by Kaylee Ryan
It’s been a few days since I’ve seen her, and I can’t get our last conversation out of my mind. She asked me if it was the chase, and I’m certain it’s not. However, all I’ve thought about since she asked me is her and what it is about her that draws me in. Stating the obvious… she’s gorgeous. And it’s not the chase, but it’s because of it. I’m used to women falling at my feet. My dad played in the majors my entire life, so I’ve been in and out of the spotlight. As soon as they found out who I was, who my family was, they—meaning most women—offered themselves to me on a silver platter. I took full advantage in my younger years, and hell, even my first year in the majors, but just as fast as the fame and the women came, the novelty wore off. I grew up in a large family full of men who worshiped their wives, and it’s hard to not want that for myself. The past couple of years, I’ve steered clear of groupies. Sure, there’s the occasional hook-up but nothing like the majority of my teammates.
It wasn’t until I first laid eyes on Larissa, that I started really thinking about what it would be like to have that one person, all of my own. Someone to come home to after a long stint on the road. Someone to share my nights with, and the offseason. The more I think about it, the more the idea forms a foundation. The only problem is that in those daydreams, all I see is her.
Larissa.
And she wants nothing to do with me. At least that’s what she wants me to believe. I can see it in her eyes, the internal battle she’s waging to resist me. I wish I knew what it was that was holding her back. If I knew, I could assure her that whatever it is, it’s not too big a mountain to climb. Not in the grand scheme of what we could be.
I don’t know what it’s going to take to get her to take a chance on me.
Flipping through the channels, I stop on an ad for a local florist. The ploy is “let her know you’re thinking about her.” Normally, I would keep surfing channels, but this time, the commercial works and has me reaching for my phone. I spend the next thirty minutes on the phone discussing the best flowers to send her; the lady on the phone was extremely helpful. She even promised to keep this out of the press. Not that I care about that. I couldn’t care less who knows that I’m in knots over this girl. However, my gut tells me that if my interest was to get out, it would push her further away.
They promised delivery to her work today, so I wait to hear from her. The afternoon turns into evening and still nothing. The urge to grab my keys and drive to her work, to be there waiting when she gets off, is strong, but I fight it. I don’t want to stalk her. I just want the chance to get to know her. So instead, I settle for watching Sports Center with my phone clutched in my hand, waiting, hoping, wishing she would call. I received an e-mail confirming delivery was made hours ago.
What is it going to take to get her to give me a chance? That’s my last thought before drifting off to sleep. Hours later, I’m jolted awake by the alarm on my phone reminding me it’s time for my morning run before practice. Silencing the alarm, I turn my head, stretching out the kinks from sleeping on the couch all night. Practice is going to suck. Reaching for my phone, I check my messages and notifications. Nothing from Larissa.
Time for me to step up my game.
It’s Saturday and my day off from the restaurant. I wanted to sleep in today, but instead, I’m here standing in line, waiting for further instructions from our group leader, and trying not to search for him. I tried to think of any excuse to get out of coming today, but ultimately, this is where I ended up. I changed my outfit ten times and redid my makeup twice. It has nothing to do with the fact he might be here—at least that’s what I tell myself. Last night I tried to find a list online of who’s participating, but there were no names listed, just the times of each group’s tour.
So here I stand on the Tennessee Blaze field, waiting for our tour of the stadium to commence. It’s one in the afternoon, and the warm May sun is beating down on us. That’s my justification for sweaty palms, but really, it’s him. This is his turf, and he’s been relentless in his pursuit of me. At work two days ago, I received a bouquet of white roses with a note with the words To new beginnings, and it was signed East. He’s been back to the restaurant almost every day the Blaze have been in town. If I’m not working, he always leaves a note with one of my coworkers to give to me. Chloe thinks I should just give in and go out with him, but I have more than just me to think about. It’s easy for someone on their own to forget that.
“Larissa?” his deep voice asks from behind me.
Closing my eyes, I take in a deep breath. Deep down, I knew he would be here. I plaster a smile on my face and turn around. “Hello, Mr. Monroe,” I say politely, remembering my manners and why I’m here.
“What are you doing here?”
I’m just about to answer when I’m interrupted. “Mommy, who’s that?” my four-year-old daughter, Paisley, asks from beside me. Running my hand over her dark hair, while her big brown eyes pass from me to Easton.
Before I can answer her, Easton drops to his knees and holds out his hand. “I’m Easton, but you can call me East.”
I watch as my daughter places her tiny hand in his large one and shakes it. “My name’s Paisley Gray. I’m four years old. Are you my mommy’s friend? I’m not allowed to talk to strangers,” she informs him. Call me a sap, but I have to bite my lip and blink hard to fight back tears. He didn’t hesitate to drop to his knees and give her his full attention.
Easton looks up at me and smiles. “It’s nice to meet you, Paisley Gray, and yes, your mom and I are friends.” His smile causes a flutter in my chest.
Paisley tilts her head to the side and studies him. “Do you play here?” she asks, pointing to the Tennessee Blaze logo on his jersey.
“I do. I play first base.”
“Really?” she asks excitedly. “I play too. This is my team.” She points to the line of her T-ball team and their parents in front of us. Luckily, we’re at the back of the line and they are none the wiser that Easton Monroe, starting first baseman for the Tennessee Blaze, is standing right behind them. At least not yet.
“What position do you play?” he asks her.
“I hit the ball, but I’m not really good at catching it.”
He chuckles. “That takes lots of practice.”
“Yeah, my mommy’s too busy to practice, and Grandma can’t catch either,” she confesses with a giggle. My heart is in my throat as I watch him interact with my daughter. The fact that I have a daughter doesn’t seem to faze him. He talks to her as if he’s known her forever and the smile on his face says more than his words. He’s not going to let this stop him from pursuing me. I’m not sure how I feel about that. Excited, nervous, scared, elated… I have too many emotions rolling through me all at once.
“If it’s okay with your mom, the two of you can stick around today after the tour, and you and I can play catch for a while,” he offers.
“Can we, Mommy? Please, can we? Oh please?” she asks, bouncing on the balls of her feet.
“Let’s see how the day goes, okay, sweetie?”
“Okay,” she says, hanging her head. I hate to disappoint her like that, but neither one of us needs to get close to Easton.
Easton stands to his full height. “It’s good to see you,” he says, his eyes raking over me. My body reacts to the intensity of his gaze as my cheeks heat. I’m glad I put a little extra time into my appearance today.
“You too.” Silence settles between us, neither one of us really knowing what to say.
“She’s adorable.” He motions to Paisley, who’s chatting with one of her teammates. “She looks just like you.”
“She has her daddy’s eyes,” I say, not thinking.
His eyes drop to my hand, I assume looking for a ring. “Is he here?” he asks.
“No, he passed away before she was born.” I swallow back the lump in my throat that always rises when I think about him missing out on her life and the void he left us with. My little girl doesn’t know what it’s like to hav
e a daddy—hell, she doesn’t know what it’s like to have any male figure at all in her life. This is her first year of T-ball, and her coach is one of the dads, which is really her first true interaction. My dad passed away from a massive heart attack when I was ten.
“Ris.” He reaches for my hand, but I step back. His hand drops back to his side, a dejected look on his face.
“The line’s moving. I better catch up,” I say, realizing that I am in fact losing my group.
“Stay.” He places his hand on my arm to stop me. “After, I mean, stay. I’d love to play catch with her,” he says, looking at the line where Paisley and her team are starting our tour.
“I really gotta go.” I toss him a wave and jog to catch up with my group. Paisley reaches for my hand and swings our arms between us. She’s so excited about today, hence the reason I couldn’t not go. My arm still tingles from his touch, my heart races in my chest, and my mind swarms in a thousand and one different directions.
“Come on, Mommy,” Paisley says, pulling me along.
Shaking myself out of my thoughts, I focus on my little girl and her excitement. We follow along as we walk the bases. The leader of the group, an older gentleman who we learned is retired from the Blaze, explains the importance of each position.
“Who wants to see the locker rooms?” he asks. The kids jump and cheer with excitement. He leads us down a long hall then pushes open the door to the locker rooms. I tune him out, just taking in the room, and that’s when I see it. The name Monroe printed over one of the cubbies.
That’s his.
That’s Easton’s.
That’s where he prepares before every home game—where he gets dressed after his shower. That thought leads me to water tracing down his toned body, sliding over his muscles that are so obviously visible even beneath his clothes.
“Mommy.” Paisley tugs on my hand. “You’re not listening,” she huffs.
“Sorry, sweetie.”
“We’re going to see where the hurt players go,” she informs me. “Do all players get hurt?”
“No, but with any sport, there’s a chance of injury.” I try to explain it the best that I can. She shrugs, as if the potential of being injured isn’t even on her radar. She can leave the worry up to me; I stress enough for both of us. I mean, it’s T-ball, not football, but she’s my baby and I worry. That’s what I do. It started when my dad passed away. I worried about my mom, about how we were going to make it on our own. I worried about her crying herself to sleep at night. You name it, I worried about it. My anxiety got better as I got older, until the day I opened the front door to a uniformed officer telling me that my husband lost his life in the line of duty. He was a rookie on the force, and his pension was pretty much nonexistent. We had life insurance, but that only lasts so long. We were young and thought we had all the time in the world to plan for retirement and big life insurance policies.
That day brought on an all-new list of worries. How was I going to make it through without the love of my life? How was I going to be a single mother? Could I provide for me and our baby? This time the worry didn’t stop; the list has just changed over the years. One that has remained the same is the worry I have for my daughter. The world is a big scary place, and I just want to keep her wrapped in my arms. I want to protect her from anything that could ever hurt her. I know that’s unrealistic, but it’s always there in the back of my mind.
“Looks like we have a special guest,” our tour guide announces, catching my attention. There, standing beside him, is Easton. “Boys and girls, this is Easton Monroe.”
The kids cheer, the dads rush to shake his hand, and the mothers, well, all of them except for me, turn on the charm, some of them with their husbands standing right next to them. Me, I stand stock-still in the back of the pack, just watching it all go down.
“That’s my mommy’s friend. Hi, East,” Paisley says at the exact moment our group quiets down. All eyes turn to us. My face heats. My mouth opens, but no words come out.
“Hey, Princess P.” Easton waves at her, and she giggles, which in turn causes a smile to cross his handsome face. I keep my eyes straight ahead, avoiding the stares of the other parents.
“Welcome.” Easton’s deep voice washes over our small group. “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Easton Monroe. I’m the starting first baseman for the Blaze.” The group murmurs with hellos and reassurance that they know who he is. “I was hoping to highjack the kids. Me and my teammate, Andrew Milton, thought it would be fun to throw around a few balls with them,” he offers.
“Yay!” all the kids cheer, including mine. The parents are quick to agree to this surprise in our agenda. Our leader tells us to follow him to the field. The crowd thins as I stay back, not by choice. Paisley’s feet are planted firmly on the ground.
“East,” she says once the majority of our group disappears. Easton is still standing there watching us.
He steps toward us and crouches down on his knees, getting more on her level. “What’s up, princess?” he asks, melting my heart a little.
Paisley grins up at him. She surprises me when she jumps into his arms, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Thank you,” she whispers.
I fight back a sob that threatens to break free. She’s never done this before. “You’re welcome, sweetheart.” He gives her another gentle squeeze then releases his hold on her. “Now, we better get out there before we miss all the fun.” He stands and offers her his hand. She takes it without question. I start to warn her about stranger danger, but she knows him as my friend. Easton surprises me when he holds his other hand out for me. He leaves it there, suspended in the air, waiting for me to come to him.
“Come on, Mommy,” Paisley coaxes me.
“I’m right behind you,” I say, walking toward them, but ignoring his offered hand. He nods in understanding and waits for me to catch up, and the three of us head out to the field. Paisley swings their arms back and forth as she talks Easton’s head off about how fun it is to catch and hit the ball. He’s patient with her and talks to her as if she knows every detail of the game, when in reality she knows nothing. Her friend Macie begged her to play, and we’re just realizing that she loves it. I’m not sure if it’s the sport itself or the interaction with the other kids that she loves. She’s still too little to tell. Even so, Easton listens to her intently, as if she is well-versed in all things baseball.
I should be mad he’s latched onto my daughter, but the smile she’s wearing right now takes away any anger I might have had. He’s making this day special for her.
Damn, this little girl is just like her mother, captivating me from the moment I met her, although in different ways. She’s cute as hell as she talks a mile a minute about hitting the ball and catching it. That’s the extent of her knowledge, but the way she talks as if she’s a little adult, it makes you believe every word she says, as if it’s in the rulebooks for the game.
“Can I stay with you?” she asks me once we join her group on a small corner of the field.
“Oh, honey, I don’t think—” Larissa starts but stops when I bend my knees and get eye to eye with her.
“I’d really like that, Paisley,” I say softly. “But I don’t think that would be fair. Everyone needs a turn, and since it’s just me and Drew working with your group, you’ll have to take turns.”
“But you said we could play catch,” she says, her little lip quivering.
I look up at Larissa to find her watching us. I raise my eyebrows, and she gives me a slight nod. I mouth “thank you,” and turn back to Paisley. No way did I want to tell her no. “How about once the tour is over, you and your mom stick around, and then it will just be you and me? Deal?”
She looks up at her mom, hope shining in her big brown eyes. “Can we, Mommy?”
Larissa nods. “For a few minutes,” she adds, but I don’t think Paisley hears her or cares. She got the answer she was hoping for and rushes off to join her friends.
“I’m so
rry,” she tells me.
“Sorry for what?”
“She seems to have taken to you. I know you have more important things to do. We’ll just stay a few minutes,” she assures me.
Standing, I step in front of her, so close I can feel her hot breath against my chin. “I met this girl,” I tell her. “She’s beautiful but closed off. I was hoping to drop by her work and catch a glimpse of her since she refuses to go out with me.”
“Her life is complicated.”
“Life is complicated,” I counter. “She’s all I think about, and you know what else?” I wait for her reaction. She studies me several long minutes, her breathing labored before she finally answers.
“What?” she asks in a hushed whisper.
“I found out today that she has this amazing little girl, cute as a button, loves baseball.” I wink. “I wish she would give me a chance to get to know her, to know both of them.”
“She worries,” she says, biting her bottom lip.
“About what?” Reaching out, I tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
“Everything.”
“Who worries about you?”
Her breath hitches. She opens then closes her mouth, no words coming out.
“Yo, Monroe, you ready?” Drew yells to me.
I hold my hand up in the air, my index finger raised, asking him for one more minute. “Thank you for staying after. We can talk then.” I give her hand a gentle squeeze then turn, and walk away, a smile plastered on my face. Not because I’m here in Blaze stadium, my home away from home, but because for the first time I feel like I might be getting somewhere with her.
Drew and I have the group form two lines. There are twelve girls in total on the team, so we each have six. Paisley is in my group; she made sure of it screaming, “I want to be in Easton’s group.” That little girl is something else. We pitch to them one at a time for about half an hour before they’re tuckered out. We sign a few autographs, and they’re on their way.
