Page 6 of Passed Ball

With a glance over my shoulder, I watch my friends fussing over my baby girl, welcoming her to the Bandits family. For the first time since I found out I was going to be a father, things seem like they might be okay and the tightness in my chest eases a little. I might not have a family by blood, but this family, is pretty fucking incredible.

The suffocating smell I discover when I strip my shirt over my head proves that Poppy was right and that I'll need extra time scrubbing. But knowing that Holland is safe and cared for doesn't stop me from rushing through a quick wash, rinse, and repeat.

It should honestly be a crime that I let it get this bad in only two days, but I was fucking terrified to leave her side for even a minute to shower. Which is something I'm going to need to figure out because, after a thorough washing, I nearly feel like a functioning human again. Who knew water and soap had those kinds of superpowers?

Not me.

Grabbing a fresh pair of joggers and a shirt without spit up crusted to the shoulder, I find my house buzzing with activity.

Most notable is the smell of a homemade pizza cooking from the kitchen where Lilah is working on a salad. I'm about to tell her how unnecessary it is, but everywhere I look, something is getting done without prompting.

Mia's sitting on my living room floor folding Holland's tiny clothes, and Indie's singing softly while she changes a diaper. Beside her, Poppy is putting together a bouncer that I don't recognize.

My feet stop moving of their own accord, and my throat tightens. "What's going on?" I croak, dumbly.

"Now you can bring her to the bathroom with you when you shower, and your teammates won't have to suffer from the smell of armpits and sour formula." Poppy shrugs like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "I hope you don't mind that you didn't get to rip the paper off yourself, but the situation was out of hand."

"And you've gotta eat. The Bandits expect you at one-hundred percent when you report back." Lilah opens the oven and the smell of bacon and cheese hits me, making my stomach growl loudly, proving her point.

"Speaking of baseball, what exactly is your plan?" Indie runs her hand over my daughter's head.

It's the million-dollar question. One I've gone over hundreds of times, and am still as uncertain of the answer as I was the first time. Kristy and I were supposed to split time based on my schedule. She'd have her when I was playing, on the road, or practicing. I'd have her anytime I wasn't. It gave us time to find a nanny. But she blew that up when she walked away, leaving me with no one to care for my daughter.

"I don't fucking know. How the hell am I supposed to trust someone else to watch her while I travel after . . ." My teeth grind together, halting the frustration that was about to spill. Regardless of my relationship, I won't poison my daughter with the anger I have for her mother.

Until I can process my feelings, I'll shut the fuck up. "A service sent over a few profiles for nannies. I have it narrowed down to two and I'll make my decision after I interview them."

"You know we will help as much as we can," Lilah says, over her shoulder. Her smile is sweet and reassuring, not at all pitying.

I swallow around the heavy lump stuck in my throat. "Yeah, I know," comes out on a croak that I don't try to hide. "Thank you. I'm not sure what I did to deserve this, but I appreciate it more than I can say."

They showed up not knowing how lonely this all is.

This is what I want for my daughter, to be surrounded by this kind of love. To be safe and cherished--everything a child should be.

Nothing like the way I was raised.

Chapter 2

Vivienne

There's no way . . .

I stop in my tracks, blinking. I've never hallucinated before, but there's a first time for everything. Either the man in front of me is a figment of my imagination, or Xavier Kingsley is a hot mess. Neither makes sense. The Bandits' catcher is always composed, polished, and maddeningly perfect.

Even in the unwelcome cameos he makes in my subconscious, he's infuriatingly sexy and unflappable. It's the one redeeming thing about him.

If he's going to drive me insane with his cocky arrogance, at least he does it while looking like a sex god.

But it's definitely him. Those broad shoulders and that unruly red hair are unmistakable. Nobody else fills out their baseball uniform quite like number seven. It's tragically unfair for him to have all thatandmesmerizing blue eyes, a sharp jawline, and freckles that manage to be both rugged and charming at the same time.

Since he waltzed into my life a year ago, acting like an arrogant prick, he's been everywhere--billboards, interviews, and--unfortunately--back at my camp, again.

The universe is mocking me. Throwing the presumptuous baseball player that I'd love to fuck in my face.

Wait, what?

Forget. I definitely meantforget.

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