Chapter 5 #2
“That Caleb Williams is a looker,” Cassandra muses, chewing at her lower lip.
“He’s a hooker?” Hannah questions over me.
“No one says looker, Aunt Sassy,” Laurel chides.
No one says hooker anymore either, I want to chime in.
“He’s still fine like a straight line,” Cassandra continues.
“Are straight lines fine?” Hannah deadpans.
“Only if that straightness is his—” Laurel abruptly stops, catching her gaze on mine.
Cassandra turns her head, volleying glances from Laurel to me before bursting into laughter.
“Laurel Huxley, have you been reading your mother’s books?”
My twenty-three-year-old turns bright red and shakes her head. “Absolutely not.”
“Are you sure?” Cassandra scoffs playfully. “Because that comment sounded awfully close to a d—”
“Alright,” I cut off Cassandra, squeezing my brows together in warning. I’m not discussing dicks around my daughters.
Cassandra only chuckles harder while Laurel appears to shrink in her seat. My girl props her feet up on the back of the seat in front of her like Cassandra and dips her hand into the popcorn container, filling her mouth to prevent further comment.
“You’re such an instigator,” I mutter, chastising my bestie.
“And you’re a spoilsport,” she counters teasingly. Cassandra accepts that while I have an open relationship with my girls, hoping they come to me for anything and everything, that doesn’t mean we’re going to share cock comments with one another.
“Play ball.” The words ring through the stadium, drawing my attention back to the field.
Are there any better words to give me goosebumps?
In the first few innings, our pitcher is on fire and in perfect rhythm with the catcher.
However, one of our long-standing stars is our centerfielder, Ford Sylver, who has made one error after another.
A pop-up fly hit toward the scoreboard was missed despite his height and an impressive jump.
Another time the ball dropped between him and Romero Valdez, our reckless short stop, who made a mad dash to the outfield to assist. The play looked like something from a T-ball game with both men staring at one another.
Their body language suggested they were faulting the other.
I glance at Cassandra, whose brows are pinched with concern and curiosity as she stares at the field where the two players are still facing off. With her phone in her hand, she quickly looks up our center fielder.
“Did you know Romero Valdez is dating Ford Sylver’s ex-wife?”
Our shortstop, his teammate, is dating his former wife?
“Also, rumor has it, Ford is dating the country music icon, Cadence.”
Would not surprise me.
However, my attention snaps back toward the outfield, my eyes narrowing in sympathy.
At thirty-eight, Ford Sylver has had a great career, along with a beautiful wife and three of the cutest little girls.
And I’m sorry if their marriage ended because of adultery.
My sympathy stands with him as I scan the stands as if I’d be able to pick out his ex or his girls in the crowd, which I wouldn’t be able to do.
Still, I wonder if they are here. Family men on baseball teams often bring their spouses and children with them during spring training season.
Then I consider Ross. Who is here to support him? Do his boys attend games? Does he have additional family? Is Chandler Bressler present?
If my calculations are correct, his boys should be in high school or college themselves.
Glancing over the crowd again, I search for Chandler next.
Her dark hair and curvy body would make her easy to recognize.
As I don’t see her, my focus returns to the game.
I interject my opinion on bad calls. Wave my hands in the air in frustration over an error.
Jump to my feet when Gee Scott hits a homerun with a man on second for a two-run score.
The eventual win is the first W for the Anchors since spring training started, and I enthusiastically join the fans who sing our winning anthem.
The song ends, and I’m inspecting the space around us for trash, bending to pick up the short stack of beer cups collected in my cup holder, when I hear my name.
“Verona Huxley?”
Abruptly straightening, I peer around Cassandra, down our row, to a man dressed in baseball gear without a stitch of dirt on him standing in the aisle.
He isn’t someone I recognize and based on the wrinkles at the corner of his eyes and the silver scruff along his jaw, I’d say he isn’t a player, but someone affiliated with the team.
“I’m Kip Garcia.” He pats his chest as a form of introduction because of our distance.
I haven’t identified myself, but he steps into the row in front of our seats, now empty of attendees, and nears me.
“Ross Davis asked me to give you this.” The messenger holds out a piece of paper which Cassandra is quick to reach for, but Kip is faster to retract from her. “Said only Vee should take this.”
My brows lift, shocked that Ross remembers the nickname. Surprised that he remembers me at all. Then I’m slightly embarrassed he recognized me in the stands. My face heats as I reach out for the slip of paper.
“Thank you,” I mutter, taking the haphazardly folded strip that looks like it was hastily ripped out of a small notebook and bent in half.
Kip nods once then steps away.
“Good game,” I call after him, talking to his back.
He casually lifts his hand, waves once over his head, and continues on his way.
“Hmm,” Cassandra hums beside me. “Who is he?” Her salacious tone doesn’t imply she wants his name, but him. His position, rank, and status with the team.
Ignoring Cassandra’s blatant ogling, I flip open the paper between my fingers.
Happy chance?
Lifting my head, I glance toward the dugout, now empty of the team. Then, I gaze in the direction where Kip walked away.
The note includes no other words but the simplicity of two in combination makes me smile.
Ross Davis remembers me.