Chapter 1
one
THREE DAYS, TWO HOURS, AND FORTY-FIVE MINUTES BEFORE
I FORCE MYSELF TO look away from my watch and focus on my men warming up on the field.
The incessant countdown has taken over every crevice of my mind lately. I need to figure out how to shut it down before I end up doing something reckless.
Speaking of… I groan as I see the incoming call on my phone. Three poop emoji’s stare back at me. I should have known better than to spill my guts to the one person who is like a dog with a bone. Especially when it comes to me talking about my feelings.
But I don’t have time for this, especially right before a game. So I send the call straight to voicemail. Let it be a problem for another day.
I look up, intending to focus on work, but instead zero in on our team photographer as he makes a beeline toward me.
I silently curse as I pull down my baseball cap. Looks like it’s going to be one of those days.
“Is today the day I’ll finally get to photograph that dazzling smile you’re hiding under that unruly beard, Home Runner?”
I cross my arms over my chest and grunt as I scan the field, making sure my guys are looking healthy and ready to go and ignoring the nickname I was given in little league, the one that somehow followed me throughout my major league career.
I may have grown to enjoy the limelight at the height of my playing career, but as a kid, I was easily overwhelmed by the attention that came after I hit a home run.
To the point where I would continue running to my home after making sure to swing by home plate first. It was a funny story my mom told reporters after I got drafted to the MLB, but it stuck.
And it’s not lost on me how little has changed. Because when that spotlight feels too harsh and blinding, I know exactly where to run and hide.
“Oh, c’mon, Skipper. Show off those pearly whites. Give the people what they want,” he goads as he starts snapping away.
I pin him with a glare that has him straightening while dropping his camera to his side. “S-sorry about that. I forget you’re not a fan of the term of endearment, Coach,” he amends.
I sigh as I attempt to seem less surly and lift an unenthusiastic thumbs-up at Tom. He takes the photo quickly, although I’d be surprised if I was even in the frame since he didn’t bother to bring the camera back up to his face.
But he’s not in the wrong here. As the manager of the New York Monarchs, my team should call me Skipper or Weston.
But when I was initially hired—after I spent five years keeping my distance from the sport—I was supposed to be the pitching coach.
But our new general manager and now majority team owner, Luisa álvarez, gave me a promotion before the ink on my first contract was barely dry.
I’d already become partial to the relationship I developed with the team as one of many coaches and didn’t like the idea of having too much attention on me…
once again. Something I should have thought through before I signed on the dotted line, because no matter what I tell them to call me, there’s always going to be the murmured chatter behind my back.
I may try to convince myself that the attention is because I’m Luke Weston, the youngest manager in MLB history and not the former World Series champion who ran away from the sport after the unthinkable happened.
The headlines wouldn’t stop, and people only cared about my personal life from that point on, no matter how many home runs I’d achieved during our pivotal game seven.
So I did what I do best. I ran.
I thought I’d never set foot on a field again. Yet here I am, like I never left, even though I look like a completely different person. Instead of the lean build that helped me steal bases faster than any player on my team, I’ve bulked up thanks to all the time I spent doing manual labor up north.
Alone.
I traded in the cleanly shaved face that regularly got invited to movie premieres for the overgrown beard that could probably use a trim and the ever-present scowl that apparently does nothing to keep people from invading my space.
“Damn, poor Tom is never going to get that shot of you smiling before he retires, is he?”
Here we go again. “I’m here to help you guys win, Martinez. Not pose and smile for the cameras. That’s what they pay you the big bucks for.”
He grins easily. “Yeah, they do. Although the strikeouts and shutout games don’t hurt either.” He winks as his eyes scan the crowd, his expression growing warmer when they settle on his daughter and fiancée.
I ignore the pang of jealousy that takes root in my chest. Mateo is a good guy and deserves all the happiness in the world. I sometimes need to remind myself that men like me are not meant to have someone waiting in the stands for them. Things are exactly as they should be.
Or so I tell myself.
I make a noncommittal sound. “Just make sure not to punch anyone on the field this season. Then maybe we’ll snag that World Series win.”
The jab doesn’t land as my starting pitcher smirks.
“Don’t think I’ve forgotten you told Luisa that you’d have done worse had you been in my situation.
” I stare blandly at him as he raises his hands, backing away from me.
“All right, all right, don’t you worry. I’m back on my best behavior, promise.
” He chuckles. “Besides, have you seen the jersey Isabella is wearing today?”
I force myself to hold in another sigh. “Can’t say I have.”
“It says ‘Future Mrs. Martinez.’” He fucking beams at me as if we’re supposed to hold hands and jump around in a circle in excitement.
“Great. This game should be a sure win then. If I see you slipping, I’ll have Luisa swap out Isa’s jersey for Middlebrooks’s and see if that keeps you in line.”
He stops his retreat abruptly as his eyes narrow at me. “You wouldn’t dare. And here I was about to ask you to be a groomsman.”
I pinch the top of my nose while tilting my head down. “You’re going to give me a headache today, aren’t you?”
I can hear the smile in his voice. “So is that a yes?”
I mutter a curse under my breath. “If you want me there, then I’m there. You know that.” I keep my eyes closed as I try to rub away the pressure building behind them at the mention of another wedding. Seems like they’ve taken over my life lately.
Nick Stonehaven, our team owner, and Luisa got hitched again last month in the Dominican Republic. Mateo and Isabella are planning something small in the summer since we’ll be in the middle of the season. Then they’ll have a big celebration during the winter holidays while we’re in the offseason.
And then there’s… Three days, two hours, and thirty-five minutes.
I shake my head as Mateo carries on. “Yeah, I kind of figured you’d be on board, but if Isabella asks, I’ll say that you teared up a bit and I left you speechless.”
I open my eyes and give him a bored look. He smiles as he continues to make his way toward the gate that will take him closer to Isabella’s seat behind us. “Wow. Speechless, just like I said. Who knew coaches took directions so well?”
“Martinez.”
“Yeah?”
“Fuck off.”
“Love you too, Weston.” He runs off.
Times like these make me think that I preferred when Mateo was quiet and kept to himself. But ever since he got with Isabella, his whole demeanor has changed.
It’s great for him, but terrible for my lack of patience.
But I meant what I said. If he wants me standing there on his special day, then that’s where I’ll be. Because try as I might, I’ve unwillingly let a good portion of the Monarchs family get close to me. At least as close as I’ll ever allow anyone to get.
Well, almost anyone.
“F-bombs don’t make for family-friendly television, Luke.” When the sweet voice carries over my back, I have to remind my muscles not to lock and remain seemingly calm. Something that I’ve come to master over the last year.
I turn only when I know I’ve mentally prepared myself to see her standing in my dugout.
It still doesn’t stop the gut punch from hitting its mark.
Because there, standing before me with a wide smile, long dark hair clipped half up and half down, with warm brown skin I’ve spent one too many nights imagining feeling beneath my calloused hands, is Daisy Stonehaven.
She holds up a small mic pack with a teasing look on her face. “Going to have to save the potty mouth for the after-game interviews, Coach. Not on my channel if I can help it,” she mock scolds.
I force the breath out of my chest and play along. “And exactly how many people are going to be listening to me while I’m mic’d up?” I raise a knowing brow.
She breaks out into a soft laugh that should be reserved for only the best humans to ever grace the earth and not tainted souls like mine, but I bottle up the sound every chance I get like a man starved.
“Luke, while I appreciate you being my very first guinea pig when it came to testing out Hot Mic, you no longer have to get wired up for every game.”
My face scrunches. “Why the hell not?”
She does what she always does, which is bite the corner of her lip, and I do what I always do and act like it doesn’t burn me from the inside out.
“First of all, you don’t speak when you’re mic’d up, which kind of defeats the purpose.”
“I’m orchestrating the entire game, Daisy. I talk.”
She considers my statement while tilting her head from side to side, clearly finding my answer unsatisfactory. “You point, huff, glare, and smack a few butts. A method that clearly works for you and the team but is kind of useless for a recording.” She wiggles the mic pack.
A huff escapes my mouth. I don’t realize my mistake until she points at my face and shouts a triumphant “Aha!”
“I’m not that bad,” I mutter to myself, noticing that our media team looks ready to start with the national anthems and my guys are filing into the dugout.
Her face gentles as she hands me the pack and her fingers move swiftly to clip the small microphone to the inside of my Monarchs jacket. “Yeah, I guess you’re all right.” She pats just below the mic, keeping her hand there longer than necessary.
I clear my throat as I stuff the pack into my back pocket. “Channel?”
She rolls her eyes. “The usual. Seven.”
The first day I mic’d up, she asked me what channel I wanted to broadcast from. I asked for her favorite number, then almost smacked myself upside the head when I realized how flirty my tone had gotten.
She’d blushed and said “seven.”
I told myself it’s many people’s lucky number.
But it also happens to be the number I wore when I played.
And the thought that she was giving me a subtle nod was enough to send my simple crush into forbidden territory.
“And who has access to that channel?” I keep to the script we’ve said back and forth since I first volunteered to be her first test subject for the Monarchs online channel she runs.
She rolls her eyes playfully. “Only me.”
“Good.” My lips twitch with the urge to smile down at her.
That is, until the hand on my chest starts to slide off, the large diamond on her ring finger catching the sunlight, refusing to be ignored.
And there it is again.
The pinch in my chest. The low swoop in my stomach.
Her eyes follow my gaze, and I swear I see her slowly curving into herself. Her playfulness vanishes; her eyes dart around us, landing anywhere but on me; and her footsteps start to retreat. “Have a good game, guys,” she says to the swarm of players around her.
They all nod and send a thanks her way.
She’s about to step out into the clubhouse via the narrow hallway when she sends a weak smile my way, and suddenly it feels like we’re no longer at Monarchs Stadium.
But rather a looming church as she finally turns and walks away.
Three days. Two hours. And twenty-five minutes.
That’s how long until I have to watch Daisy walk down the aisle to another man.
And apparently how much time I have left before I lose my goddamn mind.