Page 30 of Stolen Holidays (The Miller Brothers #5)

twenty-eight

Rhys

Seventeen Years, Two Months Later

The buzz of the crowd is electric as I step onto the field. The scent of clay, fresh-cut grass, and fried food fills the air.

It’s the first official game of the season, and the first game of my career. I’m so fucking pumped. I’ve been working my ass off to make it to the big leagues. After a year on the farm team, I was finally called up and signed as a starting pitcher for the Los Angeles Evaders.

Just like my uncle Cameron.

Instinctively, my gaze zeros in on the seats behind home plate. The seats have been owned by my family since my uncle joined the team and he purchased them for my grandpop.

Today, there are more than two seats being occupied by Millers and Prices. I head in their direction and notice there are also a few Walkers, Romeros, and Rhodeses. My chest floods with affection for my family.

All four of my grandparents sit alongside my parents, siblings, and uncles.

From the dugout, I watch my family talk and laugh, each one outfitted in Evaders’ gear.

My baby sister, Riah, who just graduated high school, sits between my seventeen-year-old brother, Remy, and my baby brother RJ, who just turned fifteen.

Riah’s always keeping the peace between them.

I shake my head and smile. Teens, what are you going to do?

My uncle Eli sits beside Callie, who, to my uncle’s annoyance, I call my girl. I love messing with him. Over the years, Callie has become my best friend. We have a special bond. She’s taught me how to read music, play the guitar, and how to channel my feelings through music.

Beside them sits my uncle Mason, who I still call Uncle Mills, his wife Emery, and their kids. I still kick my uncle’s ass at whatever new online video game is out. Only now, we play while I travel and he stays back in Pine Hills.

Then there is my uncle Cam, his wife Talia, and their kids. Cam has been there for me every step of the way. Offering advice and support when I need it. He and my grandpop are my biggest cheerleaders. Their love of baseball totally rubbed off on me.

Since I was young, baseball has been my passion. I never saw myself sitting behind a desk and wearing a suit for work, like my dad. Who better to look up to than my baseball hall-of-fame pitching uncle?

I watch as Dad steps away from the group and heads down the steps. My gut reaction is to head in his direction before I take the mound.

Dad and I meet at the protective netting that separates the field from the fans behind home plate.

He’s looking a little older now. His temples are grayer, and he has more wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and mouth.

Riah calls them his happy smile lines. I think Dad’s just getting old, and I love giving him shit about it.

My mom calls him her silver fox.

I fight a shiver and a sour face at the thought. Why the fuck am I thinking about that right now?

“Hey, Pop.” I greet my dad with a smile.

“Hey, son. You look pretty damn good in that jersey. Let me see the back of it for your mom.” I turn around so he can read Miller #13 on the back. He snaps a quick picture. “I’m so damn proud of you, Rhys.” His eyes shimmer with emotion.

I’d like to say he’s getting soft in his old age, but my dad has always been a softy at heart. He’s the best man you’ll ever meet. He’s warm and generous, and he loves his family with every cell in his body. He’s a fierce lion protecting his pride. He also worships the ground my mom walks on.

He’s my hero.

I lucked out in the dad department. Especially during my teenage years.

Boy, that was a rough time for all of us.

I accidentally found a black box in my parents’ closet while I was playing hide and seek with my siblings.

Something about it felt familiar, so I opened it and read some letters I probably shouldn’t have.

They shook me to my core and had me questioning everything.

I had always adored my dad, Sam, but after learning the truth of what he did, I was so damn angry with him. Furious. I felt robbed and betrayed. That anger consumed me, and I used it to lash out at my parents. Got into a bit of trouble at school and let my grades slip.

Fed up with my attitude, my dad took me away on a guys-only camping trip, just the two of us. He sat me down and waited. He didn’t utter a word for two days. He just sat there patiently, waiting for me to break.

And I did. I crashed out hard. I yelled and cursed him and Mom out. Cursed Sam out. I cried. You name it. I experienced every emotion until I had nothing left to feel.

After I had it out, he told me his side of the story. He let me know he felt exactly the way I felt. Cheated. When he found out the truth, he also took his anger out on my mom, and because of it, he almost lost her.

We stayed up all night talking, and Dad helped me see that hanging onto all that hate and anger was toxic.

Dad said that, knowing Mom and I were loved and cared for during our separation, he found it easier to forgive Sam.

Then Dad gave me the letter he had received from Sam after he passed.

Like it did for him, the letter helped me understand the actions of a desperate man whose days were numbered.

My dad is my rock. He stayed by my side and held me as I reconciled my memories of Sam and the truth.

In the end, I learned both things can be true: Sam did a bad thing, but he was still my dad.

Things didn’t change overnight, but I eventually made peace with everything.

I made it through to the other side. Went to therapy.

Channeled that anger into baseball and music.

Now here I am. About to play my first game in the MLB. All because I have the best dad on the planet. Don’t tell my mom this, but she’s right. Jace Miller is an ace.

“Thanks, Dad. For helping me get here.”

He waves his hand. “You did all the work, kiddo. You ready to get out there and show them what you’ve got?”

“More than ready.” I slap my glove and grin.

“Know you are. Love you, Rhys.”

“Love you, Pop. Tell Ma I love her too.”

He looks over his shoulder at my mom and smiles.

You can practically see the hearts in his eyes as he stares at her.

Someday, when the timing is right, I’ll find what they have.

In the meantime, my focus is on the game.

And I fucking love baseball. The thrill, the camaraderie, the traveling. Winning.

All of it.

“She knows, son.”

My nose stings with emotion as my eyes find my mom’s.

The crazy-beautiful, big-hearted woman is wearing a DIY T-shirt that reads: Rhys Miller’s Mom.

She wipes away the tears from under her eyes and mouths, I love you, to me.

My chest tightens, making it a little harder to breathe.

With my finger, I swipe an X over my heart and point at her. Our secret “I love you” signal.

“Let’s go, Miller,” my catcher, Smith, smacks me in the ass with his glove. “Time to show these people what the rookie’s got.”

My eyes find Dad’s, and he winks at me. “Go get ’em, Rhys.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” I say with that cocky Miller edge and tip of my hat.

I make my way to the mound and fall into my stance. Shutting the sounds of the stadium out, I focus on the glove waiting 726 inches away from me and let it rip.

Game on.