Today is Miller’s birthday and it started just the way I wanted it to—with my face between her legs.
I’ve turned into a goddamn sap over the woman. So much so that, when she left to meet up with Monty for breakfast, I spent my morning in the kitchen doing what she typically does by baking her a birthday cake.
Miller tends to tell people she loves them through the food she makes, so I figured since I wasn’t allowed to tell her, I’d show her in the same way she does.
As I said, I’ve turned into a fucking sap.
But other than Miller’s birthday, it’s also Family Day. The Warriors organization opened a portion of the field off the third baseline for family and friends to mingle. The food spread is borderline ridiculous, offering any and everything someone could want, with an open bar for drinks and a photobooth for pictures.
Family Day tends to be my least favorite day on the calendar. Every team I’ve played for has hosted one. It’s a bit awkward when no one shows up for me, especially when the rest of my teammates have their siblings, partners, and parents there. But before Max, Isaiah was my only family, and he was always in the middle of his own season. Last year, we had each other and this year, we have my son.
And though Miller is technically here for Monty, I know she’s here for me too.
That notion was solidified when I parked my truck and saw her for the first time since she left my bed this morning. She had a birthday breakfast with her dad then showed up here wearing a white pinstriped Warriors jersey with my name and number on the back. It’s unbuttoned and open, paired with a tight tank and cutoff denim shorts that are doing all sorts of things for her thick thighs.
But as good as she looks, her mood has been shit since yesterday’s photoshoot and I’m not exactly sure why.
Rounding the high-top table she’s standing at, I slide my palm against her lower back. “Do you want to introduce Max to Trav’s parents with me? They’re wanting to meet him.”
She shakes her head, pulling her cocktail to her lips.
“Why not?”
“Because that’d be weird for Max’s nanny to be there while you introduce your son to your teammates’ parents.”
Head jerking back, I stare at her, but she keeps her attention straight ahead towards the outfield.
It’s beautiful out here, golden hour in Chicago. The sky is all shades of orange and yellow, and the field is cast with a warm glow. But the woman next to me is all ice tonight, vastly contradictory to the bright light she’s brought into my life this summer.
“You’re not just the nanny and you fucking know that,” I remind her in a stern whisper. “What the hell is up with you today?”
She shrugs nonchalantly and takes another sip of her drink, flipping her hair over her shoulders.
I lean down to her ear, speaking quietly. “Toss your hair over your shoulder like that again, will you. It’s giving me flashbacks to a much happier Miller with a mouth full of my cock.”
Finally, the smallest, most discreet smile pulls at her lips.
“Jesus,” I chuckle. “That’s what gets you to smile? Am I going to have to fuck the attitude right out of you, or what?”
“Probably.”
I find Max walking the length of the field with Isaiah before my attention falls back to the girl next to me. She’s got her drink mid-air on the way to her lips, but I snatch it out of her hand and finish it myself.
“Hey!”
“You’re being a brat today.” I swallow down her cocktail and set the glass back on the table.
She scoffs. “I’m a ray of fucking sunshine.”
“You’ve had an attitude since the photoshoot yesterday, and you won’t tell me why.”
She continues to remain silent. We don’t tend to keep things from one another, other than how I truly feel about her, so not knowing what’s going on in that pretty yet frustrating head of hers is grinding on my nerves.
We’ve got one night left together, and if this is her form of distancing herself in preparation, I’m going to be pissed. She’s the one who is leaving. She’s the one who wanted to remain detached. If there’s anyone who should be mentally preparing for her departure, it’s me.
I’m the one who broke my rule of not having sex with her, all while knowing I was going to fall fast and hard if I let myself add another layer of connection to her, and that’s exactly what happened.
One of the equipment managers catches my attention in the distance, placing two gloves and a ball next to home plate. He gives me a small nod in confirmation before rejoining the festivities.
“Come with me.”
“Why?”
“Stop being so testy today and come with me.” Linking my fingers through Miller’s, I pull her behind. We pass by the staff and their families on the way to home plate, and I just smile and nod my head in greeting as if dragging my coach’s daughter behind me is normal everyday behavior.
“I can be testy all I want. It’s my birthday.” Miller halts. “Wait. We can’t go on the field.”
“I already talked to our groundskeeper. They’re going to drag the infield later tonight, so we’re good.”
“Good for what?”
Grabbing the two gloves, I hold the pitcher’s one out for her.
Her skeptical gaze drifts from the outstretched glove back to my face.
“I want to see you pitch, Miss All-American.”
She quickly shakes her head. “It’s been a long time.”
“That’s okay. You can ease into it.”
“I won’t be very good.”
I’ve noticed this about her. She has a hard time being anything but the best. It’s an odd contradiction to the girl who lives unattached and carefree, floating from city to city. But when she has a goal in mind, she has this innate need to be the greatest to do it. All-American pitcher. James Beard recipient. As if the titles mean she’s accomplished something instead of simply doing it out of joy.
“I don’t care if you’re good or not, Mills. I just want you to have some fun with me while I’ve still got you.”
She hesitantly takes the glove.
“We’ll play for it,” I say. “If you get a strikeout, I’ll stop asking you what’s wrong. If you get a walk, you start talking.”
The most discreet tilt happens at the corner of her lips. I toss her the softball and finish with a gloved tap of her ass, sending her on her way to the pitcher’s mound.
She goes about forty feet from me, not quite the full distance of the mound to home plate, but more accurate to the distance she’s used to when playing softball.
“Can I warm up?” she asks.
I chuckle, crouching behind home plate. So competitive. “Yeah, baby, you can warm up.”
Miller tucks the too-long sleeves of my jersey into the bra straps at her shoulders as she positions her feet into the dirt, gaining traction.
I’m accustomed to being the one out there in her place, but she looks damn good on this field, especially while wearing my last name.
With the glove on her left hand and the ball tucked in it, she practices her mechanics once before going full-in on her first pitch. The glove delivers a loud smack against her thigh, but not quite as loud as the sound the ball makes, slapping into my gloved palm and coasting right over home plate.
Well, fuck, that was a pretty pitch.
“I think I’m ready,” she says, opening her glove for me to toss the ball back.
“Yeah, no shit, Mills. I thought you were going to be rusty.”
She simply pops her shoulders and catches the ball, retaking her position to pitch again, hell-bent on making sure she doesn’t have to tell me what’s wrong with her.
About ten minutes later, the count is three and two. The pitches her dad called as balls instead of strikes have barely been outside of the plate, and if there were an actual batter playing with us, there’s no way in hell they wouldn’t have swung.
I’m not ashamed to admit that watching my competitive girl is getting me hard. She looks so good out there with the empty stadium behind her, the sun setting in the distance, and a small sheen of sweat building on her forehead. I want to lick it off her, but the problem with crouching behind home plate with a raging erection is that a handful of my teammates have all gathered to watch us.
They’re really killing the mood here, but at the same time, it’s a summer evening on my home field. I’ve got my son, my girl, and my brother as well as Monty and all the other guys from my team. My whole family is here, and tomorrow, everything is going to change. So, I’ll soak it all in while I still can.
“Full count, Millie,” Monty says as I toss the ball back in her direction.
“That last call should’ve been a strike,” she calls out. “You need glasses, old man.”
Monty chuckles behind me, playing umpire. He’s being much tougher on his calls than he probably would if this were anyone other than his own daughter.
Miller digs her toes into the dirt, repositioning herself. She pulls her elbow back, simultaneously rocking back on her heels before running through her mechanics, her arm swinging in a full circle. Her movements are so fluid, so practiced, even though she hasn’t done this in years, but I understand what it feels like to have that muscle memory. To have a pitch so ingrained in your body.
The neon ball soars, pounding against my palm as I catch it. It’s a close one, just on the edge of the plate, so I hold the glove closed exactly where I caught it, waiting for Monty’s call.
I’d call it a strike and not just because I run the risk of not getting laid tonight if I didn’t, but because that was a nice fucking pitch.
“Ball,” he declares. “That’s a walk.”
“Bullshit!”
“Let’s go!” I cheer, shooting my arms above my head in celebration as I stand, keeping my taunting smirk right at Miller, where she stands in disbelief.
Monty laughs in a teasing way, and you can see how much he ingrained this competitive nature and work ethic into his daughter.
“Those last two calls were terrible, Dad.”
Isaiah’s got Max’s hand in his. “Killer Miller! You’ve got a hell of an arm, Hot Nanny.”
Charging at her, I heave her body over my shoulder like a sack of sand. I take off towards first base, running the bases like I just hit a grand slam, one hand cupped to the back of her thigh, the other raised in a single fist.
“Put me down, Rhodes. You haven’t run the bases once in your entire career. Stop acting like you know what you’re doing.”
I can’t help but laugh. Competitive Miller is a feisty little thing.
“A walk?” I taunt. “Kind of embarrassing, Mills.”
“I hate you. You had the ump in your pocket!”
Chuckling, I continue my jaunt to home plate. “God, I love winning so much.”
“Put me down!” Miller smacks my butt. “Jesus. I forgot how hard your ass is.”
“How the hell did you forget? I’ve still got your nail marks there from last night.”
That finally pulls a genuine laugh from her.
“Gross.” Isaiah covers both of Max’s ears, turning him back towards the rest of the team’s families and friends. “C’mon, Maxie. Miller and your dad are being annoyingly happy. We single men don’t need to hear about that.”
With too many people still by home plate, I carry her to the pitcher’s mound for some privacy before setting Miller back on her feet. She’s wearing that too-big grin again, much more of my Miller coming back after a day of sulking.
When she goes back to working six to seven days a week, twelve hours at a time, I want her to remember this. How it feels to be surrounded by the people that love her, that she loves in return. That life is so much more than the money you make or the status of your job. It’s about chasing your joy.
But then Miller’s smile drops when she falls into my chest.
“I hated everything about that photoshoot yesterday,” she finally admits. “I hated wearing that coat again and hearing them call me chef. I’m supposed to be excited. My career is taking off, and I thought it’d feel like a dream. My dream.”
I never know what I’m supposed to say when she talks like this. Do I agree? Disagree? I just want her to be happy, and up until the other night, I thought her career was doing that for her.
“If it didn’t feel like a dream, then what did it feel like?”
She peeks up at me, her chin on my chest. “A nightmare.”
I push her hair away from her face, coaxing her to continue.
“I’ve been in a bad mood since yesterday because I didn’t expect it to feel that way, and that makes me angry. I’m mad that something I worked so hard for doesn’t feel fulfilling in the slightest. I’m angry that time is against us, and I have to leave tomorrow.” She covers her face with her hands, shaking her head. “I should be excited for what’s waiting for me, but I’m not. And regardless of how I feel about it, I have to go. There are too many people counting on me to get back to work, and as you can see, I’m a fucking mess over it.”
Pulling her hands from her face, I run my palms up her arms. “Miller—”
She keeps her eyes down on the ground.
There’s a part of me that wants to lean into what she’s saying, to get my hopes up, but I know these feelings will fade for her as soon as she’s back to her routine. It’s simply the last night of her vacation.
And the last night I can indulge in this fantasy.
“Sorry. I’m fine. I’m just having a moment.” She takes a deep breath, composing herself, when her eyes land on Max off in the distance with my brother. “You know, sometimes I look at him and get irrationally mad at you because you were with another woman before me. The audacity you had not to think of me then, you know?”
A bark of a laugh escapes me as Miller breaks the emotional tension with humor per usual, a sly little smile plastered back on her lips. Just where it should be.
Wrapping an arm over her shoulders, I kiss her head. “You are the most jealous woman I’ve ever met. You know that?”
Her head jerks back. “You’ve met other women?”
“Charming as always, baby.”
“I’m sorry I’ve had an attitude today.”
“That’s okay, Mills.” I quickly take her mouth with mine. “You know I appreciate all your flaws.”
“Well, shit. I wasn’t aware I had any.”
“Mmm!” Max hums, attempting to say Miller’s name as he charges in our direction, his little legs working so hard to eat up the distance. “Mmm.”
I was really hoping she’d get to hear him say her name before she leaves tomorrow, but he’s not quite there.
“There’s my favorite guy,” she says, bending down to hoist him in her arms. “Are you hungry? I’m hungry. Let’s go find us some snacks.”
With my name on her back and my son in my arms, Miller stands in the center of the field, looking like mine.
She should be mine. Ours.
“You coming?” she asks me over her shoulder.
“You two go ahead. I’ve got to go talk to your dad.”
“All right. See you soon.” She takes one single step away from me before I slip a finger through her belt loop, pulling her back to me.
Craning my neck I kiss her, right there in the middle of the infield where anyone could see, because this is not just a fling. Nothing about our situation is detached. She’s it for me and I don’t know how the fuck to handle that.
Monty is leaning back on the dugout railing, chatting with the last person I’d expect to find at our family day, seeing as he’s the third base coach for Atlanta.
“Hey, Ace,” Monty says, nodding towards the man at his side. “You know Brian Gould, right? He’s a part of Atlanta’s coaching staff.”
“Yeah.” I hold my hand out hesitantly, still not quite sure why a member from the team we played against yesterday is here. “Nice to meet you.”
“You as well.” His shake is firm. “You’ve got a hell of an arm.”
“Brian and I were teammates for the entirety of my career,” Monty explains. “So, we were just reminiscing about the good ole’ days.”
Ah, this is making much more sense.
“Still such a shame.” Brian shakes his head. “You retiring the way you did. You had so much potential, and you gave it all up.”
“For good reason,” Monty corrects. “Hey, Miller is here, so I’ll finally introduce you tonight.”
“Monty, can we talk?” I interrupt.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah, but we need to chat.”
Monty nods towards Brian and that simple motion has him walking off, creating privacy for only the two of us. I lean back on the railing next to him, both of us looking out towards the field.
“You asked me to come to you if I ever had the urge to ask Miller to stay,” I begin. “And while yes, I want to beg her to stay, I’m not going to. We both know she can’t, and I don’t want her to feel obligated to me or to Max, but I am going to tell her she’s always got a home with us, and I just wanted to let you know before I do.”
Monty remains silent, his attention stuck straight ahead as he simply nods.
“I mean, if that’s okay with you.”
Until now, I haven’t had a father figure in my life since I was fifteen. Monty has not only been a close friend, but a sounding board when I’m struggling. So even though the topic is about his daughter, I need him.
“Are you not going to ask her to stay because you don’t want her to feel obligated or because you’re afraid she’d say no if you did?” he finally asks.
Well . . . shit. Of course, there are some internal fears surfacing here. Everyone wants to be wanted, and yeah, I’m scared to put myself in the position to ask someone to want me when I’ve grown accustomed to people leaving.
I don’t ask anymore—for help, for someone to stay. I simply do it on my own.
But the hope of not having to do it alone, of Miller truly wanting to be with me, almost outweighs the fear.
“I don’t want her giving up her entire life for me only to realize I’m not worth sticking around for.”
Monty’s head whips in my direction, but I keep my attention straight on the field.
“Then you don’t know her at all if you can’t see the way she looks at you, like you’re the best damn thing to ever happen in her twenty-six years of life.”
That earns my attention.
“You just might be,” he continues. “After me, of course.”
The emotional tension is broken with humor, much in the way his daughter tends to do.
“I’ll speak from experience. She doesn’t feel obligated to your son, so don’t let that thought cross your mind. She loves him in the way I love her.”
We find the two of them, slowly making their way down the food table. Miller gives Max a bite of cheese then finishes the other half of it herself before moving on to the next snack and doing the same.
She does love him. And he loves her.
“She’s not my blood, but she’s my girl,” Monty says from beside me. “And she looks at your boy, who is not her blood, in the same way I look at her. I’ve seen it all summer. I watched her fall in love with two people at the same time, and it reminded me of myself when I met her and her mom. She won’t be able to just walk away from that, regardless of if you ask or not.” Monty finally looks my way, eyes welling with unshed tears. “I know I couldn’t.”
“Fuck, Monty.” Pressing into my eyes, I will the emotion back. “What the hell?”
He chuckles, but it’s watery and choked.
“All those times I asked you to come to me first, it’s not because I thought you weren’t worthy of asking that of my daughter. It’s because I was looking out for you. Miller has this intense need to be the best at what she does even if it’s not something she loves all that much, and I wanted to have this conversation before you put your heart on the line. Kai, she might not stay, but I can promise if she goes, it’s not because of you. You need to understand that.”
I exhale a long breath. “I’ve noticed that about her, her need to be the best. Like she finds her worth in checkmarks and achievements.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Has she ever told you what that’s about?”
“Not explicitly, but I have a feeling it has to do with how you two became a family. I think there’s some residual guilt there. As if she feels at fault for taking you away from the life you were living at the time her mom died.”
Monty nods, keeping his eyes out on the field and not on me. He clears his throat. “Yeah, I’ve had a hunch that’s what was going on. We’ve talked about it, but I don’t think she’s ever truly understood that nothing about our situation was a sacrifice.”
Finding Max and Miller again, I watch as my son lays on her shoulder, delicately tracing the ink where her too-big jersey is hanging off.
“Do you love her?” Monty asks.
“I do. Very much so.”
“She might break your heart.”
“I’ll love her anyway.”
“I know you will.”
“I mean.” I pop my shoulders. “At times, I still think she’s way too fucking much.”
“Right? The things that come out of that girl’s mouth? Who the hell raised her?”
A laugh spreads between us, the emotional moment put on pause as we watch my son and his daughter together.
Monty exhales a contented sigh. “Just know that I loved her first.”
I nod. “And I’ll love her always.”
To the left of me, Kennedy comes bounding up the dugout stairs with none other than Dean Cartwright on her heels. I’d instantly be thrown off if any member of an opposing team walked through our dugout, but Dean of all people? Every one of my senses is on high alert.
I don’t like the guy, but he’s never done anything to me personally. However, he went at my brother for years while we were growing up, and after our mom died, I did everything I could to protect Isaiah.
Dean went to a rival high school and slept with any girl he learned my brother was dating, which gave Isaiah a real fucked-up complex when it came to relationships, never once having a committed partner who didn’t cheat on him. He constantly talked shit to him on the field, and though my brother likes to pretend he’s unaffected, the truth is, to his core, Isaiah is sensitive.
Therefore, I’ve spent years keeping Dean away from him unless we’re playing against Atlanta, as we are this weekend. Anyone who creates an issue with my brother is automatically an issue for me.
“What do you think you’re doing here?” I ask, popping off the dugout railing.
Dean wears the most annoying smirk as he turns my way.
“Game is tomorrow, Cartwright.” Travis steps up. “You’re not welcome here.”
“Yes, he is,” Kennedy says. “What is wrong with you guys? It’s Family Day.”
“Exactly,” Isaiah calls out. “He shouldn’t be here.”
Dean turns on my brother and that annoying smirk morphs into a Cheshire Cat-like grin. Knowing and pompous. He takes a step closer to Kennedy, which has my brother seeing red.
Isaiah takes quick, fluid steps towards the two of them, but I intercept, hands on his chest to keep him back.
“Get the fuck away from her,” he seethes over my shoulder.
Kennedy’s eyes are narrowed in confusion. “Why are you acting like this?”
“Yeah, Isaiah.” Dean slings an arm over Kennedy’s shoulder. “Why are you acting like this?”
“Get your filthy fucking hands off her or I swear to God—”
“Stop acting like a deranged caveman,” Kennedy chastises. “He’s allowed to be here. Dean is my stepbrother. Chill out.”
I swear the entire stadium goes silent at those words. My brother’s body is frozen under my arm as my eyes lock with Miller’s across the way.
“Stepbrother?” Miller asks. “So, your sister is . . .”
“Yes,” Dean agrees. “My sister is the heartless bitch. I’m Team Kennedy, so don’t worry about that.”
Miller’s lips curve into a smile and I’m not positive what that’s all about, but I’m sure she’ll tell me later.
“Kenny,” my brother whines. “Please tell me this is some sick joke.”
“You’re so dramatic. It’s not a joke. Dean’s dad and my mom got married when we were in high school. So be nice. It’s Family Day.”
“Yeah, Isaiah.” Dean shoots my brother a wink. “Be nice. It’s Family Day.”
