Chapter 31 #2
“What can I do?” I ask, preparing to grab a jacket and leave the house. I’ll stay with her all night.
“I’ll be good by morning. Just need some sleep.”
Did I keep her up too late the other night? The play, dinner, her living room, and talking.
“Did you write today?” We haven’t discussed if our night together inspired her.
“The words can wait,” she states drowsily.
“Okay, sweetheart. You rest. Call me in the morning?”
“You got it, Coach. I’m mentally smacking your ass.”
Quirky. I chuckle, bidding her to sleep well, even if it is without me.
My bed is too empty without her. My heart full, though, whenever we talk. I love her ticks and teases. Her laughter and smiles. Even her awkwardness, like holding out her hand instead of hugging me goodbye earlier.
I love everything about Vee.
I think I love her.
The thought doesn’t hit me as hard as I expect.
Not like a fast ball coming at you at ninety-seven miles per hour.
Falling for her was more like a perfect hit.
One where your eyes are on the ball. The timing.
The speed. You know you can’t miss. And bam!
It’s still a surprise but you’ve been anticipating this hit.
Waiting for the right pitch. Hopeful. Eager.
Longing for it. With the crack of the bat against the ball, you watch the ball soar and then you race.
Run like hell for that first kiss, steal all the seconds for each touch.
Marvel as you round third, praising all things heavenly for the opportunity, the chances, the freedom to be this close to her.
Then you hit home plate, relief fills your chest, pride fills your heart.
And love, so much love, and gratitude. I’ll be thankful for every day I get to love Vee.
She’s my homerun.
+ + +
The next day, I’m relieved to easily find Vee in the stands with Hannah beside her.
The Anchors win, and when the game finishes I climb the dugout steps to the field, hoping to catch Vee’s attention.
With her back to the field, exiting her row, I call her phone and watch as she stalls, grabs her phone from her bag, and checks the screen.
She stops walking, allowing people to go around her as she faces the field and answers.
“Good game, Coach.” I hear the smile in her voice.
“Be a better game if you come to my place later.”
“Wow, that’s quite the invitation.”
“So, you’ll come.”
A heavy pause falls between us, and I consider what I’ve said.
“You know, I’m a romance author and that means my mind goes dirty places sometimes.”
I hum. “Definitely want to go dirty places with you, Vee.”
“Is this a booty call?”
I watch as Hannah’s head whips toward her mother and I chuckle. “Sweetheart.”
Vee laughs as well, perhaps knowing she just embarrassed her daughter.
“If you want this to be a booty call, it can be. Or I can just check out your booty from here, watching you walk up those stadium stairs.”
“Would you do that?” More laughter fills the question.
“Absolutely.” My grin grows. I meant what I told my boys last night, I like Vee, but the word doesn’t encompass my entire range of emotions.
My feelings are so much more than just liking her, but I don’t want to scare her with their strength.
We still have a few things to iron out between us first. “So you’ll come . . . over, that is.”
“Let me send Hannah off. What about Landon and Harley? Are they both still around?”
“Landon left this morning. Harley went back to this apartment last night.”
“Want to cook together?” she asks, not exactly mentioning my utter failure at making dinner yesterday, but it had been a disaster.
“I have a better idea. I’ll order in.”
“Sounds like a date, Ross Davis.”
“See you soon, Verona Huxley.”
I click off the phone and glance up to see Romero Valdez and Bolan Adler a few feet away from me.
Each of them are chatting up women. Romero is unfortunately speaking with Ford Sylver’s ex-wife.
Bolan chats with his wife. He was married quickly before the season began and his wife Ruth seems sweet but standoffish.
“Gentlemen, locker room,” I call out to them, knowing I’ve taken my own time to get to where I need to be.
Both men say their goodbyes and the echoing clomp of their cleats trails behind me in the tunnel leading to the locker room.
“Got a girlfriend, Coach?” Valdez calls out behind me.
If I did, I wouldn’t trust him around her.
Vee and I still haven’t officially declared who we are to each other.
Haven’t confirmed the whole boyfriend-girlfriend terminology.
And I wouldn’t be sharing anything with anyone before talking to Vee.
We’re public but I don’t need us sensationalized. I don’t want that circus for Vee.
I don’t respond to Valdez, not particularly liking to speak with him outside what’s necessary for the team. It’s a difficult position to be in. I want to like everyone. I want to treat them all equally, but Valdez is just one of those players I’m struggling to like as a human being.
“Ah, give Coach a break,” Adler says. “We can’t all be the Romeo you are,” he teases our short stop.
“You were once a Romeo, too,” Valdez reminds Adler of his former reputation. The one that sent him overseas for a while to play in Japan. His lawyer got him a new agent and brought Bolan back to the U.S., and the Anchors acquired the thirty-something catcher shortly before this season began.
“Now you’ve got that ring weighing down your finger,” Valdez continues. “I don’t know how you handle such a mouse in your bed.”
The sudden scuffle of cleats and the definitive sound of a body slamming against a cement wall has me turning and rushing toward my players. Of whom, one is plastered to the tunnel wall by the forearm the other is holding against his throat.
“Don’t speak about Ruthie like that. In fact, don’t even look in her direction.”
“Hey,” I snap, slipping my arm between them. “Adler, step back.” Not that Valdez’s comments were warranted, but Bolan is the bigger of the two men, and he’s the one holding the other against a wall.
“You’re a shit stirrer,” Adler states, not letting up on his teammate despite my attempts to whittle between them. “And no one likes you.”
“Ohh, you hurt my feelings.” Valdez’s whimper is delivered in a taunting falsetto.
“Okay. That’s enough.” If Bolan hadn’t pressed Romero to the wall, I might have done it myself.
But even if I have a negative opinion of Romero, I can’t let the team become divided again.
With Ford’s injury, and his absence because of it, the team has finally settled down a bit about the animosity between the two men.
And Valdez just came off his suspension for his role in that injury.
“Adler, back up,” I warn, still trying to force them apart. Bolan is roughly my size but ten years younger than me, which gives him strength.
With a final shove against Valdez’s throat, he presses off his teammate and takes a large step back. I’m left shielding Valdez, who is thinner and shorter, but no less scrappy than his larger teammate.
“Maybe what your little wife needs is a real man in her bed.”
Goddammit.
Bolan rushes forward and I spin to face Valdez, attempting once again to body block Adler from getting to him.
“You’re fucking toast,” Adler hollers around me, his breath heated at the side of my head.
“Hey!” The call comes from my left before feet thunder down the tunnel and someone pulls Adler off my back. My hands have been against the wall, using the strength in my arms to cage in Valdez and keep Adler off his teammate, but I press off the cement and step back.
“You make another comment like that about someone’s wife, girlfriend, daughter or female friend or otherwise, and I’ll have you off this team.”
Valdez’s dark eyes narrow. His jaw clenches. He’s only on this team because of a midseason trade last year, and I’ll do the same to him this year.
“In fact, I’ll go one further. I’ll make certain you never play for anyone.”
“You can’t do that,” he grits.
“Watch me.” I’ve been in professional baseball for over twenty years.
I know managers and front offices, and while my word might not be gold, it still would hold weight.
There’s a new alignment in sports with what’s appropriate and not appropriate behavior, and trash talking someone’s person is never acceptable. Not in my house. Not on my field.
“Get your ass in the locker room,” Dalton Ryatt yells at Valdez. Dalton has good rapport with the guys, and at times, he’s the only one who can handle a hothead. Sometimes I worry he might make a better head coach.
Valdez doesn’t lower his head but holds it higher, as he steps away from the wall. But he can’t let the situation rest and turns his head, spitting at the cement floor inches in front of Adler’s feet.
“Pendejo,” Valdez mutters. Asshole.
Adler struggles beneath the hold of both Kip and another catcher, Cyrus Sawyer.
Dalton shakes his head as he follows behind Romero. As they leave, all the air seems to exit the tunnel.
“Coach, you need to do something about him,” Adler addresses me.
“I’m handling him.” But am I? One bad pitch doesn’t ruin a game. But repeatedly bad throws? That player needs re-coaching or to be let go.
“Are you calm yet?” Kip asks Bolan, stepping back and holding up a hand near Bolan’s chest, prepared to hold him back again if necessary.
“Yeah. I’m good.” But the edge in his voice suggests he’s anything but calm. We could use a few more minutes in this tunnel to settle him down, not to mention give time for Valdez to clear out of the locker room.
I don’t want to be babysitter to a bunch of grown men, but I can prevent shenanigans from happening in that room. I’ll need to be more vigilant and discuss this new infraction with my coaching staff.
I’d like to offer encouraging words to Bolan. Tell him that Valdez didn’t mean what he said or that he won’t go near Bolan’s wife, but I can’t make those kinds of promises.
Instead, I say, “Let me know what you need. For Ruth.”
Bolan stares at me. “What do you mean?”
“If you’re worried about her. Him getting anywhere near her, I’ll file a restraining order myself, if you need me to.”
Bolan bitterly huffs. “Yeah, I don’t think that will be necessary. He’s just talking shit. But that shit needs to stop.” My catcher still looks rattled by Romero’s words despite trying to dismiss them.
While I think his sudden marriage feels a bit too coincidental to the start of the season and a need to clean up his reputation, I don’t question my men’s personal lives unless it interferes with the team.
Romero has disrupted this team enough. He’s crossed the line to foul territory and there might be no coming back.