Page 102 of Force Play

“Have you ever known me to say that?” she asks, her legs wrapping around my hips.

“No, I haven’t. Besides, I heard they can help with the discomfort.”

“So you’re saying it’s good for my health?”

“Practically doctor recommended,” I tell her, carefully navigating the narrow hallway to her bedroom with her in my arms.

“Can’t say no to that.” She laughs, brushing my hair out of my face. “We really need to take care of this hair.”

“Are you ready to cut it for me?” I ask when we step into the bedroom.

“Maybe, but that seems risky. It could be unlucky.”

“Damn, you’re right. I guess it’s going to have to wait,” I say, dropping her on to the bed and stepping back to take in the full effect of the lingerie. My woman is a fucking smokeshow, I already knew that.

“Did you get this just for me?” I ask, leaning over her and running my finger over the ivory strap.

“I got it for us. Everything changed so fast. You’ve put me first every step of the way, and I let you. We deserved some time to just stop and enjoy each other after the last few days.”

“You know I’d do it all again in a heartbeat. I have no regrets.”

“And Coach is okay with the time you’re missing this close to the postseason? What about the guys? They must be asking questions.”

“Let me worry about the team.” The guys have noticed, but so far they are giving me space. My lips cover hers and the kiss that I mean to be reassuring quickly turns heated.

The next morning while Indie is still in bed, I roll out to start the coffee the way she likes it, and get ready to head to the stadium for a full day of practice and meetings before our game tonight.

With the drip of the coffee going in the background, I let Ronnie out and turn on yesterday’s baseball highlight while I wait. The photos spread across the end table catch my attention. I hadn’t noticed them last night, but I was a little distracted.

Picking up the box I place it in my lap, carefully replacing the pictures in the box for Indie where they are safe, stopping every few pictures to examine the photos of a younger Indie with her mom. Poppy’s even in a few.

At the bottom of the pile is one that’s bent. Indie looks like she’s probably in college, maybe a senior in high school. I smooth the photo out to put it away, but I have to blink when I see who else is in the picture: Jensen “Sonny” Phillips.

“What are you doing?” Indie asks, her voice shaky. I look over my shoulder to find her standing a few feet behind the couch in nothing but my shirt, her arms crossed protectively over her chest.

“Just cleaning these up so they didn’t get wrecked.” I glance back down at the picture in my hand, already knowing the answer to the question I’m about to ask. “Why do you have a picture of Sonny?”

“Who?” She stops behind the couch looking over my shoulder. “Are you talking about Jensen?” she asks, her mouth tilting into a frown. Reaching over my shoulder she takes the picture from me, folding it back and then forward again. She repeats the motion a few times while rounding the couch and dropping to sit next to me. Carefully ripping along the crease, she separates the two halves of the picture. Setting the half with her and her mom back in the box on my lap. “I should have done that a long time ago.”

“He’s the one that hurt you, isn’t he?”

“Yes, he’s the ex from college,” she says slowly, clearly not sure why this matters.

“That son of a bitch,” I seethe. “He’s always been a shithead. Only we called him ‘Sonny,’ not Jensen, when I played with him in the minors. A nickname from the veterans, probably because he was so immature. We roomed together our first year until I moved out.”

“Wait . . . what? I need coffee for this conversation.”

“I’ve got it.” Pushing up from the couch, I give myself a second to process. I know enough about Sonny to know he’d make a terrible boyfriend. The asshole who hurt her, the one that made it so hard for her to trust me, is my former friend. Granted, we weren’t friends for long, but I lived with the guy. We shared countless beers together and bonded over baseball and life. Grabbing her a mug I pour her a coffee and return to my spot beside her on the couch.

“Do you still talk to him? Are you friends?” The cup cradled in her hand shakes against her knee where it’s resting.

“No. He was a wild card when we lived together, and was constantly making the wrong choices. I moved out because I didn’t want to be associated with him once I saw what he was really like.”

“So you still don’t talk to him?” She sips from her coffee and I want to pull it away so she can’t hide behind the cup.

“I saw him a few weeks ago on the road in Phoenix. He asked me to do something after the game. I blew him off.”

“I didn’t even know he was still playing.”

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