chapter 19
Chase stood, for a long moment, his towel still in hand, and stared at the swinging door, almost expecting her to reappear.
It’s my dad’s. He glanced back at the locker, ROLLINS printed on a brass nameplate across its top.
Frank Rollins. A name that needed no introduction, the closer’s place in the Hall of Fame already guaranteed, his rookie card one that Chase had behind glass somewhere.
He’d heard that Rollins had a daughter—the sort of lewd comments always tossed around a locker room.
He hadn’t paid much attention. Now, he wished he’d listened harder, his mind blank on anything but her father’s accomplishments.
He gave her one last chance at a return, then wiped at his face and headed for the shower.
Jesus Christ. Talk about the last thing he needed.