A crack of a smile peeks through his lips.
Sanderson clears his throat. “She texted back.” He reads from his phone with absolutely no inflection in his voice. “She says, ‘Tell Kai if he doesn’t leave me alone, I’m going to feed his kid all the sugar I can find in this hotel, sit him in front of a screen so he can get brainwashed by whatever the hell a Cocomelon is, then leave his grouchy ass to deal with Max all night.’”
“Not funny.” I go to grab his phone.
“Ace,” Monty says under his palm so outsiders can’t read his lips. “Cameras.”
Exhaling a resigned sigh, I say, “Text her back and tell her she’s fired.”
Monty chuckles under his breath.
Sanderson holds up his phone for me to read as texts continue to roll in.
Miller: I got fired in the third and sixth innings too! This must be a new record.
Miller: Tell him his change-up should get him fired. That was ugly.
Miller: Oh, and tell him his baseball pants aren’t doing anything for his ass.
Miller: Actually, don’t lie. His change-up though, that’s not a lie. It really was ugly.
“Jesus,” I huff out, shaking my head. “Just ask her if my kid is alive.”
Sanderson’s phone dings. “Alive.”
A small weight lifts from my chest. Seven innings down, two to go.
“I can’t wait to meet her,” I hear Travis chime in from down the bench, talking to my teammates.
“About time Max got a hot nanny,” my brother says.
“About time we got a hot nanny. We deserve this,” Cody, our first baseman adds. “This is far more exciting for the boys than it is for Maxie.”
Monty turns around to rip my teammates a new one, but I beat him to it.
“Watch it,” I say from my isolated seat. Standing, my jacket falls from my shoulder as I project my voice loud enough to be heard from the other end of the dugout. “I’m going to say this only once, so listen up. No one better try anything with her. I don’t give a shit if you think she’s God’s gift to this team, she’s not here for any of you. So let this be the one and only warning that if you mess with her in any way that makes her feel uncomfortable or unwelcome, you will be answering to me. You think Monty is scary when it comes to his kid?” I chuckle condescendingly. “You don’t even want to know what I’ll be like if you fuck with mine, and messing with Miller, or anyone who is watching my son, is the same thing as messing with Max, so don’t fucking try it.”
Sinking back onto the top of the bench, I re-cover my shoulder with my jacket to keep it warm.
The dugout is eerily quiet, probably because my teammates are shocked to hear me speak. Baseball’s unspoken rules and superstitions are no joke—you don’t mess with them, but making sure Max is okay is more important than any superstition.
“Yeah!” my brother calls out, breaking the awkward silence. “Only Ace is allowed to make her feel unwelcome, isn’t that right, Coach?”
“Isaiah, stop being such a kiss ass and get on-deck. You’re batting next.”
“Yes, sir!”
He swaps his hat for his batting helmet, scurrying out of the dugout to the on-deck circle, while I sit and wait for this goddamn game to be over.
Chapter 5
Miller
“Max, there’s your dad.” I point to the television screen across the room.
He squeals and claps, his eyes wide with excitement.
“Is your dad the best baseball player ever?”
His icy blues grow and glint, so I’ll take that as Max’s version of a yes.
“I wonder who’s gonna break the news to Babe Ruth and Willie Mays?”
He giggles, though I know he doesn’t have any idea what I’m asking.
Over the past few hours with him, I’ve learned that I’m the funniest person to ever exist and if he keeps laughing at everything I have to say, I’m going to need an ego check by the time the summer is over.
When my dad proposed the idea of me nannying for his pitcher’s son, I was hesitant. I’ve never really spent time with a kid before, and sure, there are some major fears of not being good at this role, but what’s different about this job compared to all the others is that, no matter if I’m the best or not, I’m directly helping my dad. Other goals I strive for are to impress him, reassure him I’m doing something with my life after he gave up his. But this, this is me having the opportunity to make his life easier.
Max continues to look at his dad on the TV as he stands in some kind of contraption that keeps him upright and level with the counter so he can hang out with me as I get his dinner together. He reaches for his sippy cup of water, chugging it back while I cut up a bit of avocado and brown some toast, putting it on his food mat so he can eat and make as big of a mess as he’d like.
I’m not sure if I suddenly gained a knack for working with kids or if Max is the easiest fifteen-month-old to exist, but he’s really boosting my confidence here. In his own way, he responds to my questions, as long as the answer is yes or no. He eats the food I put in front of him and was fully entertained by the castle of wooden blocks I made earlier.
As if I wasn’t already convinced that Kai was the problem and not the nannies themselves, spending my afternoon with Max is proving my point. They’ve got an entire MLB organization catering to their new family, but I’m starting to feel like maybe Kai isn’t all that eager to make this situation work.
My attention is pulled back to the television. Top of the eighth and the Warriors already have two outs. Number twenty-one is on the mound, looking stunning in that royal blue uniform. Scruff slopes over his sharp jaw, perfectly proportioned lips, full brows. He must be wearing contacts at the moment, but his usual glasses really add to that “uptight but fuckable” vibe he emanates. Clark Kent look-alikes do it for me apparently.
Kai shakes off a call and then another before accepting the third option his catcher gives him.
I roll my eyes. I’m glad to know I’m not the only one Kai likes to disagree with.
Winding up, that tall and lean body stretches out, releasing a curveball that’s speed is surprisingly fast for the type of pitch, but it moves so much over the plate that there’s no denying it’s a curveball. And it’s a nasty one too.
Third strike. Third out.
“Max, why didn’t you tell me your dad was so good?”
He smacks his lips around the bit of avocado before smiling at me, all green baby teeth.
“Dadda.” Once again, he points his avocado-covered finger at the screen as a camera zooms in on Kai jogging off the field.
The guy is annoyingly easy on the eyes. His cap is pulled low over his brow, but the blue of his hat makes his piercing eyes shine even from here.
“Kai Rhodes is having a heck of a season,” one of the announcers says in the background. “He looks better at thirty-two than he did at twenty-two.”
I’m assuming they’re talking about his talent, but there’s no denying that Kai Rhodes looks damn good at thirty-two.
Another voice cuts in. “I’d say those fans in Chicago are feeling awfully lucky right about now. He signed with the Warriors last season to play with his brother one final time before moving into retirement in the next handful of years, but with how he’s playing lately, retirement is the last thing anyone is thinking about. And I’d assume it’s not even on Kai’s radar.”
The little boy next to me with dark brown hair and wistful blue eyes looks at the screen in awe as his dad slips into the dugout. Not only does Kai look like a superhero, I think he might actually be one to his son.
You can see it in the way Max looks at his dad. In the way Kai looks at him. I’d bet good money Kai thinks about retirement every single day.
“Max,” I say, pulling his attention back to me and the food on his mat. “I made you something.”