Chapter 4
4
[Bolan]
T he second Ruthie runs off, I want to chase her. Hell, I want to run away with her.
I even take a step forward until the hand on my chest reminds me why I can’t follow her.
Because I’ve promised to behave, when, dammit, everything about my flower makes me want to throw caution to the wind.
Of course, my mystery woman in red is none other than Ruth Avery, Nylah and Jared’s beloved daughter-in-law. Or should I say, widowed daughter-in-law as they lost their son eighteen months ago, which means Ruthie lost her husband.
Fuck .
As once-removed relatives because our mothers were first cousins, Clifton and I were never close. After he failed in professional football, he’d been some fucking war hero, while I’ve been nothing but a failure in life despite being an award- winning professional baseball catcher. Most of those honors coming from the Japanese league.
Having proven myself time and again in the ballpark, off the field, I am still a wreck.
Exhibit A: Ruthie. Who looked absolutely crushed.
“That was unnecessary,” I turn toward Melody Cross, my attorney’s niece who agreed to a farce that would elevate my reputation and pad her bank account.
“What?” Her faux-innocence is not lost on me. She even places her fingers at her throat, the move intended to express her false sincerity.
“I’ll find Ruthie. Bolan, get to the stage,” Nylah demands, narrowing her eyes at me.
My mother’s cousin is a force. She’s also the wife of my new agent and she’s going to unalive me if she learns what happened between Ruthie and me.
Then again, I wonder if Ruthie will keep our time together a secret. Maybe she’ll keep the memory to herself.
Does one share with her mother-in-law when she fucks someone other than the woman’s son?
Fuck!
Thoughts of Ruthie scramble through my head. The way she responded to me. The way she opened for me. Fucking blooming right beneath my fingers.
I attempt to shake the memories, knowing a simple wiggle of my head will not make me forget her.
With leaden feet, I trudge down the marble staircase with Melody at my side. Sure, she’s pretty and sexy in her slinky red dress, which makes her look like Jessica Rabbit. However, she’s a bit of a viper underneath, and while I might like aggressive women, Melody is more manipulative and shady than confident or confidante. Since meeting Ruthie, tender, sweet wallflowers with hidden depth and kinks might be more my speed.
I can’t even think about how stunning she looks in that red dress. Like I told her, the color represents strength, and Ruthie certainly displayed poise. Before her escape, she held her ground, keeping her emotions in check regardless of the shock. She hid her surprise and disappointment at the shitshow of my life.
“You know nothing is concrete yet,” I remind the woman beside me. My attorney, Floyd Everest, is the one who thought up this ridiculous plan. Jared Jacobson, as my agent, hadn’t been onboard at first, but he understands the stakes.
The Chicago Anchors want a family man, and I want the Chicago Anchors.
“It’s practically written in cement,” Melody scoffs, thumping down the stairs along with me.
The check might be printed, but no pen hasn’t hit the paper. I still have a final say in how this so-called plan goes down.
The Reputation Repair Report. The goal is to give the impression of a family man.
And I’ve fucked up. If Jared finds out what I’ve done, if the Anchors know . . . I’m done.
However, being with Ruthie hadn’t felt like I’d fucked up. In fact, being with her felt right, felt strangely perfect, like I was where I was supposed to be for the first time in my life, and I wasn’t referring to the baser desire of wanting sex.
There was something about her that felt familiar, almost like she was someone . . . I couldn’t live without. Which made no sense. Still, there’d been an urgency when I saw her in that empty ballroom. A need to know her, intimately and quickly, before she slipped through my fingers like a lost opportunity.
Right person, wrong moment, because the universe continues to conspire against me.
But if I don’t get this contract . . . If I can’t transition to the States. If I can’t do better for Tulane . . .
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck .
As I hit the first floor, I close my eyes and swipe a hand down my freshly trimmed scruff to clear my head.
Tulane. I need to do better for her. She’s my reason for all the changes that must happen.
My little girl is all that matters.
And while Melody might not be the ideal wife or optimal option for a stepmother, she is willing to help, for a fee, and the fame of being linked to my name. Bad reputation and all.
My sudden fatherhood is the question, thus a wife to dispel rumors and make me look stable. Responsible.
Because . . . Chicago Anchors.
My granddad was a huge fan, and he would be so proud if he were still alive. Well, maybe not proud because of how things went with Ruthie. Definitely not particularly happy that I’m willing to pay a woman to pretend to be my wife. And he’d probably be a little upset that I got someone pregnant, didn’t know it, and didn’t step up immediately because of that lack of knowledge.
Yeah, his disappointment might be more the call here.
But I’m taking control of my life now.
Everything is for Tulane.
The speech I gave about my mother nearly choked me. As the family outlier, the successful yet still fucked-up one in everyone’s eyes, I don’t know how I got the honor—said with all the sarcasm—of speaking on her behalf. If anything, most might say I’m the reason she had a bad heart.
However, my mother eventually became indifferent toward me.
And it’s the reason I want to be the best parent I can be for Tulane .
“How was she?” I whisper, entering the Coastal Resort hotel suite after closing the door with a quiet snick .
“She’s an angel. Went to bed at seven. No fuss.” LaToya is a grandmotherly-type woman Nylah found through a vetted babysitter app to help me out over the weekend.
Last night, I’d wanted to invite my flower— Ruthie —back to my room. I would have done what we did earlier in the evening on repeat if I had. I would have held her longer, breathed her in better, and taken a fucking minute to enjoy her.
Instead, our night ended when she asked me to let her exit the ballroom first, like I was a dirty little secret she didn’t want anyone to know about. When she hadn’t known my name or my reputation. She didn’t know the fuck-up, fuck-about guy practically kicked out of the professional league Stateside and shipped off to Japan for years. She didn’t know anything about me, which made her all the more enticing.
Ruthie didn’t want anything from me but me .
However, another little blossom was the real reason I couldn’t bring Ruthie to my room.
My Tulip. Tulane Grace Adler. My sweet, sixteen-month-old daughter who I didn’t know existed until last summer.
I am a dad. While my role as a catcher at the top of the ballfield is something I take great pride in, this new title is one that both astounds me and fills me with awe.
Tulane is a wonder, and I’ve made her a silent promise.
I will not be my mother. I won’t even be my father.
At thirty-six, I can do this. Fatherhood. I just need a new baseball team. I don’t have many years left in me to play so these final seasons need to count. And I’m grateful the Chicago Anchors are interested.
With a contingency.
Bolan Adler needs a wife .
With a tired smile at LaToya, I thank her again for her time. From my hotel doorway I watch her walk down the hallway to the elevator bank. Her payment was covered through the sitter app. Childcare is going to be an issue once I reach Chicago. However, that is a future-me concern.
I shrug out of my jacket and peel off my bow tie. With a sharp tug, I pull my shirt from my pants and lose the starchy material. Quietly, I enter the bedroom off the living room in the suite and stand over Tulip’s portable crib. Her sweet little butt is in the air with her legs tucked underneath her. A shock of red curls tickles her nape. Her lips are parted, occasionally pressing together, like she’s dreaming of sucking her pacifier. The one that has popped out of her mouth and rests on the mattress a few inches from her.
Sometimes, the urge to pick her up and just hold her against me is overwhelming, but I quickly learned you don’t mess with a sleeping baby.
My Hiroshima teammates were amazing when Tulip unexpectedly arrived mid-season. I didn’t have a clue how to handle an infant. Roki Enomoto, our star pitcher, had an elderly grandmother, Honoka, who taught me the things I didn’t know, like how to warm a bottle or change a diaper. She also took care of Tulip for me. For a single parent, the life of a professional athlete on the road half the season was not ideal.
I needed a partner.
A full-time nanny, Jared suggested.
A wife, my attorney proposed.
I definitively argued they are not the same thing. However, Floyd clarified that a wife gave the impression of a family man, and a family man was the only person the Chicago Anchors would entertain after a recent scandal within their team.
As I stare down at Tulane, I wonder what Ruthie would think of her. What she’d think of me suddenly acting all responsible and father-like.
There was something special about Ruthie, delicate about her. She wasn’t fragile. The woman had thorns, but she also didn’t look like someone out to purposely harm anyone.
I’d hurt her. Those deep dark eyes of her said it all. The wound almost like an open gash on her chest.
I’m such an asshole . I could say my dick is what got me into this mess—the attraction to Ruthie—but that hadn’t been it. There was something more about her. That strange sense of familiarity. A weird vibe that resonated around us when I first entered that ballroom and stumbled upon her in the corner.
A lone wallflower in the vacant room. A bit poetic for a guy like me, but that’s the first thing I thought of when I saw her. Like she belonged in a historical romance, but she wasn’t someone who should be contained to something one-dimensional. Ruthie had other sides, curves, and angles, that I’ll never get to explore.
With a heavy thud, I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the portable crib. I’m exhausted and still working off the jetlag of traveling from Japan only a few days ago.
With thick fingers, I reach for the amulet hanging at my throat. A good luck charm, Honoka explained, slipping it over my head on the day I left her country. Leaving Japan had been bittersweet, but it was the right thing to do.
For Tulane.
I swipe a hand over my face, able to smell Ruthie on my fingers. Her flavor lingers in my mouth from yesterday evening. She was tart limes and sharp gin and fucking refreshing.
Melody, on the other hand, is the wrong woman to be my wife or act as Tulip’s mother. She won’t be Tulane’s parent per our agreement. A nanny will be employed to care for Tulane when I can’t directly. Melody would be my wife in name only, for occasional appearances. Nothing about Melody says life partner, and my concerns and doubts have grown hourly since this proposal was sent to me.
But I’ve run out of options and time. Catchers and pitchers reported a week ago to spring training. I’m down to the wire and I’ll be a late addition, but the Chicago Anchors need a second catcher. Opening day of spring training is this coming Friday.
And tomorrow, I have a meeting with Jared and Floyd outside of normal business hours, where the final call to the Chicago Anchors will be made, and my future solidified, one way or another.
I squeeze the medal between my fingers. The Japanese writing etched from top to bottom.
Please let my future point forward .
Chicago Anchors or bust.