Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Penelope
I knock on the door, and my dad’s muffled voice says, “Come in.”
Stepping into my dad’s office, the first thing I notice is that Hazel’s pictures outnumber mine on his desk five to one. The second thing I notice is all the dry erase markers—and just like that, I’m nine years old again.
It’s amazing how the smell of dry erase markers can make me feel at home. I grew up in offices like this one. I did homework on couches like the one along the wall while men talked batting averages at the whiteboard.
I have no idea why my dad wants to see me—at his office nonetheless—but I forgot how comfortable I was in his favorite space. I guess that’s what happens when your mom gets the house and your dad gets the weekends.
He rises from behind his desk, dropping his reading glasses on the folder in front of him as though it’s already been a day. “There she is.”
He opens his arms, and I step right into them.
The scent of his aftershave makes me close my eyes and inhale deeper.
These are the things Hazel is missing, and I feel it every time I’m in his arms. The security of the first man in your life who loves you no matter how much you screw up.
I want my daughter to know this feeling of security and acceptance too.
I tested it in college, and I’ll never do it again. I know what that feels like.
“Hey, Dad.” I go to the couch, sit, and cross my legs.
He stands and rests his hands on either side of his hips, leaning back on his desk. “Do you want anything to drink?”
“No. I’m good.”
He nods and changes his stance, crossing his arms. I really hope whatever he’s brought me here to talk about has nothing to do with the Davis twins.
I’ve spent three years carefully constructing a life that runs parallel to theirs without intersecting, and the last thing I need is my dad accidentally pulling me into their drama.
“I was called into Shane Whitaker’s office. You know the GM?”
I chuckle. “I know him, Dad. I’ve met him more than a few times.”
My dad isn’t usually nervous around me. Well, that’s not entirely true. He gets nervous when he has to deliver bad news, and right now he has the exact same energy as the time he told me he was moving out of Philadelphia.
My chest tightens, my breaths a little harder to take, but I don’t spot any cardboard boxes lying around. “Dad?” He quickly shakes his head, and I sink into the couch, thankful he hasn’t been fired. “Good. Then why don’t you sit?”
He pushes off the desk and sits on the chair adjacent to me. “You sure you don’t want a drink?”
“No, Dad. Now what is it?”
The silence stretches thin enough to be translucent. “Shane is upset that we don’t have a WAG group. Says the Trojans are winning the hearts of this city.”
The Trojans are Chicago’s other professional baseball team.
“Okay…” I decide he must need to vent to me about the politics of managing a professional baseball team, so I don’t ask why this has anything to do with me. “Who’s in charge of the Colts’ wives and girlfriends’ group?”
A sharp laugh escapes him. “Only two of our players are in committed relationships.”
“Really? No.” That’s crazy. Especially since I know the only two.
“We’re a young team. Shane and the front office were rebuilding the team when I came along, and that tends to leave us with younger guys. I mean, our outfielders are the youngest in the league.”
The DICs is what I hear the guys calling the outfielders because their names are Drew, Ian, and Camden. I’m a sucker for an acronym, plus I’m not really a fan of Drew since he’s hit on me no less than ten times.
“Sounds like a Shane problem to me.”
“Well, he’s passed that problem down to me.” My dad frowns.
“Well, you have Leighton and Callie.”
He shakes his head. “Leighton only became the guardian to the three kids a year ago, and Callie is still nursing her baby.”
I cover his hand where it rests on the arm of the chair and squeeze once. “I’m sorry, Dad. Maybe you can hire someone?”
“That’s the thing, slugger…”
I wince at the pet name. He’s about to ask me something. Something I most likely will not want to do. I decide to get this over with and ask him point blank. “What do you need?”
His hazel gaze turns toward the table before he locks eyes with me. “Shane has some ideas. Wants to encourage the players to find partners.”
“Does he want to plan a speed dating round during the seventh inning stretch?” I laugh, but my dad doesn’t.
“A bachelor auction was the idea he was throwing around.”
“Does Shane not realize that the real issue is that his players don’t want to settle down?”
He tips his head back and exhales as though the whole situation exhausts him. “He swears his wife has changed him. I don’t ever mention to him that it’s his fourth marriage. But he swears this one is it. He had an instant feeling she was the one.”
“Good luck to them, but we’re talking mostly about twenty-something professional athletes who have women practically crawling at their feet. Shane is what? In his fifties?”
“Hey now, watch yourself.” He smirks.
“You’re not in the same category. Do you know how many posts I have to scroll past of women calling you Daddy Ripley or Daddy Ripped? You really need to not use the bottom of your T-shirt to wipe your face when you’re overheated, Dad.”
He shivers, but I’m not na?ve enough to think my dad doesn’t have his fair share of women—at least in the offseason. During the season, he’s way too busy to entertain anything unless they want to talk baseball.
“Anyway, he wants me to find someone to handle this, and honestly, you’re the only one I trust.”
“Me?” I point at myself, my mouth hanging open.
“You’re the best person for the job. The organization will pay you.”
I uncross my legs, then cross my legs again, buying myself a second because I know where this is going, and I already know I’m not going to say no. “The best person is an actual wife or girlfriend of any of the forty players on the roster.”
“You organized that amazing hospital fundraiser with your mom a few years ago. And then what about your mom’s wedding last year? You had a lot to do with that.”
“Dad, that’s so different than this. I’m not really part of the team.”
“Yes, you are. You’re my daughter. And Hazel said you’re close to Leighton and Callie. That the three of you get your families together.”
I exhale. “Still…”
He holds his hands up, palms facing me. “I know it’s a lot to ask.
And I’m happy to go tell Shane he’ll have to hire someone from outside the organization, but I’d rather handle this in-house.
These are my boys, and they’re a good team.
They could use some bonding, I’m not gonna lie.
The DICs are always competing with my infield.
Sure, friendly competition is good, but they’re all so young and their egos barely fit through the door.
An outsider brings drama I don’t want. Plus, if you do this, I’ll control the narrative more than Shane.
If he hires someone, she reports to him, and I have no idea what he’ll make these guys do.
” He inhales and glances at his desk. “This team can do it. They can win the whole thing, and I just… well… Shane’s going to do this no matter what, and I’d rather have some control over it, make sure he’s not making my guys go here and there, take their eyes off the prize. ”
I stare at the ceiling, at a water stain mimicking the shape of Michigan, and let it hold my attention while I figure out what to say. “I don’t know if I can do this.”
My dad is the only one I’d ever admit that to. What I don’t say is the part underneath—that agreeing to this puts me squarely in the middle of a team that includes the one person I’ve been carefully staying away from.
“An outsider will be enamored with the players. Which is why I’m asking you. You know the calendar. And you’re not going to be intimidated by the guys because you grew up in a clubhouse.”
It’s true. I spent enough time in dugouts and training facilities as a kid that the mystique of professional athletes was thoroughly ruined for me by the age of eighteen.
“We can’t be WAGs when there are only two women,” I say. “We’d have to think of a different way to make this work. Maybe shift our organization to be more about doing charitable things for the fans, Chicago, and getting this city behind the Colts rather than the Trojans.”
“I was thinking the same.”
“Chicago has a great fan base. One of the best.”
He nods. “True, but Shane feels like we’re competing against the Trojans. He wants to own this city.”
My shoulders rise, understanding that we share Chicago with the other major league baseball team.
My dad pushes to his feet and reaches behind him for a folder on the edge of his desk. He’s prepared, which means he never doubted I’d say yes.
“I’d have free rein?”
He nods. “Yes, but Shane wants a meeting. I have someone lined up to help you. So the four of us will meet and discuss schedules and timing, ideas.”
“Who will be helping me?”
“I’m still figuring it out.”
My head tilts. “But you said you had them lined up?”
His forehead wrinkles, and he acts as though I’m hearing things. “They haven’t agreed yet, but they’ll make sure the players attend whatever you cook up.”
Which will probably be the hardest part, if you ask me. Thirty-eight single guys will be hard to manage. Not a job I want.
“Fine,” I say, not thrilled but willing, nonetheless.
“Thanks, slugger. And I’m here to help you with whatever you need.”
I stare at him with a bored expression. He smiles, and it’s the same smile he’s had since I was seven years old—the one that means he already knows he’s won.
“Yeah, that’s bullshit,” he says. “You want your dad to be the youngest manager to win the series, don’t you? Hazel would have bragging rights at school.”
I stand and tuck the folder under my arm. “I’ll do some brainstorming and get back to you.”
“Dinner Saturday?”
“So you can swindle me into another thing? No thanks.”
He chuckles. “Saturday’s game is in the afternoon. I’ll take you and Hazel to that play zone place she likes.”
I groan. “Just what every single mom wants to do on a Saturday night—go play Skee-Ball with her dad.”
He steps around me and places his hand on the doorknob. “I’m happy to take her by myself so you can go to a club or something.”
My forehead wrinkles. “Dad.”
“I’m just saying… maybe it’s time to get out there. Test the waters.” He says it lightly, but he’s watching me in that way he has that means he sees more than I’ve ever told him.
“Says the man who’s been single most of his entire adult life.”
We laugh as my dad swings the door open and I step out to the hallway. Then freeze in place.
Decker leans against the wall across from me, one foot flat against the baseboard, staring at his phone. His hair is doing that thing it does after practice—pushed back, slightly damp, looking freshly fucked in an effortless way.
He lifts his gaze from his phone, and it lands directly on me. There goes any plan to escape unnoticed.
“Hey.”
Does he practice that easy, unaffected tone he always uses around me?
I hate that about him.
“Hey.” I hold up the folder in my hand as if it explains everything. “Just dropping in on my dad.”
“Hey, Deck.” I inwardly roll my eyes at my dad using a shortened version of his name.
I also hate that my dad holds no grudges.
Dad’s phone rings, and he kisses my cheek. “Thanks again, slugger. See you Saturday.”
He’s already moving, already shifting gears as always—one thing ending, the next beginning, with no space between.
“Give me a minute, Deck,” he says.
Decker pushes off the wall. His eyes go to the folder then back to my face. “Slugger, huh? Do I need to ask?”
I laugh but try to swallow it down fast. Of course, he’d remember that when my dad calls me slugger, it means he needs something from me. “Just another project.”
I shift the folder against my chest and hover in the doorway.
Feet, get moving. Walk away. You’ve done it before.
“Well, see you.” I lift my hand in a small wave.
“Yeah, bye, Penelope.”
I wince at him using my full name.
I hate that too.
I head for the end of the hallway and don’t look back, because there are only two options I might find if I do. Either he’s watching me or he’s already in my dad’s office—and both will break me.
When I push through the door at the end of the hall, the afternoon light warms my shoulders. I tell myself that the tightness in my chest is just the air in my dad’s office. Poor ventilation in an old building and nothing more.
I’m getting better and better at lying to myself.