Chapter 5
Alex
Two weeks later, my sister, Amelia, video calls while I’m listening to my voiceover for B-roll of Tenny forcing out player after player at first. Does that breathless wonder filter in when I talk about Trevor Chapman or Rhett Wells?
No. No, it does not.
Come on, Stevens. Do better.
I delete the audio with an irritated stab of my finger before answering my sister’s call.
“Hey, Mil. How’s Mr. Demon today?”
The senior associate overseeing my sister’s first year at Watkins, Adams, and Kent is actually named Damon, but he acts more like a fork-tongued soul sucker than a human man—thus the nickname.
My sister pitches forward with a groan until all I can see is her forehead. “I don’t understand why he’s so terrible.”
“Probably because he’s a tiny dictator with a corner office.”
Amelia straightens with an exasperated sigh, running a hand through her hair.
It’s long and blonde, just like mine. When we were kids, we used to pretend we were twins, even though she’s eighteen months older than me.
And then, when I grew taller than her and everyone thought I was the older sister, Amelia set them straight.
She takes great pride in being the ‘eldest daughter.’
“He doesn’t sleep. I’m getting cc’d on emails at two a.m. that say, ‘Respond ASAP.’ Like, sir, some of us don’t want to voluntarily enter psychosis from sleep deprivation.
” When she snorts at her own joke, a smile blooms on my lips.
“I’m convinced he just powers down for twenty minutes like a laptop. ”
I chuckle. “That’s probably accurate.”
“And he’s so unnecessarily picky. He redlined a comma today,” she says, propping up her phone so she can aggressively tug her hair into a ponytail.
“A comma?”
She levels me with a flat look. “A comma. He said it ‘lacked confidence.’”
I choke on a laugh. “I’m sorry, your comma wasn’t assertive enough?”
“He said precision reflects discipline.”
I roll my eyes.
“Yes!” She jabs a finger at the screen. “Exactly. I’m not saying large errors shouldn’t be addressed, but a comma?”
“Sorry, Mil.”
The sigh leaving her mouth could cast a fleet of ships to sea. “It’s okay. I mean…it’s not, but I’ll be okay.”
“You absolutely will,” I say with complete confidence.
I haven’t seen a mountain my older sister couldn’t tackle.
“How’s the team today?” she asks.
“They’re fine.” I wave a hand. “Another game this afternoon.”
“Wow,” she deadpans. “You seem really enthused.”
“I didn’t mean it like that. It’s work. You get it.”
Amelia tilts her head. “Do I, though? I’m suffering in the legal trenches now because eventually I’ll get my pick of clients. Why are you suffering through a sport if you don’t like it?”
“I do like it,” I say defensively.
I wouldn’t be keeping this relentless schedule if I didn’t.
Being at the ballpark hours before the first pitch, tracking bullpen usage, and juggling clubhouse conversations isn’t for the faint of heart.
One hundred and sixty-two games a season means there are barely any off days.
I speak to players and managers more frequently than reporters covering any other sport.
“But you could report on anything.”
I cross one arm across my chest since I’m still holding the phone in the other. “I like sports.”
“So report on tennis, volleyball, or…surfing.”
My stomach seizes at the word. “You know I can’t do that.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Mil,” I say with a groan. “I need to be camera-ready in twenty minutes. I can’t do this right now.”
“Fine. I’ll accept that as today’s excuse.”
The way she says today’s excuse grates even as I know my sister is right. There’s no physical reason why I couldn’t cover surfing.
“You know why I chose baseball.”
Amelia levels me with an unimpressed look. “Save me the sound bite.”
“What sound bite?” I ask, even though I know exactly what she’s referring to.
“How your physical therapist, Dennis, loved baseball. He had it on during all of your appointments, and you fell in love with the sport by proxy.”
I pick an invisible piece of lint off my sleeve. “That’s what happened.”
“I think you’re forgetting a crucial piece of evidence, dear sister. I was there.”
Amelia didn’t hesitate when she got the call about my accident, just hopped on a plane to Hawaii.
When it became apparent that my recovery would take months, she deferred law school to be there with me every day.
Since our dad could only leave his dental practice for so long, Amelia insisted he return to California after I was stable.
Then Amelia extended the lease on the apartment I’d rented so I could recover there instead of a rehab facility.
Appointments. Medications. Physical therapy.
Amelia was there for me not only physically, but emotionally.
Every. Single. Day.
I could live a dozen lifetimes and never fully show my appreciation for my sister.
“Now that you’re finally in the big leagues—pun intended”—she waggles her eyebrows—“you should admit why you picked baseball, especially since you’re working for the Waves.”
My neck twitches at Amelia’s astute observation.
She hasn’t forgotten about how I’d been way too excited over a kiss with a stranger, how I started watching baseball games between wave reps even though I’d never had interest in the sport before, and how, after the accident, I clung to the tiny rush of happiness from MLB games because it kept my mind off whether I’d be able to walk again.
Though a younger version of Tenny might have sparked my initial interest in the game, I’d never give him credit for that—especially after learning that he goes through women like napkins at a barbecue.
“The why doesn’t matter. What matters is that I fell in love with this game, and despite having to deal with a rather infuriating player on a daily basis, I’m really happy here.”
Amelia’s gaze softens. “I’m so proud of you.”
My reflexive thanks is on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it. “I’m proud of myself too.”
It’s been an uphill crawl, but I’m finally where I want to be.
“I love you.”
“I love you too,” I say, mirroring my sister’s smile. “Call you tomorrow?”
She lets out an exasperated sigh. “If Demon doesn’t kill me first.”
Fifteen minutes later, Daphne and I are finishing our final checks when a clubhouse attendant tells us we can head inside. The goal is to get more than two-second interview with Shane Seaver, the elusive new right fielder, then speak to the starting pitcher.
But as we walk into the room, Tenny finds me first.
Just like he’s been doing since the incident in the parking lot.
As long as I don’t mention his playboy lifestyle, he’s happy to answer questions.
Afterward, we end up verbally sparring. It’s actually something I should wrangle in.
I don’t spend time after interviews inadvertently learning DJ Rivera’s favorite color or how he hates the little strings on bananas.
Before he leaves, Tenny always gives me a fist bump.
It’s a little weird, but I’ve learned to roll with it.
“Hey, Alex.”
I don’t look up from my notes, just hold up my fist for him to tap his knuckles against. I need to stay focused today.
“What’s on the docket this afternoon? Planning on dragging anyone else’s name through the mud, because you should know, I’m very protective of my friends.”
Apparently, today’s fist bump isn’t the quick, passing kind.
With an annoyed huff of breath, I glance up from my notebook…
And nearly swallow my tongue.
Because Tenny is halfway through unbuttoning his Waves jersey.
My gaze unconsciously follows his long fingers, making quick work of removing the dirty jersey.
Each inch of exposed tan skin is more tantalizing than the next.
The subtle groove between toned pecs yields to an enticing valley of sculpted abs.
Tenny is leaner than other players, but each muscle is still distractingly defined.
It isn’t until he shrugs out of his jersey that I realize I’ve not only been staring, but also haven’t answered his question.
Snap out of it!
It’s not like I haven’t seen dozens of shirtless players over the years. It’s pretty much expected in post-game clubhouse interviews. I once questioned a rising-star center fielder in nothing but a towel, keeping my focus and professionalism the whole time.
Still…there’s something about Tenny in snug baseball pants with only his signature tennis necklace resting on exposed collarbones.
“Trying to pin down Shane,” I say, fixing my gaze on Tenny’s face and keeping it there.
“Good luck with that.”
Tenny’s grin is all wholesome, golden-retriever energy, like he hadn’t noticed me ogling him.
Or maybe he doesn’t care? He’s probably so used to women fawning over him that he barely registers it anymore. I shake off the embarrassment of being like so many other women and focus on what matters—my job.
“What about you?” I accept Daphne’s proffered microphone, clicking into work-mode. “How are you feeling about today’s game?”
It doesn’t seem physically possible, but Tenny’s smile doubles in size. “It’s a beautiful, sunny day. We’re well rested from our day off yesterday. I’d say we’re going to have a great game.”
“It’s a good day to be a Wave?” I ask with a poised grin.
“It’s always a good day to be a Wave.”
He gives me a playful wink that I do not feel to the tips of my toes.
“That’s good,” I tell Daphne.
Pregame interviews are supposed to be quick, and I should already be looking for Shane.
“It would have been a good day for you yesterday, if you’d joined us at Trevor’s pool party,” Tenny adds.
Rumor has it, Trevor Chapman hosts occasional pool parties on their days off at his home in Virginia Beach.
I was told he rented a huge house with a pool so the team could all relax together while at spring training.
His new bride, Kenzie, and their two cats even relocated for six weeks in the sun as opposed to suffering through a dreary Virginian winter.
I barely keep from rolling my eyes, but only because Daphne’s camera lens is mere inches from my face. Why is she still filming?
“Sorry my refusal hurt your fragile feelings, but I need to maintain objectivity. Attending a social event with Waves players would pose a conflict of interest.”
Tenny’s grin shifts into a wicked smirk. “You seemed pretty interested a minute ago.”
So he did notice…
I mentally give myself a hard shake. It’s not like I can date a player on the team I report on. Talk about violating every professional boundary in the book. Even if I was considering setting my career on fire, it wouldn’t be with baseball’s womanizer of the year.
My bored yawn only makes him laugh.
“Thanks, Brianna.” Tenny accepts a clean jersey from a clubhouse attendant while keeping his eyes locked on mine.
When I fold my arms over my chest, he proceeds to pull on the freshly laundered fabric with the pace of a snail. I’ve seriously seen paint dry faster.
“Preparing for how slow you’ll run the bases later?” I ask with a raised eyebrow.
My snarky comment only delights him. “You’re welcome to walk away whenever you’d like, Ms. Stevens.”
Okay, well. Now I can’t leave.
Popping out a hip, I keep our eye contact and start tapping an impatient foot.
Tenny laughs, and the sound fizzes down my forearms like champagne bubbles.
I shouldn’t love the sound of it. And I definitely shouldn’t listen to a clip of it when I’m stressed over a deadline.
It’s just…something about the timbre of Tenny’s carefree laugh eases the tension between my shoulder blades.
“Perhaps you need—”
The rest of my quip dies in my open mouth when two reserve pitchers get in a playful shoving match behind Daphne.
Oblivious to their surroundings, they knock into her, causing her to almost drop the camera.
I twist—too quickly and forcefully—to steady the camera.
The pain searing down my back steals my breath.
A grunt escapes my lips as I blink to keep tears at bay.
“Hey. Pay attention.” Tenny pushes the players back before checking on my colleague. “Daphne, are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she mutters without looking up from her detailed inspection of the camera. “Ugh. They knocked the focus ring. Alex, just give me a minute to refocus, and we can continue.”
“Mm-hmm.”
Speaking full words is beyond me when my back feels like one hot pinch. I’ve had muscle spasms like this before, especially early on in my recovery when I pushed myself too hard or lifted something I wasn’t supposed to.
Daphne makes an irritated sound. “I forgot my microfiber cloth. I’ll be right back.”
I nod, but she’s not looking at me.
My breath slips out in shaky, short bursts as I use all my willpower not to rub my scar. Appearing unaffected fails miserably when I shift my weight, and liquid agony spreads down my spine. My whimper is absolutely pitiful.
“Alex.”
Tenny suddenly feels like he’s everywhere, he’s crowded so close.
His hands hover over my lower back, and the warmth emanating from them has no right being so soothing.
I want to sag into him. I want him to press those large hands over my aching muscles more than I’ve wanted anything in a long time.
“What’s wrong?”
I exhale through another painful spike, keeping my gaze on the blue stitching of his jersey collar. “Just a muscle spasm. I have…I have a bad back.”
That’s putting it lightly.
I have a formerly shattered spine held together by rods and screws and nothing short of a medical miracle. Oh, and I also have the super-awesome parting gift of occasionally setting off metal detectors. Funzies.
“Let me take you to Dr. Ramirez. She’s incredible.”
“No. I’m fine. I just”—another spasm has me clenching my teeth—“need a minute.”
“You need help.” His worried eyes sweep my face.
I move to wave my hand dismissively, but the action makes me wince.
A muscle in Tenny’s jaw pops as he leans in.
“I’m taking you to Dr. Ramirez.” It’s a command, not a request. “You’re not going to fight me on this. You can fight me later, about whatever you want, but I’m helping you, Alex.”
I glare at him out of habit, and because I hate appearing weak, but the throbbing around my battered spine makes my decision for me. A shaky breath leaves my pursed lips as I nod.
Tenny’s gaze softens. “Can I carry you?”
The way he asks this last question, low and protective, does weird things to my heart.
“No.” I accidentally hit his torso when I hold up a shielding palm. “Being carried right now would make it worse. Let me walk. It’s just…” I bite my lip to keep from crying when another searing burst rockets through my body. “I need to move slowly.”
“Then let’s go slow.” Tenny collects my hand in his, allowing me to offload some of my weight on him.
We’re three agonizing steps toward the exit when I remember Daphne. “I need to tell—”
“I’ll handle it,” Tenny interrupts. “I’ll handle everything. The only thing that matters is getting you taken care of.”
A hard swallow works down my tight throat.
“I got you, Alex.” This time his words are a soft promise. “I’ve got you.”