“I have no idea.”
She leaves her spot, opting to explore, her hands roaming over the electric buttons. “It is.”
Miller continues to open cabinets and drawers because of course she does. The woman wouldn’t know what a boundary was if she tripped and fell right over one.
She comes up empty in almost every drawer before continuing to the fridge. It’s embarrassingly bare, but I just got back from a road trip so I’ll chalk up my lack of groceries to travel and ignore that I’ve been too exhausted to set up a grocery delivery or even go to the store myself.
“Kai Rhodes,” Miller gasps. “Is that beer in your fridge?”
“Will it still be there by the time I get home, or should I plan on you emptying me out?”
Miller glances at the stove to check the time. “It’ll probably be there. It’s after three. Too late in the day for my drinking habits.” She closes the fridge, leaning on the counter next to it. “Would you mind if I borrowed your kitchen tonight?”
I shrug. “Go for it. Just try not to burn my house down. And I uh . . . clearly don’t have much to cook with.”
“I won’t be cooking, but I’ll get some groceries delivered. I’ll get you stocked up too.”
After how I treated her the other night, I figured I’d have to be on my hands and knees to get her to watch my son again, but she’s being surprisingly . . . pleasant. What the hell did Monty say to her?
“I mean, you’ll be paying for it obviously,” she continues.
“Obviously,” I chuckle. “I’d appreciate that. I haven’t had the time. There’s an emergency card you can use in that drawer.” I point to the small drawer by her hip. “As well as all the phone numbers you need. Max’s pediatrician, local hospital, my buddy Ryan’s number is there if you need any help. He lives ten minutes down the road. I also laid out Max’s nighttime routine. He’s eating regular foods now as you know from the last time you watched him, but if he gives you any trouble while you’re putting him down, you can give him a bottle. I already prepped it for you. Just add water.”
“So organized, Baseball Daddy. I bet you’re one of those people who knows where their birth certificate is, aren’t you?”
“You don’t? Miller, that’s something you should definitely know the location of.”
This woman, who is about to be responsible for my child for the next two months, can’t even locate one extremely important piece of paper.
Max likes her. She’s Monty’s daughter.
“I’m going to need you to say something reassuring right now because I’m about to leave a human in your hands and I’m not having much faith.”
“I’m fun.”
I can feel one side of my mouth tugging upward. “Is that supposed to be reassuring?”
“I’m also very good at poker.”
“Well, thankfully my fifteen-month-old doesn’t have much money to his name.”
She slides her palms against the counter. “And I look good in your kitchen.”
I attempt to hold back, but fuck it, I like sparring with this woman. “That you do.”
There’s no question there. Miller looks damn good in my kitchen when I allow myself to look.
“Does your boyfriend know what a flirt you are?”
“Oh, come on, Kai. You’re better than that. Be direct. Ask me if I’m single.” There’s a sly smile on her lips, a smile that screams she likes flirting with me as much as I do her.
There’s something about Miller, something so fierce about her personality, that my gut knows loyalty is deeply ingrained in her. So, no, she wouldn’t be flirting with me if she had a boyfriend.
“No need to ask. I’ve already got my answer.”
“Oh yeah? And what’s that?”
I miss letting loose and flirting with a beautiful woman, remembering how easy life used to be, and Miller makes it pretty easy to get caught up in pretending I still have the freedom to be that man.
But I fucking don’t. There’s a kid in the next room reminding me of that.
I clear my throat, not answering her question. “Call security at the front gate when the groceries get here. They’ll come and drop them off.”
She looks around the room. “It’s fancy out here, Baseball Daddy.”
“It’s safe.”
“Glad to know I don’t have to worry about anything dangerous getting in.”
She might not have to worry, but I do. Because with Miller Montgomery, my coach’s daughter, standing in my kitchen looking like that, I’m afraid something very dangerous has already gotten in.
These seats are the fucking worst.
Before I signed my contract last year, I should’ve amended that the bullpen needed more comfortable chairs. Eight and a half innings and my ass is numb as I wait and watch for my team to pull out the W at home.
Isaiah is playing his ass off. His defense is tight and locked in. He hit a two-run homer in the fourth and another double in the seventh, bringing in a run and giving the Warriors a comfortable lead. I was going to invite him over after the game to have one of those beers that may or may not still be in my fridge, but with how well he’s doing, Mr. Popular is about to get a whole lot of attention he’s not going to want to pass up.
It’s not that I’m not a team player, but I hate bullpen days. Besides my forty pitches thrown to get my arm loose and active between my starts this week, I don’t do anything here other than watch.
We sit somewhere off the foul line for the entirety of the game when I could be sitting at home, spending time with my son. This is where it gets hard for me. On my starting nights, I can justify the time away, but nights like these, I wish Max were here too.
With my hat in my hands, I absentmindedly run my thumb over Max’s picture. It’s a habit, but also a good reminder when work becomes too much, none of it really matters. He does.
I love the game, I really do, but I love my son a whole lot more and I don’t know how to find that balance.
Maybe if his mom hadn’t left him the way she did I’d be handling all of this a whole lot better. I’d be more hands-off perhaps. But most of the time I feel like I need to overcompensate, to be both parents and just hope that Max doesn’t notice the gaps.
“Ace.” One of our relief pitchers pats me on the back. “I like this no-work thing. You think you can go another eight innings on your next start?”
Chuckling, I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms. “I’ll try my best.”
Taking a seat next to me, he offers me a bit of his chew, but I decline, holding up my seeds instead.
“Your brother is going to be insufferable after tonight.”
“God,” I exhale. “Tell me about it.”
And right on cue, post-game in the training room with the music blaring, my little brother waltzes in like the arrogant fucker that he is.
Isaiah slowly unbuttons his uniform to the song, the jersey with his number nineteen falling to his still cleated feet. “I’m here, baby!”
Lying back on a training table as I get my shoulder rubbed out, I watch, trying my best not to laugh. But it’s pretty difficult not to when he’s got the whole room on his side, cheering him on as he strips down to the music, high from our win and his personal game.
“Rhodes, you’re on my table tonight,” Kennedy, one of the trainers, says. “I’m rubbing you down.”
Isaiah stops middance, his eyes going wide with excitement because well, he’s in love with Kennedy.
“Kenny . . . are you serious?” He follows her to her table like a love sick puppy dog.
“Yep. Strip down and hop up.”
My brother’s attention darts to me, his mouth hanging open but smiling at the same time. Kennedy rarely volunteers to work on Isaiah because the kid can be a colossal pain in the ass.
Looking at me, he points to her then to himself as if she has no idea how obsessed he is with her.