Page 2 of Sideline Play

Leaning in even closer as dad’s pregame hype draws to a frenzied close, he whispers, “See, the guys and I are in disagreement. Some think your preferential treatment and assignment to the team is because you’re a Jones. But personally, I think it's because of yourbrother.”

At his over inflection onbrother,I turn to face him and snarl, “Excuse me?” knowing full well where this is going.

Having gotten a sixteen year old adopted brother that is as undeniably attractive as Roman is when I was fourteen means I’ve heard it all. For the most part, we’ve learned to ignore it. Everything people say and report on is little more than fiction. But then, three years ago, there wasthe incident,and ignoring things and not reacting became much more difficult. Though not for the reasons anyone would guess.

“Well, I mean, it’s not as if you’reactuallyrelated. It’s okay,princess,just tell me. It won’t go any further than us. You totally fuck your brother don’t you? It’s why, despite your very public life, no one has ever seen you so much as go on a date, let alone have a boyfriend.”

Slipping between Brady and me, Roman towers over him, his height, tattoos, and rough edges backing up his threatening tone as he growls, “Keep fucking with my sister Hendrix, and see what happens.”

Smirking as the ruddy color drains from Brady’s face as he scurries away, Roman turns back around. Facing me, every ounce of cold violence drains from him, his touch as gentle as an old dog when he cups my cheeks, playfully moving my face every which way before ruffling his hands over the top of my head, mussing up my low ponytail.

Bending to gently knock our foreheads together, he encourages, “Come on, Squeaks, give me some extra luck for tonight.”

“Roman, when have you ever needed luck, let alone extra?”

“Never, but only because I’ve got you,” he replies, booping my nose. “The fucking luckiest girl in all of Nashville.”

Swatting his hand away and pushing him towards the door as I’ve been doing since high school, I roll my eyes and say, “Go get your butt on that field already.”

“You got it, Scarlet,” he responds, making a heart with his hands and thumping it over his chest before calling Winnie to him so he can drop her off with Boomer, where she’ll spend the game living in luxury inside the owner’s box.

Right on his heels as the rest of the players and staff flood out toward the field and dugout, our dad comes to wrap me up in a hug, lifting me off my feet.

Kissing the top of my head before putting me back down, he admonishes, “You’re late. You know Jennings will have to make note of that in your review, right?”

Looking up at the inky blue eyes I stole from him, I smile and reply, “Yeah, but at this point in the season, me being on time might just be a bad omen,” causing the dimples I also inherited from him to pop out.

“She’s got you there, Skip,” Remington Tate—eight season veteran catcher and captain for the Nashville Nighthawks—chuckles, looking like athlete porn with his guards and chest protector on and mask hooked atop his helmet as he claps my dad on the back. “Can’t go fu– I mean screwing with the ritual now.”

“Say the word; you know you want to…fucking,”I tease, shaking my head at his self-censorship. “You know, I have heard it before. From him no less,” I laugh, jerking my thumb over my shoulder at my dad. “Even more,” I add, lowering my voice with feigned conspiracy, “I’ve used it a time or two. Shh…” This draws out a barking laugh from him.

It’s sweet that Remington always strives to maintain a level of genteel civility when in my presence, but there’s nothing he could say that would scandalize me. Not when my dad is one of baseball’s modern national treasures, and I’ve spent most of my years right at his side in the dugout, just behind it in the stands surrounded by diehard fans, or with Boomer and his wife, Marcia, in his box. The swearing, crass comments, and general vulgarity of athletes and their pissed off owner have been a part of my life since birth.

Raising me on the road as a single parent when he was just barely an adult himself, having had me at eighteen, made us incredibly close. And while every southern belle is the apple of her daddy’s eye and has him wrapped around her little finger, I’ve never just been my daddy’s little princess. For twenty-one years, I’ve also been his partner in crime, his best friend, and he’s been mine.

We grew up together, learned about the world together, and built the life we have together. It’s a special bond not all kids get to have with their parents, and it’s why I’ve always felt blessed to have lived such an unorthodox childhood. My dad made me his entire world, lifting me even higher than the sport that’s the verythread that stitches his soul together. Me, and then Roman when the little thief came into our lives as the piece we hadn’t known was missing from our family puzzle.

“You trying to get me in trouble, Scar?” Remington teasingly accuses, my cheeks heating with a threatening blush over the use of his nickname for me.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Okay, that’s a lie; I totally would. The man’s rookie poster used to hang on my closet wall. For nearly a year, looking at him in a deep catcher’s squat as I got dressed was the only way I could start my day. At least until Roman spilled the beans to him, leaving my poor fourteen year old heart achingly mortified. For an entire month afterward, I couldn’t even look at Remington without wanting to burst into tears or speak to Roman without wanting to pummel him.

It’s been said I was a bit dramatic back then.

Like most teenage disasters that were surely the end of the world, the sting eventually faded away until it was just a memory. One that Roman had loved to poke at when he needed a laugh. Then soon after that, my silly daydreams of becoming Mrs. Scarlet Amelia Tate fizzled out as my starry eyes turned to our high school’s catcher. Another flight of fancy that went exactly nowhere, as has been my plight in life as Roman Jones’s little sister and Colt Jones’s daughter.

Over the summer though, that old infatuation had bloomed back to life. Its roots deeper than before, stretching and curling to place my heart and desire in a chokehold. All thanks to the innocuous little touches Remington began bestowing upon me while I was off from school and resuming my lifelong position as the forty-first member on the team’s roster. The way his full lips form the shape and slow, rough sound of the nickname he adopted for me earlier in the year. The lingering looks down the bench and glances from home plate just before he taps his batagainst the dirt and steps into the batter’s box. And the winning hugs we’ve always shared being moved from the side with a single arm across my shoulders to both arms pulling me in and keeping me under his chin for just a fraction longer than what I would consider platonic.

When I was thirteen and met him during his first Spring Training, he had awakened and crippled my hormones. Now at twenty-one and with the nine years between us looking less and less insurmountable, Remington Hawthorne Tate was downright deadly. Deadly and beyond my reach because no one was stupid enough to pursue their teammate’s sister. Let alone the skipper’s daughter. And lucky me, I’m both.

“Okay you two, let’s get out of here,” my dad announces, clapping his clipboard against his thigh.

“After you, Remi,” I gesture before kicking my foot up to swat the hard muscle of his ass.

Like always, he catches my ankle before I can make contact, the hazel of his eyes captivating as he smiles down at me, mouth crooked as his lips tilt up higher on one side.

“Remi,” he repeats in a thoughtful manner, his faded country hills accent calling my attention to the shortening I had just given his name. “I like it,” he decides, yanking on my leg as he heads for the door and forcing me to hobble after him before I can become flustered. Only when we reach my dad does he let me go, his touch leaving a lingering heat in its absence.

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