he died, and I passed on to him. My dad taught me baseball was about intention, and that I needed to set that intention at the beginning of each practice or game. So, I did—and still do—writing that word in the dirt on the third base line before each game. I can’t play without it.

I didn’t think anyone had noticed the turn my words had taken. They no longer represented an intention for the game, but had turned into an almost therapy for me to leave whatever I was feeling out on the field.

Regret.

Doubt.

Indignation.

Not that it’s helped. I’m barely holding my own, fumbling simple plays and watching perfect pitches cross the plate because my mind isn’t in the game.

Maybe Carson is right. Maybe I need this.

My jaw ticks and I force a barely passable smile. “Fine.”

The three of them whoop and I shake my head, knowing damn well this isn’t going to help in the way they think it is. But once again, they’re trying and that offering of friendship is worth its weight in gold.

With reluctance in every step, I cross the living room and round the kitchen island to where the topless woman is scrubbing away at the dishes. What the hell am I supposed to say to this woman? Thanks for coming. Sorry my friends thought this was a good idea. Also, don’t touch anything because my life makes sense to me, even if it seems counterproductive to what you’re here to do.

I let out a deep sigh. Screw it. I’ll just let her do her thing and figure out fucking it back up tomorrow.

The woman takes a step back and bends over to grab supplies from the caddy she brought. Immediately my eyes snag on the hem of her short ruffled French maid costume, riding up enough to reveal a pair of lacy underwear that leave little to the imagination. The round of her ass is delicious, but what does me in are the thin black lines on her stockings, tracing down the back of her toned legs to the heels that only serve to elongate perfection.

A needy groan catches in my throat, and I barely manage to force it down without making a sound. It’s too fucking early to be warring with my dick. There’s not a single part of me that wants to be interested in this topless ambush, but when presented with a gorgeous view, my cock can’t help but take notice.

She sways her ass, humming to herself as she rifles through the caddy. It might be adorable if this wasn’t the most awkward situation possible.

“Ahem.” I cough, making sure she knows I’m standing there. “Thank you for getting up early and putting up with all of…” I glance over my shoulder, even though she’s still not looking. “That.”

“Oh, it’s not a problem.” She straightens and sets her supplies on the counter before turning to face me. “Surprises like this actually happen quite oft?—”

Her voice fades as my jaw drops.

Time slows and my vision narrows until there’s no one else in the room but me and the woman I’ve been searching for.

It’s not possible.

After everything I’ve done to find her. Here she is. Standing in my kitchen. Doe eyes wide with—is that fear? She’s afraid? Of me? But why?

I blink to ensure what I’m seeing isn’t a figment of my imagination.

It’s not.

She’s really here. In the flesh. Not just a name on a paper thatI’ve handed off to five different private investigators.

My stepbrother’s wife is standing in front of me.

Fuck, I just checked out her ass.

At least it wasn’t her tits.

Why am I even thinking about this?

Of course, at the thought, my eyes develop a mind of their own and fall to perfectly round twin breasts.

I quickly slam the traitorous things shut.

I’m going to hell.

This isn’t happening.

“Ford?”

I wince at the panic in her voice and slowly open my eyes to take in the horrified look on her face. My stomach churns as I send up a silent prayer to any god who might listen, begging that they take all these broken pieces snapping together and turn them into something other than a complete nightmare.

Unfortunately for both of us, none takes pity on us.

Guess it’s all up to me.

“Hi, Julietta.”