by Kate, Jiffy
He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “My mom came down here with us. She’s going to help me set up the house and find a good nanny, but it’s hard knowing who I can trust with my kids when I’m thousands of miles away. But I’ve got to figure out my shit or I’m going to get sent down and I can’t let that happen.”
Of course, he can’t let that happen.
He’s now the sole provider for two children.
“I’m here for you if you need anything… the whole team will be,” I assure him. “But I also have a great therapist, if you want someone professional to talk to. It really helped me after Felicia left.”
“I can’t believe the two of you got divorced,” he says with true incredulity in his tone. “I thought you were the perfect couple.”
My laugh holds no humor. “Yeah, well, so did I… for a while, but things aren’t always as perfect as they seem.”
“I know what you mean,” he says. “I think I’m done, man.”
At first, I think he’s talking about throwing balls, but then I realize he means more.
He’s done with relationships.
“I’m so done with women,” he continues. “They’re all the fucking same.”
The Owen Thatcher I knew from college was a fun-loving guy who was easy going and willing to do anything for anyone, but this version is harder, and I can see the thick layer of protection he’s built around himself.
There’s something about it that’s familiar, like seeing myself from a different angle. I remember a time not too long ago when I thought it would be easier to not get attached to anyone else after Felicia.
No heartache.
No betrayal.
No disappointment.
Then I met Casey.
Chapter 24
Casey
Thanks to my lack of energy during the day, I end up taking quite a few naps and that often leads to bouts of insomnia.
It’s not just the naps keeping me up tonight, though.
Ross and I went to bed over three hours ago, he made me come twice, and then we showered and he went to sleep. I, on the other hand, have been staring at the ceiling, tossing and turning for over two hours thinking about the fact I have to call my parents tomorrow and tell them about the baby. We have our big ultrasound in two days and it’s time. I can’t hide it from them any longer.
Ross has wanted to tell his parents for a while. He claims they will be beside themselves with excitement and I believe him. But I can’t help feeling the opposite about mine.
It’s not that my mom and dad are horrible people. I love them. We talk on a pretty regular basis, but it’s about mundane topics. My mom tells me about her friends she lunches with and business in LA. My dad always inquires about my safety and how Charlotte is really doing. As much as they love us, they also love their lifestyle of the rich and famous.
To most people, it probably looks cold and uninviting, but they do care about us and want what’s best for us. And when push comes to shove, they have our backs… mostly.
One thing I’ve never approved of is how they handled Charlotte’s pregnancy. It was like they didn’t know how to handle it so they let people who cared more about her career than her life do it for them. I was a kid, but I could see the mistakes they were making.
Of course, hindsight is twenty-twenty and I think they eventually saw the error of their ways, but I’m not sure I’ve ever let that go. It’s not that I’m holding a grudge or unforgiveness, I just don’t trust them as much as I should.
And now that I’m pregnant, those old feelings have resurfaced and I’m struggling to tell them.
When I try to roll over for the fifteenth time, Ross stirs and I decide it’s time to give it up and get out of bed. Besides, I’m craving something sweet and I know I won’t be able to sleep until it’s satisfied.
Slipping out from under Ross’s arm, I inch off the bed and tiptoe my way downstairs.
Ross told me I should wake him when I can’t sleep, but just because I can’t sleep doesn’t mean he shouldn’t. Besides, he pitches tomorrow night and needs his rest.
To say he hasn’t been on his game lately would be an understatement. At the start of the season, he was on fire, retiring batters right and left, but lately he’s lucky if he pitches enough innings to claim the win… or loss, which has been the case lately.
The Revelers are on somewhat of a losing streak and I can tell it’s getting to him.
And Bo.
And all the other players I see on a regular basis.
They’re all now growing out beards until they win again… or hit five-hundred… or whatever. I don’t really know. All I know is that I feel like I’m to blame for Ross’s slump and I want to do anything I can to help him.
Allowing him to sleep is one thing I can do for him.
Unfortunately, as I’m bent over, rummaging through the refrigerator, I hear a creak on the stairs.
“Sorry,” I whisper, as he stumbles into the kitchen, feeling bad for waking him.
He yawns and runs a hand through his hair, messing it up even more than it already was… making him even sexier. Delicious. Maybe I’m not hungry for food after all.
These second trimester pregnancy hormones are no joke… I want sex all the time.
“It’s okay,” he says, coming up behind me and placing his hands on my stomach. “Is the baby hungry?”
I nod. “The baby is starving and keeping me up. It needs something sweet.”
Oreo ice cream is my usual go-to, but it doesn’t sound good tonight. Neither do the Thin Mint cookies Ross special ordered for me from some Girl Scout stash he found online.
“I need beignets,” I tell him, suddenly hit with a very specific craving for puffed pastry and powdered sugar. Realizing it’s the middle of the night and we don’t have the ingredients to make any, I’m sure I’ll figure something else out to satisfy it… for now. But first thing tomorrow—
“Let’s go get beignets, then,” Ross says, interrupting my thoughts.
Turning in his arms, I frown up at him. “It’s after midnight.”
“Cafe du Monde is open twenty-four hours a day.”
He’s right. But Ross and I never go anywhere together, at least not in public. We’ve driven over to Charlotte and Bo’s for pizza and to pick up dinner to-go, but that’s pretty much been the extent of our outings.
“But you’re pitching tomorrow and you need your sleep.”
Bending down, he brushes his lips against mine and then over to my cheek, whispering in my ear, “If my girl wants beignets, I’m getting her some beignets.”
Ross’s use of my girl sends tingles down my spine. Cupping his cheeks, I pull his mouth to mine and show him how much I love that he claims me for his own and caters to my cravings.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he says, his voice low and husky and doing things to my body.
“It’s that or sex,” I tell him, going back for another kiss.
He chuckles into my mouth. “How about beignets and then sex.”
“I love your bargaining skills.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m waiting by the front door, dressed in yoga pants and an oversized t-shirt, with a cardigan to cover my bump and my hair in a messy bun.
Ross comes jogging down the stairs wearing jeans and a hoodie, looking delectable. But when you’re as beautiful as Ross Davies, it doesn’t matter what you wear… or don’t wear.
“Ready?” he asks, pulling a cap down low, covering his eyes.
When I get a good look at it, I pull back in disgust. “What the heck are you wearing?”
He smirks. “It’s my decoy.”
“It’s a Dodgers hat.”
“Exactly,” he says, opening the door as our Uber driver appears at the gate. With a hand on my back, Ross ushers me out of the house. “I can’t really go out in Revelers attire, so I keep this handy for when I want to go out and not be recognized.”
Rolling my eyes, I snort. “How many people expect
to run into Ross Davies at Cafe du Monde at one in the morning?”
“I’m not taking any chances.”
I can appreciate that, so I take his hand and follow him to the car.
When the driver pulls up in front of Cafe du Monde, I’m pleased to see that while there are quite a few people at the tables, there isn’t a line.
As we walk up and find a table in one of the corners, I breathe in the sweet aroma, my craving already being somewhat satisfied just by being here. Maybe it’s the warm breeze or being in the Quarter or the guys playing jazz on the street corner, but it makes me feel… good.
“I haven’t been here in forever,” I tell Ross as he pulls out a chair for me.
“I haven’t either,” he says, sounding distracted.
I’m getting ready to ask him if something’s wrong, but then I realize what he’s doing. He’s scanning the restaurant to see if anyone has noticed him, which causes me to do the same, but it seems like we’ve managed to slip in undetected.
“Does that get old?” I ask.
He finally looks over at me and furrows his eyebrows. “What?”
“Checking around to see if you’ve been noticed.”
“I do it without even thinking,” he admits. “When it first started happening, it always caught me off guard. I remember Felicia loved it at first, then after a while, she hated it, like it interrupted her life or something. So, I got to where I’d do what I call a perimeter check every time we’d go somewhere and try to get ahead of any situation.”
Shaking his head, he adjusts his hat. “Sorry, I shouldn’t bring her up.”
“Don’t be sorry,” I tell him. Reaching across the table, I place my hand on his and he flips his palm over, lacing our fingers together. “She was a part of your life for a long time. I don’t expect you to just not ever bring her up.”
“Hey,” I say, wanting to change the topic because talk of Felicia always puts Ross in a bad mood and I want to enjoy our time together. “This is kind of our first official date.”
That earns me a smile.
“Maybe you could buy me a t-shirt,” I continue. “You know, to commemorate the occasion… nothing says first date with your baby mama like a t-shirt from a beignet joint.” I waggle my eyebrows, making him laugh.
Ross’s laugh is one of my favorite sounds and it eases my worry a little.
When a waiter comes over to our table, I order two beignets and a chocolate milk. Ross orders four with a cafe au lait, earning him a raise of my eyebrows. Guess I’m not the only one craving something sweet.
As the waiter starts to walk away to turn our order in, Ross stops him. “Could we also get one of your t-shirts?”
“In a large, please,” I add with a huge smile. I was kidding about the shirt, but I really have always wanted one. And since I’m living in t-shirts these days, I’ll happily add a new one to my collection.
“Thank you,” I tell Ross as he pulls out his wallet and counts out some bills for when the waiter returns.
He tucks his wallet back into his pocket and looks over at me. “I should’ve taken you on a dozen dates by now… so don’t thank me for this.”
“This,” I tell him, wishing I could do more than hold his hand, “is perfect.”
When the beignets arrive, Ross and I both dig in.
If you’ve lived in New Orleans for long or been to Cafe du Monde more than once, you know the rules: don’t inhale or exhale, just hold your breath and take a bite.
Which brings me to something I’ve been wanting to ask him. “I know that with baseball, it’s impossible to know how long you’ll be in one place,” I start, hoping this doesn’t sound like I’m asking him for his five-year plan or anything. “But do you plan on staying in New Orleans?”
He finishes his bite and wipes some of the powdered sugar off, missing a little, but I don’t say anything because it’s pretty dang cute.
“I love it here,” he says. “I mean, if I’m ever traded, I’d obviously go wherever, but…” He shrugs, looking out at the street as the musicians change tunes. “I have three more years on my contract and I’m hoping to stick around even after that. This was a brand-new organization when I came here and I’d love to finish out my career here, but it’s hard to see that far into the future.”
I know what he means. I’m struggling to see another five months into the future. I’ve been repeating my mantra—one day at a time—over and over in my head for so long, I tend to forget to look much further. But the last week or so, I’ve been thinking about what happens after the baby is born? Where does Ross see us in six months? A year? Where do I?
It’s a lot and not really the kind of conversation you have at Cafe du Monde at two o’clock in the morning, so I shelve those thoughts for another day.
“What about you?” he asks. “Did you ever consider living in LA, closer to your parents?”
I vehemently shake my head, as my mouth is full of pastry. “Never,” I finally say. “I hate LA. I know that probably sounds harsh, but I saw what Hollywood did to my sister and I know moving back here was the best thing to ever happen to her… and to me.”
Ross’s eyes find mine and he holds my stare.
After a minute or so passes and he doesn’t say anything, I have to ask. “Is there something you want to talk about?”
His expression shifts, but I can decipher it, then he looks down at his plate. “No, why?”
I shrug and then shake my head, brushing it off. “You just seem like you have something on your mind.”
That earns me a noncommittal grunt and like the few times before this, I know he’s not going to say anything. Ross is an open book on so many topics. He never shuts me down when we talk about his parents or baseball. He’s usually even pretty forthcoming about Felicia, even though I can tell he doesn’t want to talk about her. But there’s something else… something that makes him look at me in a certain way that makes me feel like he wants to say something, but can’t or won’t.
Not wanting to push, I try changing the subject. “Tell me more about the new guy.”
“Thatch?” Ross asks, his brows furrow as he uses a corner piece of a beignet to sweep up some powdered sugar and shrugs. “He’s a good guy and we go way back, but he’s been through some rough times lately.”
“With being traded?” I ask.
Ross shakes his head. “No, he’s good with that. Actually, that’s probably the best thing that’s happened to him in a while. Buddy has high hopes for him and we need what he has to offer. I think he’ll end up making a great set-up pitcher.”
He pauses, licking his fingers.
The action causes my mind to go to dirty places… like Ross’s head between my legs. Actually, I think he’s done that exact thing before he—
“Do you know what a set-up pitcher is?” he asks, looking up at me.
Whatever he sees makes him smirk and it’s borderlining on pornography.
I honestly don’t know what’s wrong with me these days. Charlotte’s always called me a closet whore and holy crap, I think she’s right. It’s the only way to explain how him licking his fingers and smirking can make my panties wet.
And just thinking that makes me blush.
I shake my head and take another bite so I won’t have to speak.
A low, rumbly laughter shakes his chest and I hope he’s not getting ready to call me out on my blatant ogling and obvious train of thought. Thankfully, he just continues his mini-lesson on baseball.
“He’s the guy who comes in before the closer, usually around the seventh inning.”
That thought makes Ross pause and I know he’s thinking about his recent starts and the fact he’s not made it to the seventh inning. I see a change in his demeanor, but he tries to recover and continues talking about Owen.
“If he’s good at his job, he’ll eventually be promoted to a closer, but every team needs a good set-up man.”
“What about the other stuff you were talking about?” I like when he d
iscusses things with me and sometimes I think it helps him too. He has his teammates and I know they’re close, but surely having someone outside of the game to talk about stuff with is a good thing. Even though there’s an eight-year difference between us, we usually seem to be on the same page.
Ross shrugs, popping his last bite into his mouth and chewing for a moment while he thinks about what he wants to say. “His girlfriend left him and their two kids.”
“Oh, my God.” My hand covers my mouth as I try to process the thought. “She just left?”
He nods and his eyes are back to roaming the restaurant, not making contact with mine.
“Yep, she told him it was too much for her and she couldn’t do it anymore.” When he sighs, I wonder if what Owen is going through makes him think about Felicia. It sounds similar to what she told him, but I think her reasons for leaving were a bit different. To me, it sounds like Owen’s girlfriend didn’t want the lifestyle, where Felicia wanted it, but she wanted the spotlight for herself.
“What’s he going to do?” I ask, suddenly worried for his children. Baseball players have a rigorous schedule. Unlike other professional sports, their season lasts for half the year, one-hundred-and-eighty-seven days, to be exact, and that doesn’t include Spring Training and postseason play. Half of their season is on the road, which means three months out of the year, he’s gone.
“I mean, his kids are young, I’m guessing.”
“Five and three,” Ross says, and there’s something unreadable in his tone. “But his mom came to stay with him for a while to help them get settled and be with the kids until he finds someone.”
“Like a nanny or something?”
He shrugs again, adopting that closed-off attitude that’s been bothering me lately. It’s like he flips a switch and shuts down, then in another breath, he’s back on.
“Yeah, I guess… he had one in New York, but she was an older woman and couldn’t relocate with him. So, he’s looking for someone like that. He’ll probably go through an agency or something.”
I nod, still thinking about those kids and how a mother could just leave like that.
