Chapter 27
ROMAN
One more pitch and a hit is all it takes for me to say the exact same sentence I’ve spoken twice already this game.
“Let’s call the pen, Kordell.”
“On it.”
I dig my forearms into the railing in front of me and tense my jaw, battling the frustration I can feel seeping from my pores.
Tonight’s game has gone from a single pebble trickling down a mountainside to a full-blown avalanche.
The team is overrun, and my options this late into the seventh inning are slim.
Kordell Bailey, my friend and pitching coach—the best in the league if my opinion alone were enough to declare him so—is already picking up the phone and calling the bullpen, relaying the decisions we discussed just moments ago.
We’re putting in our third reliever already, with Beck finding himself ordered to start warming up.
In a perfect world, he’d sit until the ninth, but I can’t guarantee that tonight, no matter how much I love this team.
Out on the mound, Brady Keller is floundering.
There’s an awkwardness to the way he pulls his knee up before throwing that I noticed instantly but let go.
That small mistake cost us back-to-back hits, soon to be a third.
The first two bases are occupied as the third batter finds his footing at home plate.
It’s tense in the dugout as we watch Brady drag his palm down his thigh and reach up to flex the brim of his hat once again.
Someone clears their throat, and then there’s a presence beside me.
A flick of my eyes reveals Finn taking the spot on my right, his sunglasses shielding the gaze he’s fixed on the mound.
“He’s rattled,” he says.
“Yes.”
“Garrett’s next?”
I slowly release a choppy exhale. “Yes.”
The moment Brady pulls up his leg and discomfort pulls at his mouth, I prepare myself for the hit.
When the bat makes contact, the force sends the ball right down the centre of the field.
Asher Vaughn takes off toward it, his glove already lifting from his side.
His speed picks up before he’s leaping into the air and closing his glove around it.
I hold my breath when he puts his feet beneath him and spins around, eyes tracking the player from second, who takes off for third.
He’s fast. Really fucking fast for a guy his size, which makes him one of the best assets we have on this team.
The runner pushes himself faster once Asher lets go of the ball and sends it blasting through the air toward our third baseman.
“Jesus,” Finn mutters under his breath.
Yeah.
The ball gets snapped up in the baseman’s glove half a second before the runner slides feet first through the dirt and slumps over the plate.
I clap hard enough for my palms to burn when the out is called and the dugout cheers.
The home crowd lights up around the stadium before I tune out the noise and nod at Kordell on my way onto the field.
Brady’s expression is visibly withdrawn as I approach him, already aware of why I’m here.
Trust in my players didn’t used to come easily for me.
I joined the Havoc after a knee injury took me out of the major league, and I spent two seasons coaching in the minors.
My arrival wasn’t one that went without several hitches, including an inbox full of threatening voicemails from members of this organization who didn’t believe I was ready or experienced enough for the team.
In all honesty, they were right. I wasn’t.
That doesn’t mean I didn’t bust my ass to get there.
In addition to the higher-ups, there were several players who looked at me and saw a stubborn, egotistical ex-hitter who was only here for an extra shot of fame. That couldn’t be further from the truth, and they soon realized that. Their trust was hard-earned and something I cherish deeply.
At this point in my career, I’m intentional about everything I do for this team.
Whether that’s who I play and when, if I go out to celebrate when they offer an invite, or which reporters I speak to after a massive win or hard loss to ensure I don’t step into a trap meant to hurt my players.
There are dozens of decisions to make every single day, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.
This right here is my least favourite.
Glancing at the umpire, I point to the bullpen with my left hand before tapping that wrist with my other. Once his chin dips, I look to the stressed pitcher on the mound.
“You’re done, Brady. Garrett’s coming in now. Go take a seat and grab some water,” I say.
“I’m sorry, Rome.”
I slap a hand to his shoulder, guiding us away from the pitch. “Rest up and get your head right for tomorrow.”
Because I don’t believe in punishing a bad game with the lost opportunity to deliver a win in the next one.
He sniffs in response, and that’s that. Finn’s the first one to greet him in the dugout. They speak for a moment while I find my spot again and wait for Garrett to get to the mound.
I keep my expectations as low as possible when the game kicks back up. With every swing and a hit, I grow more relieved that I didn’t allow myself to hope here. The opposing team gets two hitters home by the time we manage to strike them out.
The outfield filters in, and I offer mild, unhelpful words of encouragement that get shrugged off.
Asher takes his glove and whips it at the wall before taking his helmet and stalking aside to calm down.
The silence is jarring when Finn takes a seat between my two defeated relievers and tries to offer them some sort of confidence-boosting speech.
Whatever he’s saying isn’t helping in the slightest.
“There’s two more innings,” Jett reminds the players closest to him. “Don’t settle into the loss yet.”
A few of the other coaches agree with him, but I turn back to the field and rake a hand through my hair. Coaching was my way of staying close to baseball after my injury, but it was never my goal. I still remember Evie’s surprise when I told her that I’d been offered the job.
I’m not someone who can go with the flow. I keep a schedule for all things and find it hard to sway from the plans I’ve laid out for myself. Being early is still late, and unpredictability makes my skin crawl. This job is the opposite of everything I need to keep a focused mind.
Add Brielle Hayes into the mix, and I’m barely hanging on.
Where did that thought come from?
Asher steps up to home plate and swings his bat a few times.
This isn’t the time for my thoughts to wander to that woman.
Not after I’ve spent the last week fantasizing about her and replaying everything we did in my hotel room with the hope that maybe—just maybe—once I thought about her enough, the scratch would disappear.
It hasn’t.
Instead of cutting the cord when I should have, I offered it more room to curl inside of me. Now, she’s got a gifted jersey in her possession that I purposefully left nameless, and a text conversation that she hasn’t hesitated to fill with messages I haven’t responded to.
Asher’s bat connects with the ball, a loud clap screaming through the stadium. My eyes bug out as I watch it sail through the air. The seconds pass without it dropping. Then, it does.
Into the far stands.
A home run.
He tosses the bat over his shoulder and jogs to first base before passing the rest of them. It’s a flicker of momentum in a seemingly endless bleakness that the team clings to with sweaty hands.
There’s still a game to be won.
The last person I expect to be leaning against the hood of my car is the same one brave enough to do it.
With her ankles crossed and palms pressed flat to the glimmering black paint, she perks up at the sight of me.
The chunky straps of her heels are the same colour as the frills at the hems of her shorts and sleeves of her cardigan.
I bite back a scolding when I get close enough to notice the raised skin on her legs.
She’s pulled her hair back today in some sort of updo that I can’t begin to understand. The few stray pieces she’s left out fall to frame her round cheeks. Those I can comprehend because I want to twirl them around my finger and use them to tug her close.
“I was beginning to wonder if you were going to spend all night in your office,” she says, eyes dipping to watch my approaching steps. My sneakers scuff the pavement when I briefly lose my balance.
“How long have you been standing out here waiting?”
“Long enough to know that you were watching game film again.”
I roll my jaw and stop abruptly when our toes nearly touch. “You can’t be out here, let alone lingering in the cold.”
“It’s not cold, Roman. It’s nearly June,” she says, lifting her chin.
“Yet here you are with goosebumps all over your legs.”
“Like I said, it’s not cold.”
The words settle heavily between us as realization dawns. My breath freezes in my chest as all the heat in my body falls between my legs.
“Get in the car,” I rasp.
“Aren’t you going to ask if I want a ride first?”
My laugh is so rough it almost hurts. “We both know that’s exactly what you want, but we need to get out of here first before someone sees you.”
Her eye roll is as annoying as it is alluring. The oversized cardigan she’s wearing slips down her shoulder as she leans further back, never letting her eyes slip from mine, even as I lean closer. Bare, blushed skin flashing, she leans to the side and lifts a foot to touch my shin.
“I’m sorry about the game.”
“Is that why you’re here? To apologize for something you had no part in?” It comes out harsh, but I don’t take it back.
“No. I’m here because—” She cuts herself off, cheeks flooding with colour. “You can’t spend every night scowling at a computer screen. There’s no point in punishing yourself with game tapes, you know. LA is a good team.”
I push my hand into my pants pocket and look behind her at the empty stalls. The game ended two hours ago, yet here she is. There are a thousand other places she could be or people she could be spending time with. Having sex didn’t lock her to me.
Even if it was life-altering, soul-shattering sex. The type that you only need to have once for it to become an addiction.
“You should have texted me,” I tell her, softening my tone.
“I did.”
I twist my mouth, forcing myself to look at her again. “I don’t usually check my phone when I’m watching film.”
“Are you sure you weren’t just still ignoring me?”
“I don’t ignore people. I’ve been busy.”
She deadpans, one brow lifting. “Don’t lie to me, Roman.
I don’t like it. If you didn’t have a good time or just don’t want to do it again, tell me straight up.
I’m a pretty confident woman, but even I have limits to how much I’ll push before I stop.
The last thing I’m going to do is be desperate for a man.
If you hadn’t sent me that jersey, I wouldn’t have been texting you this entire week and continuing to pursue you.
The signals I’m receiving are pretty mixed, buddy. ”
“I’m not your buddy,” I snip, inching forward. Her legs part to make room for me as I settle between them, forcing my hands to stay at my sides. “If we’re going to have this conversation, it’s going to be somewhere other than a parking garage where anyone could hear.”
“This better not be you trying to shut me up, because if it is, I’m going to key your car. I’d bet it cost quite the pretty penny,” she warns, attempting to scare me.
My smile is impossible to hide. Her glare slips when it falls to my lips.
“You’re as terrifying as a kitten, Brielle.”
“Okay, so you don’t care about the car, then. There’s got to be something else—”
I don’t think.
Something shifts inside of me before I’m reaching for her and taking hold of her soft, warm cheek.
She exhales, and I inhale her breath as our lips touch.
It’s sudden and light enough that I could probably convince anyone who saw us that it wasn’t a real kiss.
None of that stops me from lingering for another second.
“Get in my car, sweetheart.”
She nods sharply, green eyes wide and vibrant. Neither of us moves.
“Now,” I murmur.
Another nod before she all but tears herself from my hold and slips away. I take a stunted step backward when she opens the passenger door. Déjà vu slams into me like a semi-truck as I close it behind her and take a look around the quiet garage.
It doesn’t matter how many times I say it because it never gets any less true. I’m so, so fucked, and there’s no piece of me that wants to escape the trap I’ve found inside of.