Chapter one #3
The whiskey goes down smooth, easing the tension in my neck and shoulders after a long fucking week. It’s just a few days before Christmas, and everyone I know is spending time doing things with their families. But I don’t have one of those and probably never will at this rate.
Astrid forgave me rather quickly for spilling her secret to Penn, and now that I see the two of them together, I’m glad he pulled his head out of his ass so he could be the type of man that my sister deserves.
Now, if only I could get her to stop pushing me to date.
I swear, people in love just want everyone else to have it too, but sometimes, being alone is just easier.
It’s how I’ve operated for most of my adult life.
I didn’t have time for relationships when I was playing, and the only women interested in me now are the ones who think I have something to offer them from my former life.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m doing very well for myself.
I didn’t piss away the money I made in the major leagues—I invested and saved so I’d be set for life.
The garage does well too, but that’s beside the point.
Those women want Grady Reynolds, the star pitcher.
Not Grady Reynolds, the grumpy, injured man who channels his inner Clint Eastwood most days.
Earlier, Astrid and Penn insisted I go with them to my niece Lilly’s dance recital, so of course I did. But after, they all wanted to go out for dinner and dessert, and the only thing I wanted was to be alone—again.
It’s been a long few days, finishing up projects around the garage and dodging phone calls from the high school coach.
With the holidays approaching, I’m looking forward to a much-needed break.
I’m headed down to Florida where the weather is warmer and I can go fishing, catch up with a buddy of mine from college, and escape small-town life for a while.
I need it. The boys were right, and I’m starting to feel suffocated by this life that I didn’t choose.
But part of you did, didn’t it, Grady?
The twinge of pain that shoots through my arm at any given moment decides then to remind me of my own selfish foolishness. I reach up and rub the spot, circling my arm around while trying not to hit the person sitting next to me at the bar, then take another drink of whiskey to help numb the pain.
It only does so much, but still better than being sober at the moment.
Tennessee Whiskey by Chris Stapleton plays from the jukebox in the corner as the sound of pool balls scattering across felt echoes in the bar.
A group of men are gathered around the pool tables dressed in Carhartt jeans and work boots, sharing pitchers of beer and a few good laughs.
Harold, Baron, and Thompson are playing darts in the corner.
They usually play at Catch & Release, but Dallas has been closing the restaurant and bar early this week because of the holiday.
Several bikers are seated in another corner, black leather vests encasing their chests and red bandanas covering their heads. A group of women giggle at a table near the center of the room, one of them wearing an “I’m Divorced!” sash across her chest.
But as I survey the group of women more closely, a head of curly brown hair catches my attention.
The woman those curls belong to stands from the table and heads toward the back corner where the bathrooms are located.
I can’t see her face through her hair, but her curves give me more than enough to admire.
She’s wearing dark denim that is practically painted onto her wide hips and thick thighs. Her waist dips in just enough to hint at an hourglass figure under her red top, and she’s wearing wedges that make her appear taller than she is.
There’s something eerily familiar about her, and for a moment, I convince myself I’ve just had too much whiskey.
I stare down into my glass, listen to the music playing throughout the bar, then swirl the amber liquid around, and toss back the rest of my drink before catching her walk back out from the hall.
And that’s when my stomach drops.
“Scottie?”
Her eyes swivel around the room before landing on mine. And then her lips spread so wide as mine mimic the same movement. “Oh. My. God.”
“Holy shit.”
Biting her lip, she strides over to me as I take in the entirety of her. Damn, Scottie Daniels is all grown up, a fucking woman now—a woman I haven’t seen in almost seventeen years.
“What are the freaking chances?” she asks as she stands right before me, the shock on her face just as pronounced as my own.
I rise from my stool to pull her into a hug, inhaling her still familiar scent while wondering if this is all just a fucking dream. “Scottie Daniels,” I murmur in her ear as I inhale a little too deeply.
She clears her throat and then breaks our embrace. “Ha. I haven’t been Scottie Daniels in a long time, Grady Reynolds. But you?” She places her hands on the sides of my face. “Holy shit, it’s really you.”
My eyes can’t stop taking her in, from those familiar green eyes to the freckles on her nose that are barely concealed by her makeup, to those full lips painted a deep rose shade that brings out the color in her cheeks.
Her hair is just as wild as I remember, yet somehow also tamer, and her smile just as addicting.
Standing here in front of her now is like taking a ride in the DeLorean—it feels like I’m back in high school staring at the girl who always made me wonder, what if?
“So what do I call you then?”
“That might take a while to explain,” she says, rolling her eyes and peering over at the group of women she left earlier.
I follow her line of sight. “Do you need to get back to your friends?”
“Not really. Those are my mom’s friends. She dragged me along tonight and told me I needed to have some fun, so here I am.”
“The girl I knew used to say the same thing to me.”
The corner of her mouth lifts, but it’s a sad smile. “I haven’t been that girl in a long time, Grady.”
Studying her face, I say, “What happened, Scottie? One day we were texting, and the next, your number was disconnected.”
She sighs. “It’s ancient history.”
“Well, I’ve got all night to travel back in time with you.”
She shakes her head at me, clearly debating whether she should stay or just treat this as a coincidental passing. But then a familiar spark of determination lights up her eyes, and she says, “I’m gonna need a drink to get through that story, if that’s the case.”
I signal to the bartender. “Then let’s make that happen.”