Page 23 of Sideline Play

“Sounds like someone needs to do a better job at teaching Andy Mitchell how to respect women,” Remington mutters, making the girl’s mom and I choke on a laugh.

Putting my hand on his arm, I tell the girl, “Well, we don’t play, at least not in the MLB. That part is true enough, but that doesn’t mean we’re not a part of baseball in other ways. The minor leagues have several umpires who are women, a few teams have female coaches, there are women who are trainers like me, and that doesn’t even include the ladies who are lawyers, the ones in charge of a team’s publicity, or those who are agents and managers to players. So if you want to be in baseball, you definitely can be.

“More importantly though, don’t let Andy make you feel bad about yourself.” Gesturing to my dress and strappy heels, I say, “Look at me! I’m prissy too. Being a girl is fun, and if you want to dress up and be girly, own it and wear it with confidence. Don’t let anyone tell you what you can and can’t do just because you’re a girl or because you like girly things. You were born to sparkle and shine, and I don’t want you dimming that for anyone.”

“See?” Remington asks. “I told you; she may be Colt’s daughter, but Scar is very special all on her own.”

“Can I get a picture with you?” she responds.

Putting my hands on my knees, I start to stand up addressing her mom, “Want me to take it? Then you can get in with your daughter and Remi?”

“I meant with you,” the little girl whispers, looking at the ground.

Pointing to myself and looking to Remi to be sure I heard right, I clarify, “Me? You want a picture with me?”

Watching her head nod so fast she looks like an adorable bobble head, my eyes begin to sting and my nose prickles.

Matching her enthusiastic nodding as my lip trembles, I respond just as softly, “Yeah… yes… I… I would love that,” my words coming out choked as I kneel down, adjusting myself so my dress falls as modestly as possible.

After snapping several quick pictures, her mom also looking as if she’s on the verge of tears, we get Remington in behind us and take several more. Then after helping him get back to standing and balanced, my face scrunching at the loud clicking of his hip telling me we’ve been out too long, the little girl looks between us and with a very sharp, authoritative nod, decides, “You two should get married.”

Not missing a beat, he responds, “Got to get her to agree to go on a date with me first,” leaving me flabbergasted as her mom starts to scold her as they walk away.

Biting on the corner of my nail as we walk back to the cart, I can feel my thoughts begin to descend into the hellish space where everything plays on repeat as I look at each minute detail under a microscope of self critical inspection. Looking up at him, I take a breath and murmur, “Remi?” My heart is ready to fall out of my butt over my impulsive decision that this is the opportune time to finally ask him directly if things between us are going where I think and hope they are.

Stopping to give me the same unwavering attention he had shown the little girl, he responds, “Yes?”

Chewing on the inside of my cheek, my skin suddenly feels like a hundred bugs are crawling all over me as my adrenaline starts to spike, and I stammer, “Did you… are we… what’s… what I mean is…”

Putting his fingers under my chin, he tilts my head up so I’m forced to return his gaze and slowly instructs, “Breathe, baby girl. It’s just me.” Stroking his thumb along my jaw, he repeats, “Just breathe. Take all the time you need. I’ll wait.”

“Do you mean that?”

“Your words and thoughts are important to me; of course I mean it. This shouldn’t be scary for you, and I’ll wait patiently for however long you need me to so that it isn’t. I’m not in a rush—not with you.”

Turning into his hand as he cups my face, I gently press my lips to his palm, quietly humming, “Thank you,” and his sucked in breath is unmissable to my ears. Lingering for just a moment, I step back and banish all my thoughts as I ask, “You ready to check out?”

Scrutinizing the cart, Remington slowly begins to shake his head, his tongue pushing out his cheek as he repeats my earlier words, “No, absolutely not; put it back,” snatching the boxed cake mix as if it’s personally offended him. “That garbage is not allowed to walk into our house, Scar.”

“But–”

“No.”

“That’s not–”

“I make fresh, from scratch, inventive cupcakes almost every day. Why on earth would you want this crap?”

“Because it’s good…” I ask more than answer.

“We’re putting it back. That jarred, runny frosting is going back, too. Jesus, you’re trying to kill me by buying that stuff. Let’s go.”

He marches off with a speed that has me chasing after him with admonishments that don’t land as well as they could given how hard I’m trying not to laugh over how affronted he is by the idea of eating cake from a box. Slamming the items back onto the shelf, disgust plain on his face, he sweeps his arm out, demanding, “Okay baby girl, this shit—forgive me but it’s the most polite word I can use right now—is a hard limit. You want a certain kind of cake, you ask me and I can make it for you or teach you how, but this artificial, fast food equivalent is not welcome in our kitchen,ever.”

Unable to stop myself, I say, “But it’s cheaper. The butter alone for your frosting, while nearly orgasmic and something I could lick off of just about anything and everything, is as much as the box and canned stuff combined. I can also make this one so for once you’re not doing it all. And well, it’s faster.”

“Someone, somewhere has done you a big disservice, baby girl,” he drawls, prowling toward me. “Faster is not always a good thing. Some things—say cupcakes—need to be handled with care, treated softly and delicately. You should take your time and not rush through it. Reaching the finish line shouldn’t be your only goal. And just because you can satisfy the craving by yourself does not mean you shouldn’t experience it and indulge in it when given by someone else—say me, who loves to indulge your cravings—every chance you can.”

Clenching my thighs as a wet heat begins to warm my pussy, I breathe, “Holy hell.” My eyes flutter closed as I feel Remington across every inch of exposed skin despite not touching me.

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