Unforgettable: A Small Town Second Chance Sports Romance

by Melanie Harlow

  “I’ll make room.” She scooted all the way to one end and threw a handful of bubbles at me. “Come on, it’ll be fun. I’ll give you a massage and you can talk about your feelings. It will be like that scene in Pretty Woman.”

  Grumbling, I managed to get into the tub without spilling too much water over the side. I couldn’t stretch my legs out all the way, but I was able to wedge myself in between April’s.

  She wrapped them around me, along with her arms. “There. Doesn’t that feel nice?”

  I had to admit it did.

  “This tub was the thing that made me say yes to buying this place,” she said, rubbing bubbles over my chest. That felt nice too.

  “You take a lot of baths?”

  “Yes. But not with other people.”

  “So I’m the first guest in your tub?”

  “You are the first,” she confirmed, crossing her ankles above my hips.

  I grabbed one of her feet and pressed a hand to the bottom of it. “You have very small feet.”

  “You have very big hands.”

  “I know.”

  “Did that help you pitch better?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.” I rubbed the sole of her foot with my thumb. “The truth is, I don’t know what made me so good. I mean, I worked hard, I had the physical size and strength, and I was intensely focused, but all of that was true right up to the day I couldn’t throw strikes anymore. Nothing had changed. So what was it?”

  “I don’t know,” she said softly.

  “Sometimes I wonder if there was always a time limit on it. Like, did God say, ‘Here you go, kid. You’re gonna be one of the best in the game, but it’s gonna be over before you know it. Enjoy it while it lasts.’”

  She was quiet a minute while I kept rubbing her foot. “Let’s say that’s true. Let’s even say God gave you the choice. Would you choose it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, what if God, or whoever it is that hands out souls, came to you before you were born and said, ‘In your next life, you’ll be a rock star baseball pitcher—but only for a limited time, and you won’t like the way it ends.’ Would you take the talent? Or would you say ‘no, thanks?’”

  I didn’t even have to think about it. “I’d take the talent.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  But for a few minutes, I wondered what I would have done with my life if I hadn’t had the talent. If my dad had never taught me the game. If I hadn’t grown up with a glove on one hand and a ball in the other. If I’d never swung a bat or heard that satisfying crack as it connected with the ball before sailing over the fence.

  I couldn’t imagine it.

  “You just have to decide what you want now,” she went on. “Because you can’t go back.”

  “Like right now?”

  She giggled. “Why do I feel like I know where this is going?”

  I looked at her over one shoulder. “What I want right now is to do very bad things to you in this tub.”

  The dimples appeared. “Then it’s definitely your lucky day.”

  Eventually, the rain stopped, the sky went dark, and I got dressed, reluctantly retrieving all the pieces of my suit from last night and pulling them on. It was crazy to me that I didn’t want to leave.

  Which was exactly why I made myself do it.

  Spending the entire day with April had been a little too comfortable. The last thing I needed was to start getting confused about what this was—and I didn’t want to do that to April either. Staying the rest of the week was fine, but when seven days were up, I was getting on that plane.

  “What are you up to tomorrow?” I asked her at the door.

  “Monday is usually my day off for errands and stuff,” she said, “but I actually have to go over to Cloverleigh in the morning for a meeting with my sisters about our dad’s retirement party.”

  “Oh, when is that?”

  “End of the month. What will you do tomorrow?”

  “Work out in the morning, most likely, and then head over to baseball practice in the afternoon. I’d like to stick around long enough to help that kid with his motion, watch him pitch a game or two.”

  She smiled. “Aha! So it’s not only about sex, it’s about baseball too.”

  “It’s about baseball too,” I confessed.

  “Listen, I think that’s great. Baseball is part of your soul, and you need to find a way to love it again. I think hating it is taking too much out of you.”

  “You’re probably right,” I said.

  She opened the door for me. “Maybe I could come with you to a game this week.”

  “Sure.”

  “So is this kid as good as you were in high school?”

  I gave her a look. “No one is that good, April.”

  Laughing, she pushed me out the door. “Get out of here. And take your giant ego with you.”

  I turned around and walked backward a few steps. “Still think it’s the biggest thing about me?”

  “Actually, you may have changed my mind about that,” she said.

  I nodded and gave her the grin. “It’s about time.”

  Fourteen

  April

  The morning meeting with my sisters was moved at the last minute to Frannie’s house, because one of the girls was sick and home from school.

  We sat around Mack and Frannie’s dining room table drinking coffee and finalizing the details for the party.

  “How many R.S.V.P. yeses did we end up with?” Meg asked.

  “Two hundred thirty-eight,” I answered, double-checking the count on my laptop. “Almost everyone invited is coming.”

  “Do you think we need a seating chart?” asked Sylvia.

  I tilted my head this way and that. “I mean, we could—it is a lot of people. But I feel like we could get away without one too.”

  “Let’s just let everyone sit where they want to,” said Chloe. “Seating charts are a pain to make.”

  We all agreed, and moved on to the final menu, the wine list, and the timing of the evening. “Invites said cocktails at six, so I think we’re safe with formal toast at seven, followed immediately by dinner, then dancing and dessert,” I said.

  “Sounds good to me,” said Frannie.

  “You’re the expert,” said Meg.

  “So who wants to make the toast?” I looked around the table, and they all went silent.

  “Syl?” Frannie said finally. “You’re the oldest. Want to do it?”

  Sylvia shook her head. “Last time I gave a public speech, I got drunk, stole a mic from Santa, used the word ‘asshole’ in front of children and elves, then dropped the mic before leaving the floor. You do not want me giving that toast.”

  “I’m not doing it either,” Meg said.

  “Not it.” Chloe put a finger on her nose.

  “Not it.” Frannie did the same.

  I sighed. “You guys. Really?”

  “Come on, April, you’re a natural at this stuff,” Meg said. “You’ve got a degree in PR and you’re definitely the most polished.”

  “What?” I gestured to Sylvia. “Before Breakfast with Santagate, Sylvia was the definition of polished!”

  “But I’m pregnant now,” Sylvia said. “Don’t make me get up in front of two hundred people in a maternity dress. That’s just cruel.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Okay, fine. I’ll do it. But you guys have to help me think of what to say.”

  “It’ll be easy.” Chloe reached over and patted my arm. “Just say some sentimental shit about family.”

  “Make some jokes,” suggested Frannie.

  “Yes—be funny. People like that.” Meg nodded.

  “Just don’t be boring,” Sylvia put in. “Or too wordy.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Gee, thanks, you guys. That’s really helpful.”

  Frannie laughed. “You’ll figure it out. I have faith.”

  We finished up, and Meg left in a hurry for a ten o’clock arbitration. Chloe took off sh
ortly after for Cloverleigh, and Sylvia said she had to cover a volunteer shift at the middle school clinic, so eventually it was just Frannie and me at the table.

  “So?” she said, lifting her coffee cup to her lips. “How was the rest of your weekend?”

  “Good,” I said, reaching for a sliced strawberry out of the fruit salad bowl. It reminded me of the breakfast Tyler had made for me yesterday. “Sexy.”

  “More, please.”

  “Tyler came home with me Saturday night and stayed over. The next morning my bra was hanging from the chandelier.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “Do go on.”

  I laughed. “There’s not much else to say. We had a lot of good sex. He made pancakes for me. We hung out all the next day. I made him take a bubble bath and talk about his feelings.”

  She nearly choked on her coffee. “You did?”

  “Yes. Also . . .” I reached for another strawberry. “He’s not leaving.”

  A pause. A smile. “What?”

  “He decided not to fly home yesterday. He wants to stay longer.”

  “How much longer?”

  “Maybe a week.”

  “Why?”

  I shrugged. “He ran into his old coach at Coffee Darling when we were there. The coach asked him to stick around and help out this pitcher who’s struggling with his motion a little bit.”

  Frannie sat back and folded her arms. “Right. And I suppose it had nothing to do with the way he can’t stop staring at you across a room?”

  “I’m not saying I had nothing to do with it. But I think it’s a combination of things. He really does miss baseball, and I think coaching this young pitcher might be a good re-entry into the game. What happened to his career really messed him up—to the point where he started to hate baseball.”

  Frannie sighed. “We sort of tiptoed around it Saturday night. Mostly he and Mack talked about their old high school team, and the two of them just lit up remembering how awesome they were. They were like two peacocks strutting around the table.”

  I laughed. “Yeah, they were a pretty awesome team. But for Tyler, he thought that was a forever thing. In his mind, it was the only thing he was good at, it was what he was meant to do with his life, and he staked everything on it. What happened felt like a betrayal of his own mind, his own body—if not his faith. Baseball was a religion for him.”

  “Yeah, but he would have retired anyway, right? Nobody can play forever. What was his plan for after?”

  I shook my head. “I’m telling you, he never even imagined it. It was baseball, then death.”

  Her expression was amused. “That’s kinda dark.”

  “I know.” I took another sip of coffee. “But I feel like coming back here was good for him. Between seeing his sister get married and taking an interest in coaching, I feel like he’s getting to the point where he can see the sun rising.”

  “That’s good.” She was quiet a minute. “And what about you? Still doing okay with everything?”

  “I’m fine,” I said with more confidence than I felt. “Really. We’re actually being very honest and open with each other. I know this is only temporary. He’s not staying forever. I just like being with him.”

  “Okay. I’m only asking because I can tell you feel things for him, and now that I know what you went through, I just . . .” She shrugged. “You always put other people’s feelings first, that’s all.”

  I smiled. “I’m a big girl, and I’m learning a lot about taking care of myself.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  But it wasn’t a promise I was certain I could keep.

  I spent the rest of the day catching up on personal stuff and trying not to think too hard about anything—the fact that I’d been sleeping alone for years but had missed Tyler in my bed last night, that I still had no reply to my letter, that somehow I’d gotten saddled with giving a speech at my dad’s retirement party. What on earth was I going to say that wouldn’t bore everyone to tears?

  I made a pot of spaghetti sauce, and while it was simmering, I sat down at the table to brainstorm some ideas. But the only thing I wrote down in my notebook was Tyler Shaw. I was still staring at his name when my phone buzzed.

  Tyler Shaw calling.

  I smiled and picked it up. “Hello?”

  “Hey you. What’s up?”

  “Not much. I’m at home freaking out about the speech I have to give at my dad’s retirement party.”

  “Now you know how I felt about the dancing. Have you eaten dinner yet?”

  I looked over at the stove. “I just made spaghetti sauce. Want to come over?”

  “Mmm, I could go for some spaghetti sauce. Can I pour it over your naked body and lick it off?”

  “That sounds . . . like a hot mess.”

  “Hot messes in the kitchen are my specialty, remember?”

  I laughed. “How could I forget?”

  He arrived about twenty minutes later with a bottle of red wine and a smile that turned my bones to jelly. As soon as I shut the door behind him, he kissed me hello like he’d missed me.

  “How was your day?” I asked as we moved into the kitchen.

  “Great,” he said. “God, it smells good in here.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Reminds me of old times when I’d come home from practice and you’d have dinner made.”

  “You definitely smell better tonight.”

  He hooked an arm around my neck and pretended to choke me. “Admit it. You secretly loved the way I smelled.”

  Laughing, I tried to get away but couldn’t. “I did not! It was like a gym bag that had been left out in the sun all day to bake!”

  “I showered when I got home, didn’t I?”

  “You did, thank God.” He finally let me go, and I set the bottle of wine on the counter.

  “Want me to open that?”

  “Sure. Corkscrew is in there.” I gestured toward the drawer and pulled down two glasses from the cupboard. “Did you go to practice this afternoon?”

  “Yeah.” He took out the corkscrew and closed the drawer with his hip.

  “How’d it go?”

  “I think it went well.” After pulling the cork from the bottle, he poured us each a glass. “I worked with the lefty again. He’s struggling with his balance point, and his stride length is a little off too.”

  “Can you help him?”

  “I think so. He’s all concerned about speed and power, but that’s not gonna mean shit if he’s got no accuracy. It’s great to throw a ninety mile-per-hour pitch, but unless it goes where you want it to, it’s not much use. Trust me.”

  I smiled sympathetically at him and turned on the gas beneath a large pot of water.

  He picked up one of the glasses and took a sip. “Can I help you with something? I’m an expert in the kitchen now that I made pancakes.”

  Laughing, I handed him a knife and a loaf of Italian bread. “Here. Slice this up, but not your hands, please. I’m partial to them.”

  He gave me a kiss for that.

  “Use the cutting board right there.”

  He washed his hands and got to work while I put together a spinach salad. “Have you heard from Sadie?” I asked.

  “Yes. I called her this morning to tell her I was staying in town a little longer, and of course she begged me to please bring in their mail while they’re away. And before you ask, yes, I did it today.”

  I smiled and tossed the spinach into a big round bowl. “They’re in New Orleans, right? When are they back?”

  “Yes. Thursday. I also have to take out their trash and recycling on Wednesday night.”

  “What a nice brother you are,” I said, cutting up a tomato.

  “I am a nice brother. I don’t even take out my own trash and recycling,” he complained.

  “What? That is ridiculous. Who on earth takes out your trash and recycling?”

  “My housekeeper. She’s the only person I can tolerate in my house for long pe
riods of time. She’s awesome. Not only does she keep my house clean, but she shops and cooks for me too. And she’ll put each meal in a container and label it with what it is and instructions for reheating it. Sometimes she even puts a little smiley face on the note.”

  “Oh my God,” I said, laughing as I tossed the tomatoes on top of the lettuce. “You’re like a fourth grader. Do you call her Mommy?”

  “No, I call her Anna, and I pay her very, very well to put up with me. She has a good salary and benefits, and I also just bought her a car because hers wasn’t reliable and she does so much driving for me. She comes to the cabin once a week too.”

  “Well, good.” I started slicing a cucumber. “Does she get a vacation while you’re here?”

  “Yes, she does. I called her this morning and told her she could have the week off—paid, of course.”

  “Good man.” I paused. “Did you book your return flight?”

  “No. I kind of forgot about doing that.”

  I was glad my back was turned so he couldn’t see my gigantic smile.

  “Okay, the bread is sliced,” he said. “What else can I do?”

  “Want to taste the sauce?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Over at the stove, I handed him the wooden spoon. “Here. Give it a stir, and then taste. Be careful, it’s hot.”

  He took the lid off the pot, stirred, and tasted. Then he smiled. “So good. And it totally reminds me of you.”

  I laughed. “Oh, come on, you’ve had pasta sauce a billion times since high school.”

  “And every time, it reminded me of you.”

  My heart beat a little faster. “Liar.”

  “That’s the truth, I swear,” he said. “There were always certain things that reminded me of you.”

  “Like what?”

  “Red hair, dimples, the smell of birthday cake. Weren’t there things that reminded you of me?”

  I thought about it while I took the spoon and tasted the sauce. “Baseball,” I told him, reaching for the salt. I added a little to the sauce and stirred again. “And for a while, sex.”

  “Really?” He seemed pleased about it. “Sex?”

  “Well, yes.” I glanced at him. “But it was sort of terrifying.”