Chapter 3 #2
Something unfamiliar and rare aches inside me. She isn’t completely wrong about me wanting a woman who better understands me. Not the baseball fame or the spotlight fanfare, but me, Ross Davis, an aging man.
Patty would have been that person.
And I’m not old. Fuck that. I don’t have the cricks she’s talking about, but the day I bought reader glasses had been a difficult one.
And she’s right. I didn’t like it when Chandler called me old man.
I never let her call me daddy, although she asked if she could.
I’m a father, for fuck’s sake. That’s just— I shudder.
“What about first base in a hotel room?” The question comes from left field.
Vee’s fingers stiffen within my grasp.
“For story-telling purposes,” I clarify as my eyes flick upward to meet hers.
“Strangers kissing in a hotel room? It has potential.” Teasingly contemplative, she pouts. Her head tilts like she’s honestly giving the idea thought. Her gaze is focused on me, processing, thinking. Then, she looks puzzled.
Even I’m confused. Do I want to kiss her? Am I innocently flirting? Or am I making an ass of myself? And why would I care if I am?
I just lost the granddaddy of championships. Weightier things should fill my head. I might lose my job. I might not be marketable to a new team. I might have to retire. Again.
I’m failing at everything lately.
I clear my throat and drop my gaze back to her hand, concentrating on rubbing her thumb. “Why did you decide to become a writer?”
“It’s something I always wanted to do. I have an active imagination. And at one point, I decided it was time to do something for me.”
There’s more to her story she isn’t saying, but I don’t ask. Instead, I kid her, “Like two men sharing you.”
“Okay, that’s enough of that.” She yanks her hand free from mine, but I chase, catching her fingers before she can fully retreat.
“I’ll drop it.” I pause as I rub my thumb into her palm and her arm quivers. “Ticklish?”
“Maybe.” She giggles.
“I just have one more thing to say about two men—”
She groans and tries to tug her hand away again, but I hold firm.
“I’d never share.”
Her arm stiffens, forcing me to look up at her. “It’s fiction.”
“In reality . . .” I press down on the center of her palm, stroking the lifeline bisecting the middle of her hand. Her arm twitches again. She is ticklish. “I’d never share you.”
“That’s”—She swallows, watching my thumb work over her inner hand—“oddly sweet of you to say.”
She’s sweet.
Then I yawn, wide and large and out of nowhere. Suddenly, my head is heavy, my body weary. I blink as exhaustion hits me like I’ve just run into the ivy wall at Anchor Field. I should excuse myself and head to my room, but I don’t want to leave.
Her room.
Or her.
Not yet.
Unable to stop myself, I scoot down on the bed and extend my arm along the extra pillows beside me. Wiggling my hand, I signify I want her to lay down next to me.
“What are you doing?” She watches me, curious, cautious, but also with a mischievous smile which lights up her face.
Her blue eyes dance. She has a playful side, a silly one at that.
She’s passionate and talks with her hands a lot.
That old video seems to embody her personality.
Watching her reaction to the moment, her face turned a pretty shade of pink, hinting at both her embarrassment and the potential of a crush on me back then.
I pat the bed. “Lie down.”
Her brows pinch once, the crease deep with concern. A second passes, and I brace for her to kick me to the curb. I’m actually holding my breath.
Then, she shifts, hesitantly folding down to her side, nestling her neck against my arm until I tug her closer to me, hooking her into my side so her head rests on my shoulder.
She places a hand on my belly and smooths over the material of my sweatshirt. “This isn’t very comfortable.”
The athletic shirt is waterproof and wind resistant, and the fabric is slippery.
I sit upward, taking Vee with me, and reach for the back of my collar.
In the reflection of the blank television screen, I see Vee dig her teeth into her lower lip while she watches me.
Her gaze is appraising, appreciative even, of the muscle mass I still maintain.
I tug the outerwear over my head and toss the sportswear toward the ottoman.
Then, I kick off my shoes. They fall off the edge of the bed with a thud.
“Anchors,” she whispers when I settle onto my back again and she reads the logo on the tee I have on. The one beneath the outerwear.
Vee remains propped up, her gaze running the length of my extended arm, taking in the tattoos that decorate my former pitching powerhouse.
Quickly, she snags her eyes away and runs her hand over my chest, across the logo of my former team on my tee.
Wearing the apparel of an opposing team could get me canned.
Hell, I probably will be sacked. However, this shirt is also my lucky tee, and in baseball we have serious superstitions.
I wore this worn thing the night the Chicago Anchors won the championship when I was their all-star pitcher.
When my life imploded once before, and baseball had been my savior.
“Don’t tell anyone,” I hush.
“Another secret between us.”
I’ve told her more tonight than I’ve told anyone in weeks. Not many know Chandler and I aren’t together anymore. No one knows I want a coaching position with Chicago. Not a soul would believe how much I miss that city.
“Another secret,” I whisper in confirmation, tugging her to me and innocently kissing her hair. She smells fresh and floral, which is expected. She’s a hearts and flower kind of woman, and I’d never be the kind of man she deserves.
“Did you really want to go out with me?” Somehow, I don’t think Vee would have been interested in me simply for a swanky dinner and some publicity. Maybe not even for great sex. Maybe she’d been chasing the same sentiment I had. She just wanted to feel something again.
She giggles nervously and pokes me in the chest. “Okay, no more secrets for you, mister.”
We remain silent a minute. The fan of the air conditioner kicks on. The chatter of people passing the room in the hallway filters to us.
But I really want to know if my theory is correct.
“Why did she do it?” I shift so I can better see Vee’s face. “Why did your daughter bring that poster to the game?”
Vee draws a finger along the anchor on my shirt. “She knew I was sad, and she thought you might be too.” She shakes her head. “She was just a girl looking out for her mom, but it was incredibly insensitive, and I apologize on her behalf.”
Insensitive? Because I’d been a new widower then?
Pressing my nose to her hair, I inhale her scent again. Am I still sad? Truth is, I don’t feel much of anything. I’m numb lately. In comparison to the woman against my chest, who appears full of passion and drive. Playfulness and decisiveness.
“She sounds . . . fun.”
“She is.” Vee sighs wistfully, pride in the sleepy sound. “More fun than me. Her social calendar is so full. Kids these days . . .” She quietly chuckles, then her voice turns a touch more somber. “She was just a boy-crazed teen back then. Now, she’s an adult.”
I chuckle, bitter sympathy in the sound as I understand her meaning about aging children and packed calendars.
I’ve missed out on a lot of my boys’ activities from March to October.
Missed their games and spring plays. Almost missed Harley’s high school graduation this year.
The time has passed so much quicker than I thought it would.
Without Patty present, I’ve been failing at fatherhood.
After the season. But the seasons have rushed along.
Tightening my hold on Vee, she responds by draping her arm over my stomach and slinging her ankle over my shin.
My dick twitches at the contact. He’s been ignored since long before Chandler and I separated, but sex isn’t why I’m here tonight. Romance and baseball might go hand in hand, but tonight I’m alright with never leaving the batter’s box. Crazy as it sounds, I don’t want to strike out with Vee.
Another heavy yawn pulls up my throat.
“What are we doing, Ross Davis?” Vee’s voice softens, hushed and sleepy.
“I think we’re sleeping together.”
She chuckles. “I miss sleeping with someone.”
It’s like she read my thoughts. There were days the ache for Patty runs deep. And then there were empty nights with Chandler. She wanted to capture the allusion of cuddling, snapping endless photos for social media before we rolled to separate sides of a bed. We lacked a true connection.
I should ask if Vee has a man in her life now. Make certain she’s not breaking any vows, although she isn’t wearing a wedding ring. If there is someone in her life, Vee seems strong enough to have told me to hit the road instead of allowing me to enter her room.
Why would she do that with a man she doesn’t know?
“You’re not sleeping with just anyone, Vee. Tonight, you’re sleeping with me. Only me.”
Fuck the idea of another man. Or two men!
Vee hums. “Only you.” Her sleepy voice drifts. “I’m sleeping with Ross Davis.” Her relaxed chuckle rumbles over my chest.
Will she exploit this night to be a viral sensation again?
Will she use this time against me? There isn’t a bone in my body that believes she’d do that, even if I don’t know her.
Verona Huxley gives me strange comfort. A good kind of weird energy is coming off her.
A sensation of good fortune and future luck.
“What kind of happenstance is that?” she mutters drowsily, continuing her thought.
“Happy chance?” I repeat.
“Happenstance. A coincidence. You and me in the elevator. And now you and me in my bed.”
Definitely a happy chance. “I like my phrase better.”
She quietly chuckles. “I think it’s kind of the same thing.”
As the sweet sound of her quiet laughter flutters through the room, I drift off to sleep imagining this is my life.
I lose a game and come home to a woman who empathizes and supports my mood, because she understands me.
She appreciates me, not just the fame of a game, and what it could mean for her status. Her image. Her brand. Her portfolio.
I snuggle selfishly into Vee, holding her tighter to me.
Silently, I thank an elevator for getting stuck and giving me an awkward ten minutes that have turned into a night of much-needed distraction.
No fooling around. No complicated sex.
Just some pillow talk.
It’s refreshing. Like Vee.
A happy chance.