Page 43 of Play Along

“So please, for me, just wear it, okay?”

His tone is pleading for me to agree, and he doesn’t wait for my answer before he slips it over my knuckle.

It fits perfectly.

He circles his thumb over it. “I will, however, divorce your ass if you lose this.”

I can’t help it, I burst a laugh.

After trying for years not to laugh around this man, it’s kind of nice to give into the urge.

I relent, my voice soft. “I’ll take care of it for you.”

“I know.”

“And I’ll get it back to you as soon as all of this is over.”

He doesn’t respond to that.

“These are for you,” I say, reaching into my pocket and holding my palm open with both the black metal band and its silicone counterpart. “I know it’s not diamonds, but—”

“Shouldn’t you be getting on one knee or something?”

I shoot him a look. “Take the goddamn rings before I change my mind.”

His smile grows. “Did you get me both a metal and a rubber ring so I could wear something during my games?”

Okay, my cheeks are definitely pink. Why the hell did I do that?

I guess because Isaiah seems like the kind of partner who would wear a silicone ring during his games since he couldn’t wear the metal version. And as his supposed wife, I would know that.

“You don’t have to wear it while you play if it’s uncomfortable, I just thought it might sell the whole thing, especially since Remington is here at the home games.”

He slips the silicone band onto his left ring finger. “I was just going to get your name tattooed there since I couldn’t wear a ring while I was playing, but this will do.” He unlocks the door, holds it open, and says, “You better get back to work, Doc.”

As I’m walking out, I laugh to myself about the tattoo thing before realizing, I’m not entirely sure he was joking.

With Kai’s hand in mine, I work his muscles, giving extra attention to his adductor pollicis, which tends to tighten up in the early innings if he doesn’t get it worked out before his starts on the mound.

I use my thumb to dig in and pull out the tension.

I work on relaxing the lumbrical muscles between his fingers then flip his hand, palm up, and open the abductor muscle by his thumb.

My fingers glide over his tendons and smooth over his skin.

His hands are big and his muscles are overdeveloped, grown from years of needing to control the path of a baseball.

They feel like Isaiah’s.

A flash of a memory from our night in Vegas zips through my consciousness. I remember freely holding his hand, the tequila keeping me from overthinking.

I wish I could be that natural about physical touch all the time.

But everything about that physical contact was completely different than the kind here, when I’m in the training room.

I started working in sports medicine back in undergrad. Dean was on our university’s baseball team, and I remember finding him in the training room after one of his games.

The team doctors and trainers were working on the athletes’ bodies, running them through different types of post-game therapy and helping them cool down with stretches. I remember how nonchalant it was for the medical staff to touch the athletes they were working on.

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