Chapter 1 Jaggar #3
As I make my way to the group of men, the umpire draws my gaze.
I don’t know him, but something about him is familiar.
He takes off his gloves, blowing into his cupped hands as he says something to Hawk.
The closer I get, the more I can see he doesn’t seem happy.
His mouth is down-turned. A wisp of dark brown hair, the same color as his close-cropped beard, pokes out from the black skullcap that covers his ears.
His cheeks and the tip of his nose glow pink from the cold.
“Fine, I’ll do it.” He doesn’t look pleased about doing whatever it is he’s agreed to as he shoves his hands back into his gloves. “I won’t leave you stuck.”
“Thanks, Ian. I owe you.” Hawk claps Ian’s back, causing the man’s shoulders to relax.
Hawk points to a table with a poster board, Hot Chocolate $2.
00 sign decorated in glitter and dog stickers.
Two preteen girls pour cups from enormous thermal dispensers while collecting patrons’ money.
“Tell them your hot chocolate is on the house.”
Mr. Frowny's focus lands on me for the first time, and his pinched expression softens somewhat, stirring a blip of excitement in my gut. But he doesn’t say anything or even acknowledge my presence. Instead, he nods at Hawk and stalks off.
I watch his back, admiring the way he moves, seeming effortlessly, through the ankle-deep snow, and a small sigh escapes my lips.
Why are the gorgeous ones always assholes or high maintenance?
There are bigger things I have to worry about than a grumpy umpire—multiple bigger things, and that’s just the chaos at my house—but I can’t tear my gaze from him.
He says something to the preteens, which causes a bout of laughter from them.
And when he turns his head slightly, I glimpse the smile playing on his mouth, making him more gorgeous.
Dragging my gaze away is harder than it should be. So is tamping down the urge to taste those lips to see if they are as soft as they look or if they taste of the chocolate he’s drinking.
“Jaggar!” Hawk opens his arms wide, and I step into them, returning his hug and slapping his back a couple of times. “Thanks for coming. Ready to kick some softball ass and raise some money for the animals?”
“You know I wouldn’t miss it.” There was no way I could refuse—not that I would have even with my shit morning—when he gives everything he has to the animal rescue he founded. I tip my chin to Jake. “Conall said I could borrow his glove.”
“Where’s yours?” Jake unzips the bag sitting on the bleachers, digs inside, and tosses me a glove.
I catch it and tuck the worn leather mitt under my arm. “Forgot it.”
“Really?” Alaric tips his head to the side, like he doesn’t believe what I’m telling him.
Okay, so maybe I’m the type of person who has checklists. And maybe I have checklists for my checklists. As an architect, I have to have solid plans and know what to expect. I have to be prepared for every possible scenario, but even I am entitled to have an off day. “It’s been a morning.”
“Well, now we get to play softball in the snow with a bunch of cute dogs for a good cause. If that’s not a cure for a bad day, I don’t know what is.” Alaric removes his coat and tosses it onto the bleachers next to Jake’s bag. “Let’s go.”
He jogs off, leaving bootprints in the snow.
I drop my coat next to his and follow him and the rest of the players. Volunteers have already rounded up the dogs who were in the outfield and brought them to the van to warm up. Another set of volunteers brings out the next group of pups to play.
The dogs bound onto the snow-covered field.
Jake and Hawk lob colorful tennis balls our way, and we warm up by throwing them to the dogs instead of softballs to each other.
Some bring them back to play fetch, while others run past the tennis balls.
It’s the best kind of chaos, and for the first time all day, I feel at ease.
The game begins, and our team appears to be evenly matched with our opponent.
But I want to win. No surprise. I always want to win.
The architect firm I work for has a softball team, of which I’m the captain, and we have been undefeated for the last three years in a row.
Four championship wins in the last five years.
It feels good to be swinging a bat and playing a game I love with people I enjoy in the snow.
When Hawk came up with the idea, I thought he was joking.
Who would want to play softball in February in Vermont, let alone be a spectator?
But there’s nothing more fun than sliding into third base in the snow and then getting tackled with kisses by the third-base dog.
Or having to jump over the shortstop dog while running to second.
Or being greeted by an excited husky who Conall claimed was our mascot and team manager after scoring a run that put my team ahead by two.
From the dugout, I watch the outfield dogs who, just like their people outfielders, aren’t paying attention to the game, preferring to chase each other.
The cold air bites my cheeks, but the sun’s rays warm them, and the exertion from an hour of running around keeps my blood pumping and the chill away.
There’s good-natured heckling and a lot of laughter, and it’s hard to tell who’s having more fun, the people or the dogs.
The spectators cheer for both teams, but mostly for the dogs.
But every time my gaze meets Ian the umpire, his frown sets me off.
We’re here to have fun, but his grumpiness does nothing to help with that.
Nor have his shitty calls, but I keep my thoughts to myself.
The snow was shoveled from along the baselines, making running the bases easier.
But as the temperatures have risen above freezing, there is more mud than snow, as my splattered joggers prove.
The game is tied four-four at the top of the fifth, and Alaric is up at bat.
With shortened games, this is our last chance to score.
Rory, Conall’s brother, is on the pitcher’s mound. He eyes Alaric like this is the majors then with an underhand lob, arcs the ball over the plate.
“Strike,” Ian calls.
Alaric looks back at him. “Really? I thought it was a bit high.”
“Strike.” Ian folds his arms across his chest, the frown etched so deep, I fear that no amount of wrinkle cream could help him.
“Okay.” Alaric shrugs, then gets back into stance, swinging twice before nodding to Rory that he’s ready.
Rory winds up. The black lab mix at first base barks and runs around. Alaric doesn't swing, and watches the high ball arc down over his head.
“Strike three!” Ian shouts from behind home plate.
Lines mar Alaric's forehead with his frown, but he shrugs his shoulders and walks back to the dugout.
I walk out and pick up a bat, swinging it, my gaze drifting to Ian. I smile, giving him a friendly up-nod, which I’ve done every time I’ve been up to bat. And, like every other time, he gives me a barely there nod, his mouth set in a firm line.
I shake my head. Some people are just happy being miserable.
“You got it, Jaggar,” Jake calls from second base, clapping his hands, stopping only when the golden retriever nudges his thigh for attention. Jake scratches the dog’s ears, then squats down to rub the dog’s chest.
With two outs, I have to get a hit. I scan the outfield, where Rory’s husband, Zack is lying on his back, seemingly immune to the snow soaking through his clothing, with what looks like a pug, corgi, and god knows what else mix of some sort sitting on his chest. If I hit it out there, we can bring Jake home, and hopefully, I can make it to second base.
“You ready to go down?” Rory taunts, but like Conall, he has too much charm to be anything other than endearing. The Kelly clan could rule the world by dazzling everyone in it with their charisma.
“Give it your best shot, Kelly.” I take a practice swing, then firm my stance, waiting for the pitch.
Rory releases the ball, and it goes high. Again. I’m wondering if he’s tired, or stood in as pitcher for the earlier game, because he usually pitches better.
“Ball,” Ian calls.
I turn to look at him because the tension and strain in his voice sound as if speaking the word pains him.
He scowls.
Asshole. I return my attention to Rory. This pitch goes a bit outside, so I remain in my stance.
"Strike!" The grumpy word is fastball-quick.
I don't argue because the call was close, but c’mon, he’s been calling strikes that were balls the whole game.
Rory lobs the ball at me. I think it doesn’t arc enough, so I don’t swing.
“Strike!”
I turn to face Ian. “That was clearly a ball.”
“Clearly it wasn’t,” he says with a gruffness that has me grinding my teeth to keep from telling this jerk to lighten the fuck up.
I stare at him and he stares back, the tick in his jaw causing the irritation to burn hotter in my chest. “One ball, two strikes,” he booms, keeping his eyes locked on mine.
I blink first, much to my annoyance, and spin, focusing all my irritation on hitting the shit out of the ball.
Rory throws the softball, and the ping of the bat hitting it rings in my ears as I toss the bat, hauling ass to first base, and Jake takes off to third.
Zach, who had moved from lying down to sitting with the dog in his lap, jumps to his feet and takes off after the ball.
The dog barks and chases after him as I round first.
Cheers and clapping fill the air. Over them, I hear Alaric yelling for me to keep going as I round second. I slip and slide on my way to third, but I manage to stay upright, hitting the bag with my foot as Jake, Alaric, and the rest of the team wave me home.
“Hurry!”
“You’ve got this, Jaggar!”
“Go, go, go, go!”
With home plate in sight, I pump my burning legs harder.
The cold air stings my lungs with every heavy breath.
Rory catches the ball and spins with the speed of a professional baseball player, relaying the ball to their catcher, Ever, as I dive, sliding onto home plate in a wave of mud and snow a split second before Ever tags me.
“Out!” Ian's voice booms above me.
“What?” I jump up, my front heavy with mud. “I was safe.”
With the same surly scowl he’s worn throughout the game, Ian shakes his head and says, “Out.”
“Safe.” I get in his face, my breaths coming fast. “Safe.”
Okay, maybe I said it a little louder than necessary, considering how close we’re standing to each other, but I have had enough of this day and, particularly, this guy. He’s been sucking the joy out of the game since the minute I got here.
“You. Are. Out.” He spits out each word through clenched teeth.
Alaric’s big hand clasps my shoulder in an attempt to pull me back. “The sooner we finish up the game, the sooner we get to Island Vibes.” I don’t move. “First round’s on me.”
“This is bullshit.” I shrug off his hold. Alaric tries again to get me moving, but I dig in my heels, my gaze burning into Ian’s. “You’ve been shit at making calls all day.” I jab the air with my finger, pointing at home plate. “I was safe.”
The muscles in his jaw clench, and he mumbles something about not wanting to be here.
A half-laugh gets caught in my throat. “That’s obvious.”
“Excuse me?” The question is a bullet shooting from his mouth.
I bump his chest with mine. “I said,” I annunciate each word slowly, “it’s obvious you don’t want to be here. You’ve sucked the fun out of the game with your eternal scowl and your shitty calls.”
Both sides of his jaw tic, and I swear I can hear his teeth grinding together.
“You’re out of here!” He steps back and throws his thumb over his shoulder.
White rage fills me, and I move forward, bumping my chest into his once more. “Are you kidding me? You’re ejecting me from a charity game?”
“Exactly.” His terse tone bites off the word. “You’re the one arguing balls and strikes at a charity game. Just swing the damn bat.”
I open my mouth to tell this power-tripping douche exactly what I think of him, but Conall steps between us, pushing me back while Hawk does the same to my nemesis.
From the dugout, someone from my own team says that we’re overreacting, and I sputter a sharp laugh. I am not overreacting. If I were a superhero, this would be my origin story. My power, taking down gorgeous asshole refs with the chill of my icy glare.
“What the hell, Jagger?” Conall slings his arm over my shoulders, leading me away from the scene.
I turn my head, glancing over my shoulder, and spy Ian. Gaze on his feet, he nods as Hawk says something to him. And dammit, there’s something about the slump of his shoulders and the look of defeat that pinches at my chest.
“I know you’ve had a shit morning, but I’ve never seen you act so…” He waves his hand at me, his face creased like he’s searching for a word that will soften the sharp description my behavior deserves.
I hang my head, unable to meet my friend’s scrutiny. There’s no excuse for my behavior. “Assholey?”
“Not sure that’s a word, but it seems appropriate.” He digs into his pocket and pulls out his keys. “Go to my place and get cleaned up. A hot shower does wonders. Then join us at Island Vibes.”
The expressions of concern, amusement, and displeasure and fierce whispers as people stare at Ian and me cast too big a spotlight. “Not sure I dare show my face after that scene.”
“We all have off days. You just need a minute to pull yourself together, then you can apologize to Ian for the momentary lapse in behaving like a rational adult.” Conall squeezes my shoulders in a sideways hug, taking the sting out of his words—true as they may be.
“Ian’s really a good guy. Buy him a beer, and you two will be fast friends. ”
That seems like a stretch, but I nod and take the key he hands me. “Thanks. Guess I’ll see you later.”
“If you’re not at the bar in an hour, I’ll track you down and haul your butt back there.”
I nod and get into my car. As I wait for it to warm, the heat of embarrassment burns my neck and cheeks. Why would Ian think I’m anything other than the dickhead I acted like? More importantly, why do I care so much that he doesn’t?