Chapter 33
Kai
Today is Miller’s birthday and it started just the way I wanted it to—with my face between her legs.
I’ve turned into a goddamn sap over the woman. So much so that, when she left to meet up with Monty for breakfast, I spent my morning in the kitchen doing what she typically does by baking her a birthday cake.
Miller tends to tell people she loves them through the food she makes, so I figured since I wasn’t allowed to tell her, I’d show her in the same way she does.
As I said, I’ve turned into a fucking sap.
But other than Miller’s birthday, it’s also Family Day.
The Warriors organization opened a portion of the field off the third baseline for family and friends to mingle.
The food spread is borderline ridiculous, offering any and everything someone could want, with an open bar for drinks and a photobooth for pictures.
Family Day tends to be my least favorite day on the calendar.
Every team I’ve played for has hosted one.
It’s a bit awkward when no one shows up for me, especially when the rest of my teammates have their siblings, partners, and parents there.
But before Max, Isaiah was my only family, and he was always in the middle of his own season.
Last year, we had each other and this year, we have my son.
And though Miller is technically here for Monty, I know she’s here for me too.
That notion was solidified when I parked my truck and saw her for the first time since she left my bed this morning.
She had a birthday breakfast with her dad then showed up here wearing a white pinstriped Warriors jersey with my name and number on the back.
It’s unbuttoned and open, paired with a tight tank and cutoff denim shorts that are doing all sorts of things for her thick thighs.
But as good as she looks, her mood has been shit since yesterday’s photoshoot and I’m not exactly sure why.
Rounding the high-top table she’s standing at, I slide my palm against her lower back. “Do you want to introduce Max to Trav’s parents with me? They’re wanting to meet him.”
She shakes her head, pulling her cocktail to her lips.
“Why not?”
“Because that’d be weird for Max’s nanny to be there while you introduce your son to your teammates’ parents.”
Head jerking back, I stare at her, but she keeps her attention straight ahead towards the outfield.
It’s beautiful out here, golden hour in Chicago. The sky is all shades of orange and yellow, and the field is cast with a warm glow. But the woman next to me is all ice tonight, vastly contradictory to the bright light she’s brought into my life this summer.
“You’re not just the nanny and you fucking know that,” I remind her in a stern whisper. “What the hell is up with you today?”
She shrugs nonchalantly and takes another sip of her drink, flipping her hair over her shoulders.
I lean down to her ear, speaking quietly. “Toss your hair over your shoulder like that again, will you. It’s giving me flashbacks to a much happier Miller with a mouth full of my cock.”
Finally, the smallest, most discreet smile pulls at her lips.
“Jesus,” I chuckle. “That’s what gets you to smile? Am I going to have to fuck the attitude right out of you, or what?”
“Probably.”
I find Max walking the length of the field with Isaiah before my attention falls back to the girl next to me. She’s got her drink mid-air on the way to her lips, but I snatch it out of her hand and finish it myself.
“Hey!”
“You’re being a brat today.” I swallow down her cocktail and set the glass back on the table.
She scoffs. “I’m a ray of fucking sunshine.”
“You’ve had an attitude since the photoshoot yesterday, and you won’t tell me why.”
She continues to remain silent. We don’t tend to keep things from one another, other than how I truly feel about her, so not knowing what’s going on in that pretty yet frustrating head of hers is grinding on my nerves.
We’ve got one night left together, and if this is her form of distancing herself in preparation, I’m going to be pissed. She’s the one who is leaving. She’s the one who wanted to remain detached. If there’s anyone who should be mentally preparing for her departure, it’s me.
I’m the one who broke my rule of not having sex with her, all while knowing I was going to fall fast and hard if I let myself add another layer of connection to her, and that’s exactly what happened.
One of the equipment managers catches my attention in the distance, placing two gloves and a ball next to home plate. He gives me a small nod in confirmation before rejoining the festivities.
“Come with me.”
“Why?”
“Stop being so testy today and come with me.” Linking my fingers through Miller’s, I pull her behind. We pass by the staff and their families on the way to home plate, and I just smile and nod my head in greeting as if dragging my coach’s daughter behind me is normal everyday behavior.
“I can be testy all I want. It’s my birthday.” Miller halts. “Wait. We can’t go on the field.”
“I already talked to our groundskeeper. They’re going to drag the infield later tonight, so we’re good.”
“Good for what?”
Grabbing the two gloves, I hold the pitcher’s one out for her.
Her skeptical gaze drifts from the outstretched glove back to my face.
“I want to see you pitch, Miss All-American.”
She quickly shakes her head. “It’s been a long time.”
“That’s okay. You can ease into it.”
“I won’t be very good.”
I’ve noticed this about her. She has a hard time being anything but the best. It’s an odd contradiction to the girl who lives unattached and carefree, floating from city to city.
But when she has a goal in mind, she has this innate need to be the greatest to do it.
All-American pitcher. James Beard recipient.
As if the titles mean she’s accomplished something instead of simply doing it out of joy.
“I don’t care if you’re good or not, Mills. I just want you to have some fun with me while I’ve still got you.”
She hesitantly takes the glove.
“We’ll play for it,” I say. “If you get a strikeout, I’ll stop asking you what’s wrong. If you get a walk, you start talking.”
The most discreet tilt happens at the corner of her lips. I toss her the softball and finish with a gloved tap of her ass, sending her on her way to the pitcher’s mound.
She goes about forty feet from me, not quite the full distance of the mound to home plate, but more accurate to the distance she’s used to when playing softball.
“Can I warm up?” she asks.
I chuckle, crouching behind home plate. So competitive. “Yeah, baby, you can warm up.”
Miller tucks the too-long sleeves of my jersey into the bra straps at her shoulders as she positions her feet into the dirt, gaining traction.
I’m accustomed to being the one out there in her place, but she looks damn good on this field, especially while wearing my last name.
With the glove on her left hand and the ball tucked in it, she practices her mechanics once before going full-in on her first pitch. The glove delivers a loud smack against her thigh, but not quite as loud as the sound the ball makes, slapping into my gloved palm and coasting right over home plate.
Well, fuck, that was a pretty pitch.
“I think I’m ready,” she says, opening her glove for me to toss the ball back.
“Yeah, no shit, Mills. I thought you were going to be rusty.”
She simply pops her shoulders and catches the ball, retaking her position to pitch again, hell-bent on making sure she doesn’t have to tell me what’s wrong with her.
About ten minutes later, the count is three and two. The pitches her dad called as balls instead of strikes have barely been outside of the plate, and if there were an actual batter playing with us, there’s no way in hell they wouldn’t have swung.
I’m not ashamed to admit that watching my competitive girl is getting me hard.
She looks so good out there with the empty stadium behind her, the sun setting in the distance, and a small sheen of sweat building on her forehead.
I want to lick it off her, but the problem with crouching behind home plate with a raging erection is that a handful of my teammates have all gathered to watch us.
They’re really killing the mood here, but at the same time, it’s a summer evening on my home field.
I’ve got my son, my girl, and my brother as well as Monty and all the other guys from my team.
My whole family is here, and tomorrow, everything is going to change.
So, I’ll soak it all in while I still can.
“Full count, Millie,” Monty says as I toss the ball back in her direction.
“That last call should’ve been a strike,” she calls out. “You need glasses, old man.”
Monty chuckles behind me, playing umpire. He’s being much tougher on his calls than he probably would if this were anyone other than his own daughter.
Miller digs her toes into the dirt, repositioning herself.
She pulls her elbow back, simultaneously rocking back on her heels before running through her mechanics, her arm swinging in a full circle.
Her movements are so fluid, so practiced, even though she hasn’t done this in years, but I understand what it feels like to have that muscle memory.
To have a pitch so ingrained in your body.
The neon ball soars, pounding against my palm as I catch it. It’s a close one, just on the edge of the plate, so I hold the glove closed exactly where I caught it, waiting for Monty’s call.
I’d call it a strike and not just because I run the risk of not getting laid tonight if I didn’t, but because that was a nice fucking pitch.
“Ball,” he declares. “That’s a walk.”
“Bullshit!”
“Let’s go!” I cheer, shooting my arms above my head in celebration as I stand, keeping my taunting smirk right at Miller, where she stands in disbelief.
Monty laughs in a teasing way, and you can see how much he ingrained this competitive nature and work ethic into his daughter.
“Those last two calls were terrible, Dad.”