Chapter 7
Griffin
While tracking the ball across the sky, I start for first base. When it lands on the other side of the fence, I take a home run victory lap around the bases, high-fiving the guys as I pass them by.
I spot a certain little ball of fire as I round third, heading down the home base line. Standing ahead, past the home plate, she leans against the fence in front of the stands. The heat of her glare extends across the field, stabbing me like a sword to the heart.
For a Dover, she’s a hot-tempered little thing.
I always heard they were too good for everyone, so to see her emotions worn so openly is surprising.
She looks away when my eyes catch hold of hers, though she pretends she doesn’t notice me, or maybe it’s a bad acting job of not caring.
Whichever it is, there is no way she doesn’t remember being together.
None. It’s not possible when my memories hold every minute of that night.
That night has been playing on repeat since I got a good look at her yesterday. Now I’m left wondering what to think. It’s confusing. Should I remind her who I am? Do I wait for her to remember? What if she never does? Fucking humiliating.
That’s probably more her style, based on seeing her in action here.
I’m still not sure how I’m supposed to feel about her. I shouldn’t feel anything, but it’s hard to resist pushing those buttons of hers, so I pass the dugout and head toward her instead. “Can’t get enough of me, huh?”
She rolls her eyes before righting her expression to indifference, and replying, “You don’t need to waste all your energy at practice. It’s only a fundraiser game.”
I look over my shoulder at the teams changing out, then turn back to her. “I have plenty more where that came from.”
“I rem—” She looks away with clamped lips, then glances back at me with a chill rolling off her entire being. “You should really see a doctor about that swollen head of yours. It can be dangerous if left unchecked for long.”
“So I’m sensing.” I smirk. “What brings you by today, Ms. Dover? Got more paperwork for me to sign?”
Her body loosens under the release of a hard breath. So she can relax around me. Good to know.
“No paperwork. And I’m not actually here to see you at all.”
Resting my hand on the fence above my head, I keep my eyes steady on her while she tries so hard to keep her gaze from returning to me. Only judging by how she’s looking anywhere and everywhere else except at me. “That’s too bad. I love meeting fans.”
She grumbles under her breath and shoots me a look before lowering her glasses from her head to her nose. “Listen, Greene, I don’t know what you think this is, but it’s nothing. Not a friendship. Not a working relationship. Nothing but a short blip on our life’s radar, so if you’ll excuse me—”
“Excuse you from what?” She’s adorable in that sexy librarian way when she’s wearing those black-rimmed glasses.
“From this little tête-à-tête, so I can do my job.” With a clipboard and papers held to her chest, she points across the field. “I’m verifying the sponsorships are hung and their placements are correct.”
She doesn’t owe me anything, but I’m keenly aware she felt the need to share with me. “I appreciate the update.”
Annoyance glazes over her green eyes like I just lit the match. Fiery little thing. I turn away and look out at the signs.
The first to catch my eye is the Greene Farms logo hanging from the scoreboard. If I didn’t know better, I might suspect my sister of trying to make a point in what she considers “enemy territory.” I grin.
Cricket says, “Your family bought the largest sponsorship . . . behind mine. Please tell them thank you.”
“You can thank me instead.”
Her gaze slides down to me. “I’d rather not.” Her honesty makes me chuckle. “Also, I don’t remember you being our contact and booking it.” She sways to the side and dips at the hips to rest her arms on the railing again, basically getting as close as she can to me. “Tell me something, Twenty-two.”
“Anything.” Angling my shoulder against the wood, I reply, “I’m an open book.”
That seems to cause her to pause as she stares at me, but then she exhales, and asks, “Did you get a ticker-tape parade when you got back to Peachtree Pass? It’s not every day the prodigal son returns home.”
I fucking knew it. I grin while pushing off the wall to get some distance so I can see her face in the sunshine again. “So you have heard of me and knew who I was even after so boldly denying it to my face the other day. Tsk tsk for lying, Ms. Dover.”
A smile tries to creep onto her face, but she shuts that shit down real fast. “In my defense”—she places her hand over her heart—“I hadn’t heard of you when you played in the majors.”
“Ugh. That hurt.” I’d act like it injured me, but it was my soul that took that blow. “You really have a knack for stabbing me right in the heart.”
She laughs. “Will it make you happy if I tell you that’s an impressive accomplishment?”
“I’m quite proud of it, so yes, it will, but be sure to say it nice and slow. I want to savor every syllable.”
Trying so hard not to give in, she can’t stop from laughing even louder this time. “Why are you like this?” Waving me off, she says, “Never mind. From my experience, most pro athletes are like this.”
That “from my experience” pangs in my chest. “Is that something you have a lot of experience with? Pro athletes?” Why do I sound like a jealous fool? “Not that I care.”
Her right shoulder rises and drops suddenly. “Why would you? You wouldn’t.”
“Nope.” I swear she’s fucking with me again. Am I going to have to spell out our past for her to remember it? That doesn’t just sting. It burns. Forget that. I won’t give her the satisfaction like I did in Costa Rica. “No reason whatsoever.”
Straightening her back, she says, “Coach is calling you.”
I turn to look back toward the dugout and see Coach waving me back in. “Come on, Greene. Mind on the game.”
Her steps reverberate over the metal base of the stands, reaching my ears as if intended. She’s got my full attention, alright. When she glances over her shoulder, I catch a smile that I know she’d deny sharing, and say, “Yeah, Greene. Mind on the game.”
If I had a sec, I’d come up with some snappy comeback.
But she’s got my mind twisted instead of on baseball or anything else but her.
I look back once more as she crosses the far side of the field when I return to the dugout.
Situating myself at the back of the other end of the bench, I cross my arms over my chest and sit back to watch as she circles around, taking photos of the signs.
As Coach talks about tomorrow’s game, I can appreciate how seriously everyone is taking this.
A few of the guys from the Round Rock Express remind me a lot of myself back when I could run bases a little faster and throw a ball to take out a player sliding into home without having to ice my shoulder.
I don’t feel old, but I feel my body wants to wind down a bit more than I’m ready for. My identity has been wrapped up in the former Major Leaguer package for years, but who am I if I officially retire? Just another has-been.
Fuck. That’s depressing.
We’re dismissed, and everybody files into the locker room to find tomorrow’s game jersey hanging in each player’s locker. The practice jerseys only sported the Armadillos logo. I turn this one around on the hanger. It’s good to see my name matter again, even if it’s just for one more game.
I change out my shoes and untuck my T-shirt, but there’s no use showering when I’m heading back to the ranch. I’ll just get dirty all over again. I plan on getting some of those tasks that never get done taken care of. It beats sitting around the house puzzling my day away.
Surely, my skills on the diamond aren’t the only thing I’m good for. If so, I need to figure out what I’m going to do with the rest of my life.
Any other man my age knows where the rest of their life is heading. Hell, it’s probably been mapped out for more than a decade. So it’s strange how money and even a taste of fame can derail one’s plans when their career abruptly ends.
I need to feel useful again.
After saying bye to the guys, I make my way out of the locker room and into the main tunnel to the parking lot.
Just as I’m about to step into the sunlight, a blue BMW slams to a stop.
The window rolls down, and there’s who’s becoming my favorite feisty friend.
Would she call me a friend? Shit no. But that’s just because she can’t admit that she’s drawn to me in some way, or she wouldn’t keep ending up in my orbit.
Resting her elbow through the open window, she has sunglasses covering her eyes, and she smirks. “You’re lucky it’s not raining. But when it is, revenge is going to taste so sweet.”
“What are we talking about?” She rolls the window back up and drives away, leaving me wondering what she means.
Should I be concerned? It wouldn’t be a first with her, considering I barely scraped by with my life when she stalked me the past few days.
I need to stay on my toes with that one.
She sounded way too smug about that sweet revenge she mentioned.
Revenge for what exactly?
She’s a complete mystery, which is a first for me.
I know what women want. I’m not here to make their dreams come true, so if they want the white picket fence, a husband, or to settle down and start a family, I say more power to you.
That’s not what I’m interested in. I’m here for the entertainment, the good time, and I always leave them satisfied.
But I don’t think Cricket wants anything from me other than this so-called revenge.
Is this about me leaving after our night of fun? It was morning. I was starving and wanted to get back to my rental to shower and get some sleep. Now I’m the bad guy when she didn’t think it was necessary to share so much as her first name?
She wants control back. She wants to be the one who leaves me this time. I laugh. Good fucking luck with that, sweetheart. I walk to my truck, too tired to be riffling through the riddle that’s Ms. Dover.
I track down a rusted can of metal lubricant in the barn and return to the front porch. Spraying the hinges, I test until all three no longer squeak when opened.
It’s the simplest job, but it feels good to get it done. When I return the can to the barn, gravel crunches outside. The roar of a diesel engine pulls in behind me. I step through the large open doors as Tagger climbs out of his truck. “Hey, Griff, how’s it going?” he asks, shutting the door.
“Good.” I wipe my hands on a rag I found tossed on a shelf. “What’s going on?”
“Keeping busy.” He joins my side, and we walk back into the barn. “How’s practice?”
“It’s fine. I’m already having to ice my shoulder in the evenings.” I chuckle.
He chuckles as well and stops just inside the doors.
Looking over at me, he crosses his arms over his chest. The brim of his hat shadows his eyes, his boots are scuffed, and his jeans are worn in.
Farm life isn’t pristine, and I’m not sure when I convinced myself that this life wasn’t worth my time.
I almost miss the gritty feeling of dirt and sweat from a hard day’s work.
He asks, “What happens after the game tomorrow?”
“What do you mean?”
“You coming back or taking off? Just think your sister should be prepared if she’s not going to see you on Friday.”
I shift, looking at this guy who was always my brother’s best friend, but now stands strong at my sister’s side as her husband. “I can appreciate that you’re protecting Chris, but I haven’t packed my bag yet.”
He stares at me a good long while. “A heads-up is all we’re asking for this time.”
“I can do that.”
His guard seems to lower when his arms return to his side. “It’s only been a few days, but it’s good to have you around.”
“You’ll get sick of me soon enough.” I laugh, but it’s lost its humor. “I can’t sit around this place. You got any odd jobs that need to get done come Friday?”
Nodding, he grabs an old wrench from the tool table. “I can find something for you, but until then, get to icing.” Reaching out, he offers his hand. “Tomorrow, we need you to show your nieces and nephew how great a player their uncle is.”
When my hand clasps his, I reply, “I can do that.”
He gets what he needs from this barn, then drives toward the equipment barn. Not a lot was said, but what was said feels bigger than the moment we gave it. Don’t go running off too fast and show everyone how it’s done in the majors even though it’s only a fundraising game.
I go inside, ready to clean up and prepare some dinner.
The smell of the old house still hits me each time I walk in through the door.
It’s not musty, but a house with a history.
It was once bustling with a busy family and all the things that remind me of home—my leather mitt, stinky cleats left by the door, a roast cooking on Sundays, and peaches picked fresh from our very own orchard.
So many memories come back at once that I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
I can almost hear my sister banging on the bathroom door for Baylor to get out so she could wash her hair, the boiling pot of potatoes on the stovetop, a game on the TV in the living room, and my dad going on about the cattle not wanting to leave the wildflower field again.
Smiling, I welcome the flood of memories instead of pushing them away like I usually do.
Exhaling an easy breath, I rush upstairs with renewed energy to take a shower.
It’s not the memories, although they’re good to have, but come Friday, I have a purpose.
I don’t have plans to leave or know how long I’ll stay.
That’s the freedom of no obligations. But I can’t wait to be back in the saddle again.