Page 24 of Sideline Play

“Now tell me baby girl, do you want rainbow sprinkles for your cupcakes or all pink?” he asks, smirking at me as he looks wholly unaffected.

“Pink,” I croak.

“Same for your buttercream?”

Throwing in a fresh package of dye when I nod my head, he grabs the soy sauce and cornstarch and says, “Now to put these back and get what’s actually on the list and then we’re set.”

“But the coconut aminos are seven dollars a bottle and two bottles have less than that one,” I protest. “It’s not worth it.”

“Cost and worth are two very different and highly subjective things, Scar.”

“Okay, fair point,” I concede, knowing full well most would disagree with me thinking my two hundred dollar dress was worth it even with how sexy and confident I feel wearing it. “But you did agree to finally let me pay for our groceries, and I just cannot stomach paying this much for what is essentially rich people soy sauce.”

“Mmm, check your facts, Scar. I said you could pay for dinner tonight.Notgroceries.”

Reaching around him for my phone as he gets in line, I start scrolling through our text thread from yesterday while I was getting my nails done and scowl. Sure enough, right there in a little white bubble, he agreed to me paying for dinner out tonight after going to the movies, not the grocery trip itself.

“I can pay for my own stuff, you know,” I sullenly reply. “I have money, and it’s not even money from the Bank of D-A-D-D-Y. It’s my own. From my own source of income, of which I have several in case you were wondering.”

Turning very serious, Remington asks, “Is this important to you?”

“I don’t want you to think you have to support me, Remi. I don't need or want your money. I may not have a guaranteed 65 million dollars over five years, no trade clause contract, but I do well for myself between my brand with the team and endorsements. Yes, I still live at home, but to be fair, so does Ro. We do that by choice since we’re always gone, not necessity. I’m not a little girl youhaveto take care of. I can contribute and bea partner. So yes, this is very important to me. I want you to see me and treat me as your equal.”

“Scarlet, I don’t think that. I haveneverthought that. I’m sorry if I’ve been making you feel that way. I’ll do better, but please, tell me. I can’t meet your expectations and fulfill your needs if you don’t communicate them to me.”

“You’re right; I’m sorry,” I say, my words muffled as I hug him and speak into the soft cotton of his black t-shirt.

Caressing his fingers along my spine, he murmurs, “It’s okay, Scar. We’re still learning each other; it's bound to happen.” Squeezing me in closer before letting me go, he shifts back to a more carefree demeanor as he says, “Now come on, my hip’s startin’ to lock up on me. I need to stretch it out before the movie in a couple hours.”

Beginning to load the items onto the conveyor belt, I absently offer, “I’ll do a massage if you want when we get home.”

Slowly trailing his palm along my lower back, the stretch of his pinky just touching the top of my butt, he quietly drawls out, “If you’re lookin’ for a reason to touch me, you don’t need one. Just help yourself, baby girl.”

ELEVEN

REMINGTON

The thing about baseball,we’re always working. Even when we aren’t playing, we’re working. Practices, tape review, conditioning, recovery, branding, publicity, charities—it’s never ending. Every minute of every day is meticulously planned out and accounted for. And if you need to schedule a meeting with a half dozen other players across the country who each have their own demanding schedules, you have to get on their books weeks and months in advance. Then until the day comes, pray nothing happens to force a reschedule or prompt someone dropping out. It’s a tedious pain in the ass. One I ended up taking on after my early exit ahead of the postseason.

Glancing at the clock as Sweeny from Atlanta argues with Nash, our first baseman, about the monetary benefits of holding a gala, I stifle a groan. Any minute now, my girls are going to come back from their run and pass right through the frame of the camera on their way to the kitchen for all six horny bastards to see.

Our routine each day is simple and easy. One that, even with the physical therapy and training we do multiple times a day,paints a fantasy of domestic bliss. It’s a slice of what life with her could be like, and I can’t get enough of it.

Like me, she considers an early morning being up before eight or nine in the morning, no doubt a byproduct of a life lived so closely with her dad. Learning very quickly that there is zero communication with her beyond a few muffled words that I can’t actually discern until she’s had at least one coffee and been awake for an hour, I get up and fill one of her numerous tumblers with ice, a healthy dose of cold brew, almond milk, and the vanilla simple syrup I made our first day here to replace the artificial crap she was using. It’s quick and easy and something I have ready and waiting for her the moment she shuffles into the kitchen. Then with the grace and speed of a zombie, she possessively cradles her cup between both her hands and immediately begins sipping it, a soft smile brightening her stunning face and sleep heavy eyes before she plods back upstairs.

Then for the next hour, sometimes two, of our day, I sit out on the deck responding to emails and working through my day’s list of to dos for the business side of being a professional athlete with Winnie taking her first of many naps curled up beside me. And while out there, I watch Scarlet on the balcony above me. She sits with her feet propped on the railing, coffee kept safely within reach, taking in the mountains and changing leaves before pulling out whatever book she’s currently reading and falling into its pages the moment she’s coherent. After a fluctuating amount of time depending on how engrossed the story keeps her, she gets up and disappears inside the bedroom to get ready for the first part of our day. My bedroom.

Originally, she and Winnie were going to stay in the secondary suite on the ground floor, her dog already hilariously skeptical of my open slatted stairs, with me retaining my bedroom that took up the entire second level. Then I slipped onmy crutches trying to get up to my room, fell, and landed on my fresh out of surgery hip. After that, it was decided I would be confined to the main floor of the house for my own safety, and Winnie’s newest fear was born. And though I have three more bedrooms on the lower level of the house, I never had any of them furnished, having no current need for them.

So up to my room she went, where her clothes hang in my closet and live in my dresser. Where she showers in the massive, multi-headed walk-in that had been designed for two people. Soaks in the tub I almost never use but was custom built to accommodate the long length of my legs and again allow space for me and the future Mrs. Tate the designers insisted I plan for when crafting the layout and features of my home. Sleeps in my bed with my sheets cocooning her each night, her hair fanning out across the silk covered pillows, creating a golden halo around her. The very bed that, until now, has had no one but myself in it.

The sight of her easily becoming at home here and the knowledge of her sprawled out in my bed each night is now a recurring torment for me as I stroke my dick, fucking my hand as I would her, picturing just how sweet she would look beneath me. Her toned, slender thighs bent over my arms so I could stretch her around my cock as much as possible. Her nails raking across my shoulders and her head thrown back as she comes, legs locking around me to seal my cum inside her.

It’s after Scar goes inside to change that I close up my work and get ready myself, my own routine now consisting of jerking off in the shower in what is often a failed attempt at exhausting my dick ahead of seeing her. Because after she’s properly caffeinated and perked up, I get greeted with the sight of her bounding down the stairs, blonde hair swishing in a long ponytail I want to wrap around my hand and pull on, pert breasts lifted and displayed by a sports bra, and her biteableass covered in leggings I swear were made with the intention of making men fall to their knees.

And that is the sight that currently has me wishing this meeting had been rescheduled or that I would spontaneously lose my Wi-Fi connection. Because any minute now, my girl will be coming home. Her skin rosy and glowing. Wisps of hair sticking to her sweat misted face. Eyes shining brightly. Breasts rising with hypnotic rhythm as her heart rate comes down. Every inch of her a striking display that calls to mind having been thoroughly fucked and not fresh off a five mile run with Winnie. A sight I don’t want to share with anyone. Least of all fucking Sweeny and Dawson, both of whom are on this video call.

Right on schedule, Winnie comes trotting around the house to find me on the outside couch, dropping on the deck’s rug with a heavy enough thump, my laptop’s mic picking up the sound.

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