Hey There Slugger (The Boys of Sweetwater Springs #2)

Chapter 1

ONE

brOOKS CALLAHAN

I haven’t slept in thirty-seven hours. I can feel it, too.

I’m on the brink of going a little bit crazy.

I’ve seen videos of those sleep deprivation tests.

Lack of z’s messes with the head, and I’m right in the middle of being messed with.

But I have a three-month-old baby who is on her second-to-last diaper, and if I want any shot at sleeping in the next few hours, I need to have more clean diapers ready.

I may be undergoing a self-taught crash course on this whole parenthood trip, but I learned one lesson real quick—there are never enough diapers within reach.

“What do you think, Holly? Are you a size one? A five? You’re three months old, so does that make you a three?” A tiny spit bubble forms on her lips as her mouth contorts into the sweetest yawn. She’s tired, fed, and dry. I need to get us both home, stat.

“You look a little lost.” The voice of a woman is accompanied by a soft giggle, and I turn around, expecting to see someone who looks like my mom did when she was alive.

Older, worn out, hungover perhaps. Instead, I’m instantly knocked back on my heels by a pair of green eyes, light brown hair, and lips that stretch into this awe-striking smile. Did I die just now? Is this an angel?

“Uh, sorry. I’m . . . exhausted.”

I laugh and shake my head, pinching the bridge of my nose as I squeeze my eyes shut tight, working feeling into my face.

It strikes me that I may be hallucinating, so I crack a lid open, half expecting the vision to be gone. Instead, she’s still here—very real, very beautiful—and she’s smiling down at the now sleeping baby in the carrier hooked over my forearm.

“Shh, I think you finally lost her,” she says, her pale-blue-polished fingernail touching the curl of her top lip.

I’m briefly mesmerized. It’s lips like those that got me into this situation, though, so I shake my head, waking myself up by patting my open hand against my unshaven cheek a few times.

“Would it be weird if I just lay right here, in aisle”—I lean to the right to check the number hanging above the end cap where prune juice is on display—“fourteen. Good ole aisle fourteen. My favorite.”

The mystery angel laughs softly again and shakes her head.

“Not to those of us who know what you’re dealing with. First babies are the toughest. I went and had twins,” she says in a hushed tone. She holds up a finger and lifts on her toes to reach a package of diapers labeled 2-3, then hands them to me.

“You want to go by weight. She’s probably about twelve pounds, maybe thirteen. Next week, you’ll want the threes.” She leans her head to the right toward the red diaper packs with the bright blue number three emblazoned on them.

I exhale, and it spills out of me with enough force to send me back a step and force my hiked shoulders down to a normal position for the first time since Holly showed up on my doorstep less than a week ago.

It was just before midnight, and the knock at my door was loud enough to wake my ass after a full week of conditioning with the team. And there she was, with nothing more than a blanket, a couple of onesies in a plastic bag, and a note from a college one-night stand. My only one-night stand. Ever.

“Thanks. I seriously have no idea what I’m doing.” I take the package from this kind woman, my hand brushing hers on the exchange, her cheeks flaring to a really sweet pink when we touch.

What is happening? I go years without a girlfriend, for obvious reasons, then let loose a little bit my senior year of college and bam—the universe makes me a single dad. And now this—the perfect woman—is actually upping my flirt game, and I am in no shape to act on any of it.

“You should get her home while you can still take advantage of this time,” she whispers, and winks.

I nod and smile with relief.

“Seriously, thank you again . . .” I hold out my free hand, the diapers tucked under my arm and the carrier clutched against my hip.

“Lindsey,” she utters finally. Thank God I didn’t have to come out and ask.

I don’t know if I have the nerve in me. Again, not that I’ll ever follow up or do anything with this knowledge.

But at least I’ll know what to call her in my mind later when I replay this and pretend things went a different way.

“Lindsey,” I say, my mouth forming an instant smile at the feel of her name on my tongue. “Good to meet you. I’m Brooks.”

“Oh, I know who you are. I’m sure I’ll see one of your games again soon. You better rest up if you want to keep that hitting streak alive.” Her cheeks redden. More flirting. Fuck me, why is this my luck?

“Right. Well. I’ll try. Got my hands full.” I lift my shoulders and arms, showing off the baby and diapers, as if I need to.

“Right. Well . . .” She waves with a flicker of her fingers, then turns her back to me as she heads down the aisle waving her own grocery list. Meanwhile, I spin on my heels and head to the register, calling myself a dumbass the entire way.

Got my hands full.

I shut my eyes briefly and take in a short breath, too tired to feel the full burn of embarrassment by my behavior.

Besides, what could she possibly think about me?

I made it pretty clear I wasn’t babysitting.

And I’m a rookie making league minimum, which is less than a substitute teacher here in Oklahoma. I looked that up last night.

By the time Holly and I get back to my apartment, we’re both ready for a nap, though she got a decent head start.

I crash hard and fast while I can, and neither of us stirs until midnight.

After a fresh diaper and bottle of formula—and a protein bar for me—we’re both back in slumberland within an hour.

I can do this.

I cannot do this.

I’ve felt the unbelievable highs and lows of parenthood a dozen times over the last seventy-two hours, and what I’ve come to terms with is the cold, hard truth—something is going to have to give. And it might just be baseball.

My last shot is this Hail Mary from Hunter, my former teammate.

He got called up to the majors last week and came to Sweetwater to pick up his truck and meet Holly.

He also gave me a tip on a great nanny. I thought it was strange that the woman he recommended was named Lindsey.

I haven’t stopped thinking about the angel from the grocery store since we locked eyes during my diaper meltdown.

But what are the odds this Lindsey is that Lindsey?

I shot her a text right away, and we agreed to meet for coffee this morning to see if we can work something out. But she’s ten minutes late, and with every passing second, my doubts grow that she’s going to show at all.

Holly coos in her carrier beside me, so I tuck the thin blue blanket around her body a little tighter, then let her hold on to my finger. She’s gotten into gripping things lately—my hair, the collar of my T-shirt, my face. She’s fascinated by my fingers, always pulling one into her tiny mouth.

The chimes sound at the coffee shop’s door, pulling my attention away from my daughter in time to catch sight of my angel and two very loud, incredibly hyper toddlers rolling their way into the shop.

I swallow hard as I scooch out of the booth in time to catch one of the boys as he launches into my side as if I’m a piece of playground equipment.

“I got him! Riggs, get his feet!” The other boy wraps his arms around my legs as he worms around my feet on the floor.

“Deacon, get off of him. Riggs, off the floor. You’re filthy now. Oh, my God, boys!” Lindsey blows up at the loose hairs that have fallen over her face, then shrugs, offering me a crooked grin while peeling one of her children from my right oblique.

“What’s fill-fee?” The boy around my feet crinkles his nose as he cranes his neck to look up at his mom.

“Dirty, Riggs. The floor is dirty. Get up. Just . . . ugh!” Her smile morphs into a strained jawline as she lifts the boy from the brightly colored linoleum, all while wrangling what seems to be his twin into the booth seat.

The two of them settle in finally and pull menus from the wooden holder pushed against the window.

“So, in case you were wondering, yes . . . we did meet already. And I completely understand if you decide all of this is too much for you to be in business with.” She blows up at her hair again as she motions her hand toward the side of the booth where her boys are kicking their feet with enough gusto to somehow shift the large double-sided booth backward a few inches every time.

I chuckle and hold her gaze for what feels like several seconds but is probably less than a blink. Holly’s bubbling cry kicks in a moment later, and reality crashes right back in.

“I’m sorry. I’m sure it was the zoo I brought in that woke her up,” Lindsey says as I lunge into the booth to scoop her from her carrier and cradle her against my chest.

“No, I was gambling with time. She slept most of the night for once, so this morning nap was bonus time.” I feel her bottom as I bounce on my feet and try to hush her back to sleep, but every time I lift my heels seems to only upset her more.

“Can I . . .” Lindsey reaches toward me, and I transfer my crying daughter into her waiting arms. Within seconds, Holly is staring up at Lindsey with wide eyes, her quivering mouth frozen on the verge of a smile.

“I swear I’m not really magic. Sometimes a change of position, or a different view, is enough to distract them from the fact they’re upset. Doesn’t it?”

Lindsey drops her face close to Holly’s and blows raspberries with her lips as she bends her knees and quickly pops back up into a full stand.

I’m not sure if it’s the motion, the funny sounds, or the exaggerated expressions that have Holly rapt—maybe it’s a combination—but whatever the magic, it seems to work instantaneously.

“When can you start?”

I chuckle when Lindsey looks at me with a smirk, but I’m not kidding. I’ll send this superhero a deposit right now if she’s willing to take the gig and buy me an ounce of breathing room.

“You got a car seat in that beast out there?” She tilts her head toward the window.

My Suburban is parked outside. It’s a nice ride, and I’m sure it looks like I’m swimming in cash, but that SUV was my home for my last year of college.

It was the only damn thing my mother had left when she died, and I’m sure it was bought with drug money.

Something good should come my way after my shitty childhood, so when the state of California notified me after probate, I picked up the keys, drove my ass back to Iowa, and never looked back.

“I got a car seat, yeah,” I say, exhaling with my words. I think that’s relief I feel. Or exhaustion. Perhaps both.

“I can start today, then. As long as you don’t mind this sweetheart being around a couple of terrors, I mean toddlers.” She glances to the booth where her boys are now taking turns smacking each other on the top of the head with the menus.

“I play minor league baseball. Your boys seem more grown up than the guys she’s been around in the clubhouse. Believe me.”

“Hmm, probably true,” she says, twisting her lips into a crooked, tight smirk.

She shifts her gaze to me and holds out a hand, and we shake on the deal .

. . despite the fact we haven’t discussed a lick of detail.

Hunter said he filled her in on my story, aka how I ended up here with a baby, but he doesn’t know all the particulars.

Hell, neither do I, honestly. I’m sure Lindsey and I will have those conversations, and hopefully she won’t judge me too hard.

Truth be told, I’d pay her the balance of my signing bonus to help me get through this season.

But leading with that probably isn’t the best negotiating tactic.

“I can pay you for today, of course. Or for the week? I don’t really know how this whole thing works.” Yeah, I’m bad at bargaining. They should have agents for this stuff.

“Weekly would be great. Let’s say a thousand every Monday, and extra for overnights. And I’ll need a key to your place. And access to the Suburban, of course.”

I arch a brow.

“And why the Suburban?” I can see her minivan parked outside. She has plenty of room to haul the three kids wherever she needs to take them.

“No real reason. I just want to drive it. Test out the sound system. See how it thumps. You know . . .” She holds my gaze for a beat, then cracks into heavy laughter.

“You’re fucking with me,” I say through a massive exhale as I glide my palm from my forehead into my hair.

“I’m fucking with you. About the Suburban, at least. The key and the cash are nonnegotiable.”

“Done,” I say with a nod.

We swap mobile payment info, phone numbers and addresses, and I load Lindsey up with Holly’s go-bag of formula and diapers.

I’ve been a single dad for less than two weeks, but for the first time since she showed up at my door, I can see a path forward.

Until now, I’ve been piecing my life together, staying up all damn night and fitting in a few hours of sleep when I can between practices, then racing from the local church preschool to the stadium and back again to make everything fit into my limited free time.

I’ve gotten lucky so far with the times they’re open, but that luck is running out.

Church daycare and triple-A ball schedules aren’t necessarily in sync.

I carry Holly to Lindsey’s car and get her locked into the seat.

I tuck the small blanket she arrived with around her body and press a soft kiss to her precious forehead, and as I back out of the gray minivan littered with Cheerios and Hot Wheels cars, I’m suddenly overwhelmed by relief.

So much so that I wrap my arms around Lindsey and hug her against my chest, tucking my face into her hair and willing myself not to cry like the exhausted nutcase I’ve suddenly become.

“Oh . . . okay, then. It’s . . . it’s okay,” she says through a soft giggle, her hands rubbing gentle circles on my back.

Her touch snaps me back to attention, and my eyes fly open wide. I clear my throat as I back away, wincing through the embarrassed burn on my cheeks.

“Sorry about that. I’m a bit—”

“I get it. Trust me. I’ve been there . . . a few times.” Her gentle smile barely reaches her eyes, and it’s in that moment I see how tired she is, too.

“It’s nice not to be alone.” I shrug, but my words seem to hit us at the same time, our gazes widening. Lindsey’s chest fills with a deep breath, and I feel this urge to somehow rearrange my words so they seem less needy.

“It is,” she says before I speak. And there’s a rawness to her tone that makes me think our stories might not be so different.

Or I’m so fucking tired that I’m delusional and reading into things that don’t exist.

Either way, this is the best grand I’ve ever spent.