Chapter 5
ROMAN
“No.”
“Come on, Rome. He just needs a chance.”
“No is my final answer. If Logan wants a real chance at playing first base, then he can focus on spending more time on the field between games than in scandalous photos on the internet,” I command into my car’s Bluetooth.
This conversation with Logan Reed’s agent should have happened months ago during off-season, but the fucker is hard to reach when he knows he’s about to get his ass handed to him.
If it were up to me, this would be the last time I’d ever speak to him about any player, let alone the one who’s been dragging the Havoc’s name through the sludge the last few months.
Recently divorced, the thirty-year-old slugger has gone from a household name cheered around a living room to the one cursed under the breath of someone who used to wear his jersey.
His gameplay is sloppy when he does get a chance to play, and when he doesn’t, his surly attitude is a giant thorn in my side.
If he had any options left, he’d have been tossed down weeks ago.
I’m a fair manager. I give second, third, even fourth chances to my players because I know the game and what it costs you. But when you’re on your fifth chance, I’ve got to put my foot down before it’s my head on the line from the guy who writes my paycheques.
“He hasn’t been to a club in two weeks. I told you he’d make an effort, and he is. If you’d just—”
“For how long, Clint? We both know the moment we land in a city that isn’t ours, he’s going to be back at the club, chasing skirts and drinking his weight in vodka. That’s not a look we can afford this season.”
Not when we’re shooting for the world title.
“Don’t you remember what it felt like being young and broken-hearted, Rome? Logan’s going through a rough patch, but he’ll reach the other side of it soon. Is this how you treat Beckett Rourke, too? Or does he get special treatment.”
“I have players on my team five, six years younger than him and keeping it together better. They’re going through their own shit, yet they’re in my dugout every damn day with their focus intact.
He has my sympathies for the divorce, but until he proves himself to be a reliable member of this team, he sits.
And Beckett has put an end to all of that.
He’s cleaning his image up for the good of the team.
Don’t ever pit my players against each other again. End of discussion.”
Clint grumbles something low enough that I can’t make out before clearing his throat. “I’ll let him know.”
“Great speaking with you.”
He doesn’t respond to my blatant lie. The call drops, and I release the tension in my jaw while rolling down the window.
It’s twenty degrees today with a spring breeze that whips across the leather seats.
I adjust my sunglasses to the top of my head and watch the sun dance on the tinted windows at the tops of the sky-high buildings I pass.
Traffic’s a bitch any day, and given that it’s just past noon, it’s borderline unbearable.
Like I have every week for the last few months, I’m meeting my niece for lunch at the new studio space she’s been renting.
It’s not close enough to the stadium as I’d like, not that I had a choice in the matter.
Evie’s gotten more vocal about her independence this last year, and I’m as proud of her for that as I am terrified.
She’s only twenty-one, which isn’t exactly young in the general sense. To me, though, she’s still the broken-hearted sixteen-year-old that I took in after . . . Shaking that thought loose, I flick my blinker on and turn left at the next light.
Another call flashes across the wide touchscreen above the dash.
It’s not Evie’s name I see, so I jab my finger against the Decline option before it can ring a third time.
I’m only five minutes away from the studio, and the longer it takes her to reply to my earlier texts, the faster I seem to drive.
A million fearful thoughts flash through my mind with the businesses I pass. I tap my fingers against the steering wheel and suck in a deeper inhale of fresh air. The takeout bag on the passenger seat nearly topples off when I slam on my brakes at a yellow light just as it turns red.
Maybe I should call her.
Quickly swiping at the screen, I use the stoplight to my advantage. Instantly, the dial tone rings through the speakers. Once, twice, five times. Then, her voicemail.
“Hi! You’ve reached Evie, and yep, I must be busy.
If you’re my uncle, please don’t call the police again.
I highly doubt I’m missing. Patience is a practiced skill!
If it’s literally anyone else calling, just give me a few hours, and I’ll get back to you.
Well, not if you’re a robot scammer. Then don’t even think about leaving a voicemail—”
Her voice cuts off, signalling the end of her allotted recording time. My mouth quirks at the familiar words.
And for the record, I called the police once, and she was only seventeen at the time.
Not to mention in a rebellious phase that I was completely unprepared for.
It was one thing to be the uncle she’d called the first time she got drunk at a party on her fifteenth birthday, and another to be the person to find her stumbling and irate out of a downtown club underage on her seventeenth.
I went from being the cool uncle she could call when she needed to hide something from her mother to the parental figure who couldn’t ever do a single thing right with a struggling teenager in the blink of an eye.
“Call or text me back, Evie. I’ve got lunch, and before you ask, yes, I made sure they didn’t forget the extra red onions this time. See you soon,” I say, hoping she hears the voicemail in the next five minutes.
The light turns green, and I’m speeding through the streets again.
It only takes me three minutes to get to the small building housing her studio.
She uses the space above an art gallery and has her own parking stall in the garage beneath, along with a separate staircase that makes her feel more secure.
I’ve known the gallery owner for longer than Evie’s even been alive.
I park along the curb a few feet from the gallery doors and pay for the hour before heading up.
It’s empty inside, but the jingle of the bell above the door tells whoever is working that someone’s arrived.
A beat later, I’m greeted by a woman with silver-streaked hair wearing a paint-splattered smock and a pair of hot pink high-tops.
“Is Evie here?” I ask, unable to soften my tone.
Petal, though I doubt that’s her real name, cocks her head, taking me in.
I’m sure the heaving chest and frantic eyes are nerve-racking for most people, let alone an old woman minding a store on her own in a quieter part of the city.
Still, she doesn’t flinch or balk, just nods and gestures to the back, where the stairs leading to the studio are.
“She’s been here for quite a while, actually. If you’d asked, I would have gone up to check on her,” she says, voice frail yet still bright.
I drop my shoulders and shake my head, tightening my hold on the takeout bag. “I appreciate the offer, but she wouldn’t have appreciated that.”
“Well, of course not. She’s a grown woman, Roman. You worry far too much about her.”
“Can we skip the lecture today?” I ask heavily, glancing past her to the stairwell.
“It’s not a lecture, you stubborn man. More so concern. Your mother asked me to make sure you know when you’re overstepping with that girl.”
And there it is. The history this woman never lets me forget.
I was young when Petal and my mother met.
They were instant friends, and despite my lack of contact with both my parents once I grew up and moved out, Petal’s made it her job to watch out for both me and Evie.
We weren’t ever all that close when I was a kid, but she still came by every once in a while to check on my sister and me.
Once it became only Evie and me, she stepped up further and offered my niece the empty space in her gallery.
From the lack of calls I’ve gotten from my mother these last couple of years, she must have been telling her that I’ve been doing an alright job here.
Keeping my tone as respectful as possible, I say, “Being concerned isn’t overstepping. I appreciate you watching out for her.”
“Yeah, yeah. Go on up.”
I pass her quickly, needing to get out of here before I lose my manners. It’s not that I don’t appreciate Petal allowing Evie to rent the space above the gallery or that her advice truly bothers me. Rather, it’s that I know deep down she’s right, and I have been holding on to my niece too tightly.
That’s not a thought I want to be having right now.
The takeout bag crinkles as I take the stairs two at a time and knock on the closed studio door. I can hear the upbeat music blasting from inside, which only convinces me further that she is okay and was just too busy to reply to my texts earlier.
I knock again before trying the handle. It turns, and I instantly scowl when I learn she didn’t lock it.
“Evie?” I call out. My voice gets drowned out in the music, so I try again a bit louder and step inside.
The studio isn’t outlandishly large, but there’s more than enough room for her here. There’s a kitchenette with a mini-fridge and coffee machine, and a bathroom that I helped paint a bright lavender colour. From the entrance, most of the space is hidden behind the wall that separates the workspace.
I slip my shoes off on the tree-shaped entrance mat and find her shoes lying in front of the rack instead of where they belong on one of the shelves. There are a pair of hot pink high heels beside them that I’ve never seen before.
Curiosity has the hair on the back of my neck standing up when I step out from behind the wall and move through the studio.
It’s not until I turn past the kitchenette that I see Evie.
At first, I grin at the sight of her gripping her camera in front of her and dropping down onto her knees to get a better shot.
The bright lights spread throughout the space could rival the sun outside as she tilts her head and waves her hand in front of her, instructing.
I follow her fingers and stop breathing.
My lungs scream louder than the voice in my head telling me to leave. Now.
Because holy fuck. I recognize the tattoo on the lower back of the red-headed woman currently stretched out on the floor in front of my niece.
The pink tulip is in full bloom, dripping liquid pollen down beneath the band of the lacy black thong nestled between two round ass cheeks as she remains on her knees and reaches out along the floor with a set of dainty fingers. Fingers tipped with black nail polish.
Surely, I’m wrong.
Evie’s photographing a different woman than the one I’m thinking of. Two people can have the same tattoos. It’s unlikely that they’d be something so specific, but not impossible. Right?
Because Crushedvelvet can’t be Brielle Hayes.
She can’t be my catcher’s younger sister.
And I sure as fuck couldn’t have just spent the last two nights watching a video of her masturbating.