Max makes a jumbled sound that I’ve come to know as meaning “snack” as he points towards the kitchen in my hotel room.
I adjust him on my hip. “You want a pouch?” He points to the kitchen again.
“Can you say pouch?” I prompt, but he just keeps pointing in that direction.
I grab his favorite flavor of pureed fruit, undoing the top and letting him feed himself as I carry him around my room, tidying up before Miller comes over to watch him for the first time.
“Is that good, Bug?”
He smacks his tiny lips together.
He still only has a handful of words in his vocabulary, but it’s wild when I get to hear them. It’s even wild to watch him feed himself though he’s been doing it for months. It might sound pathetic, but the small changes I see in him as he learns and grows are the most exciting moments of my everyday life.
And right on cue, I have to push away the lingering disappointment and questions, wondering what moments I missed for those first six months of his life when I didn’t even know he existed.
I should probably put him down. Let him chill in his highchair or something but I’m always a needy little fucker on game days. I hate knowing I’m leaving him behind for the rest of the day. I miss dinner with him, and bedtime. So yeah, I’m a bit helicopter-y on afternoons I have to go to the field.
A knock sounds at the door and I find myself checking out my room, making sure it looks okay before answering it for my coach’s daughter. Except when I open the door, it’s not Miller waiting for me on the other side. It’s my brother.
“What are you doing here?” I ask as he barrels inside.
“Heard the new nanny is hot.” He looks around my hotel room, for her I guess. “And a woman, thank fuck.”
“Don’t curse in front of my kid.”
Who am I kidding? Max is being raised by a baseball team. He’s heard worse already.
“Sorry, Maxie,” Isaiah says. “Thank frick. Better, Dad?” I roll my eyes.
“So where is she?”
“How do you even know about her or that she’s hot?”
“So, she is hot? I didn’t actually know that. I was manifesting.”
Isaiah takes a seat at the small kitchen nook, his feet up on the stool next to the one he’s sitting on. I tend to get the biggest rooms on the road because I have another person living with me, and all of Max’s stuff eats at any available space I have. Additionally, there’s always an adjoining room connected to mine for Max’s nanny to stay. Now that Troy’s gone, it’s empty, but Miller will stay in there while I’m at the game tonight.
“She’s not not hot.”
“Oh my God,” my brother says, accusatorially. “You’re gonna bang the new nanny, aren’t you? So cliché, my guy.”
“No, I’m not. And neither are you because not only is she Max’s new nanny, but she’s also Monty’s daughter.”
Every muscle in Isaiah’s body freezes. “You’re kidding me. Monty has a hot daughter? How old is she?”
“Twenty-five.”
“And she’s good with kids?”
“Doubtful. She’s like a goddamn hurricane, but Monty’s adamant about me hiring her, so I don’t really have a choice.” Isaiah nods in understanding. “How the hell do you know about her? I’ve only just met her.”
“The team’s group chat is going off.” He holds up his phone and I adjust my glasses to look at it. “You should take it off mute every once in a while.”
Travis: Heard Max’s new nanny is a woman. Fucking finally, Ace.
Cody: Troy was cute, but his replacement is cuter. I think I saw her in the hallway earlier. I wouldn’t mind her being my nanny. Feed me. Tuck me into bed. Take my temperature too.
Isaiah: She’s not a nurse, you idiot.
Cody: I call dibs on her being my seatmate on the plane.
Travis: What the hell? That’s my seat.
Cody: Wait until you see her. You’ll understand.
Isaiah: You can have the plane seat. I call dibs on everything else.
An odd sense of annoyance rattles through me because this is Monty’s kid and Max’s new caretaker. She’s not here for them. They’re acting like a pack of starved dogs going after a single bone when, in reality, they have a buffet in every city we visit.
I would know. I used to have a buffet too.
“Okay.” I usher him off the stool. “You need to leave before she gets here.”
“No way. At least one of the Rhodeses needs to make a good impression and you’re too stressed and grumpy lately to do it.”
“If there’s one Rhodes I can count on making a good impression, it sure as hell isn’t going to be you. Max will do it.” My brows cinch. “And I’m not grumpy, you dick.”
I’m just tired. Tired of doing it all alone. Tired of feeling like I’m not doing enough.
“Really?” Isaiah asks with a huff of a laugh. “Because you used to be the happiest dude I knew, but I couldn’t tell you the last time I saw you genuinely having fun. Back in the day, you were a bigger flirt than me, with shockingly more game. When’s the last time you let that side come out?”
“There are ways to have fun other than screwing around in every city.”
Like watching the same YouTube video of farm animals singing and dancing on repeat. Or playing peekaboo behind a napkin for an hour straight in an attempt to get Max to stop crying while he’s teething. My new definitions of fun.
“Yeah, but that way is the most fun.” A smirk quirks on his lips.
In my twenties I was a massive flirt, and I did my fair share of fucking around, but responsibilities crept into my life again, shifting my priorities. The flirty side pops out occasionally, when I’m out at work events alone, but then the reminder of who’s waiting for me at home brings me back to reality and I squash my former self.
But I’m not getting into that conversation with my little brother right now because as much as I love him, he’ll never understand. Our teen years were terrible, but he has no idea just how hard they were because I sheltered him from it all. It’s what I do. I take care of my responsibilities.
“Are you feeling okay?” I ask. “Huh?”
“You look sick. Maybe you should call out tonight. Stay home. Watch my son.”
He rolls his eyes. “Says the guy who plays once every five days.” “Exactly. And look how much I get paid for it. I’m essential.”
Isaiah barks a laugh. “I’m the shortstop. I play every single game. There are four more starting pitchers waiting for their night.”
“Which is why I should retire early. The Warriors will be fine without me.”
His brown eyes narrow. “You’re just running in circles hoping one of your points sticks, huh?”
“Worth a shot.”
“If Monty’s daughter is anything like him, she’ll be great with Max.
What are you so worried about?”
A knock at the door sounds, cutting off that conversation. “You’ll see.”
Isaiah turns back to me with a mischievous smile. “Who is it?” he calls out in a sing-song voice.
Shut the fuck up, I mouth.
“Don’t curse in front of my nephew.”
“Your favorite person in Miami,” Miller deadpans from the hallway. “S*xy voice,” Isaiah whispers, and I find myself annoyed that he noticed.
He opens the door, casually leaning on the frame and blocking my view of the girl in the hall, but I watch as his spine stiffens before his head whips around to me, slack jaw and wide brown eyes.
I know that guy better than he knows himself, so it’s not hard to understand that he’s silently asking why I didn’t tell him that Miller is the girl he fell in love with from the elevator this morning.
“Isaiah, Miller. Miller, Isaiah. My brother.”
“Buy one, get one. Fun,” I hear her say, but I still can’t see her because my brother is frozen in the entryway.
“I’m the uncle,” he finally blurts out.
She laughs, a deep throaty sound that goes straight to my dick. “I put that together from the whole brother thing.”
“Isaiah, move.”
“Yeah. Welcome. Come on in.” He ushers her inside as if it were his room to welcome her into. “Can I get you anything? Water? A snack? My number?”
She completely ignores him.
As soon as he’s out of the way, she comes into view, still wearing those cutoff overalls and I’m not quite sure what’s so fascinating to me about her thighs, but they’re thick and muscular, the kind you get from years of playing softball.
And I can’t stop imagining how blissfully constricting they’d feel around my waist. Or even better—my face.
But then I remember this is Monty’s kid I’m thinking about, and I have to close my eyes to keep myself from looking at her.
“You good, Baseball Daddy?” Isaiah cackles.
My eyes shoot open to find her looking at me like there’s something very, very wrong with me and clearly there is if I’m looking at this woman like that.
She’s borderline certifiable.
“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “This is Max.” I nod my head towards him, shifting my hip so he can see her better.
“Hi, Max,” Miller says, her eyes softening.
That wild-girl edge I saw this morning is calmer now, maybe for Max’s sake or maybe for mine, I’m not sure, but a small amount of my hesitation about this situation eases away.
Max blushes, burying his head into the crook of my neck, knocking off his little ball cap in the process. He’s being shy, vastly different from his desperation to get to Miller this morning, but he’s not afraid of her the way he is with most strangers. I think he’s simply aware of her attention, and even though he’s acting like he doesn’t, he likes it.
But there’s a part of me that’s loving that my son wants me regardless of the pretty girl calling out his name.
“He’s being shy.”
“That’s okay, Max. I tend to have that effect on boys.”
My eyes dart to Isaiah. Case in point—my brother, who is frozen like a statue in the kitchen, silent but mesmerized.
“Should we show Miller all your stuff?” I ask my son.
Max reaches up to use his hat to cover his pink cheeks, but it’s on the floor so his giddy smile is pretty obvious behind his arm.
“Come on, Bug.” I take his empty pouch, setting it on the kitchen counter before placing him on his feet.
“Bug?”
“It’s his nickname. The first time I ever saw him, he was wearing a onesie that was covered in a pastel bug print. So, Bug kind of stuck.”
With Max’s hands in the air, I hold on to each of them with my own, letting him use me to balance himself as he takes slow, wonky steps into the kitchen.
“He’s not walking on his own yet?”
My head snaps up to Miller, looking for a judgmental glare to accompany her statement, but there isn’t one. In fact, nothing in her tone was judgmental either.
It’s a me thing, thinking others are judging my parenting skills or my son’s progression. He’s fifteen months old. Maybe he should be walking. Maybe he should have more words in his vocabulary. I don’t fucking know. To be honest, I don’t want to know because I’m doing my best. Am I failing as a parent? Possibly. But he’s healthy and I’m trying.
“Not yet. It’ll happen any day now, though.” I shift my attention back to Max as he continues to take shaky steps into the kitchen, not letting her see the concern on my face that I’m screwing up this whole “dad” thing.
“That’s kind of nice. I’m glad I don’t have to worry about him running away on me,” she chuckles.
Looking up at her, I catch her watching my son with a soft smile. She’s not judging us.
She’s not judging me.
“He’s a hell of a crawler though.” Letting go of his hands, Max immediately folds onto the ground before he takes off crawling. “He’ll be on his hands and knees most of the time.”
“As all men should be.”
Isaiah makes his presence known with a childish squeak of a laugh. “I like her,” he says.
“Well at least one of the Rhodes boys does.” “Two,” I interject.
A flash of confusion and maybe a bit of hope washes over her face. “Max.”
She barks a laugh, and that fucking sound is so frustratingly s*xy to me that I have to clear my throat and turn away from her.
“Emergency numbers,” I say, pointing to the list attached to the fridge. “Mine. The team’s travel coordinator. Hotel front desk. The local hospital
—”
“You added 9-1-1.”
“They’re emergency numbers.”
“I think I’ve got that one down already.” I continue down the list. “Your dad.” “Got that one too.”
Isaiah barrels his body between us, pen outstretched. “Mine,” he says as he sprawls his number on the very bottom, ten times the size of the rest. “Text me anytime. Call me. Emergency, non-emergency.” He blocks me by turning his back to me, arm leaning on the fridge to create a barrier she can’t see behind. “I’m Max’s favorite and I have a feeling I’ll be yours too.”
Miller chuckles. “Thirsty.”
Well, that’s new. I’m used to women falling for my brother’s charmingly easy playboy thing.
Isaiah doesn’t move, keeping his body between ours. “I like to call myself eager.”
“Parched. Dehydrated,” she continues. “Desperate,” I add for her.
“Hey.” Isaiah holds up a single finger. “If I wasn’t getting any, I’d let you call me desperate, but I’m doing just fine in that department, so I would say I’m enthusiastically available.”
“Sounds like you keep yourself plenty busy then. No need to try for your coach’s daughter, right? Don’t think he’d like that all too much.” Miller tilts her head.
Isaiah stiffens, his voice dipping to a whisper. “Please don’t tell your dad.”
“Then please don’t make it awkward for me while I’m watching your nephew.”
Okay, maybe there are three Rhodeses that like her.
“You heard the woman.” I usher him to the door. “Stop harassing her and leave so Max can get to know her.”
“But I wanna get to know her!” he says as I push him out of the room.
I shut the door behind him, turning back to the kitchen. “Sorry about him.”
“Was I too direct?”
“Nah. A little rejection is good for his overgrown ego, but by turning him down you probably made him fall in love with you. So, good luck with that.”
“Great,” she deadpans before finding Max sitting at her feet, staring up at her.
She gets down on her haunches, making herself as eye level as she can. “Hi, Bug.”
Max smiles and I lean against the wall, watching them.
“What do you say? Wanna hang out with me while your dad is working?
We can watch his game and make fun of how tight his pants are.” “You’ll be watching?”
“The game? Or your ass?” “Both.”
Miller’s greens dart to me over her shoulder.
Shit. The old me popped out without thought, two seconds after she gave my brother a warning for hitting on her.
A smirk lifts on her lips, but she doesn’t fully answer my question. “Yeah, I’ll be watching.”
“Shit. Shoot,” I correct myself. “You probably have tickets. You should go to the game. Hang out with your dad afterward. I’ll get Sanderson from the staff to watch him.”
“It’s fine.” She waves me off, clearly not picking up on the fact I’d rather have Sanderson watch him tonight. I trust him enough and, that way, Max will be at the field where I am. “It seems I’ll be around all summer now. Plenty of baseball to watch.”
Yeah, we’ll see about that.
Part of me wants to set her up for failure, give her dad a reason to fire her, but her failing only hurts Max in the long run.
Right on cue, as that disapproving thought passes through my mind, Max reaches his hands up for Miller to hold him. She takes him with ease, and he buries himself into her shoulder, something he never does with strangers, least of all a random woman.
My son looks over to me, a little grin on his lips as if he were silently telling me that, despite my best efforts, she’s staying.
Taking my hat off, I give myself a moment between pitches, running my thumb over the small photo of Max I keep tucked into the inner band.
Travis calls for change-up, but I shake him off. I was lucky enough that this guy skimmed my last change-up. I’m not risking it again.
Two outs and the third is coming two pitches from now. Bottom of the seventh inning and we’re up 3-1 on Miami. That run pissed me off. I lost focus and pitched right into the batter’s pocket, where Miami’s second baseman sent it flying into the bleachers past right field.
Thankfully, no other runners were on the bases, but that’s the last time I think about Miller fucking Montgomery while I’m on the mound.
It’s her first night with Max, and I’d assume from the glimpse I got of her this morning, it’ll also be her last. There’s no way she won’t fuck this up.
Travis, my catcher, changes his call, giving me what I want—a four-seam fastball. I need this inning over. No unnecessary runners on the bases, no extra time spent running through pitch sequences. Just up and down. Three at-bats. Three outs.
Giving him a nod, I straighten my body and align my fingers over the laces of the ball in my glove. Deep breath and I go through my mechanics, sending a fastball high and outside. Just high and outside enough that the batter swings and misses, earning me my second strike.
He’s pissed at himself, and I love that. I can see the frustration even from the mound. And when Travis gives me my next pitch, I know he’s going to be real pissed when I get my final strike on a slider.
It’s similar to my curveball, but my slider is deadly. This is only the second season that Travis has been my catcher, but he knows this is how I like to end an inning. It’s effective, and right now I need efficiency so I can get back to the dugout and check on my son.
Like clockwork, the batter swings as the ball takes a downward curve, cutting inside.
Three strikes. Three outs. Inning over.
Travis meets me halfway between home plate and the pitchers’ mound, connecting his catcher’s glove to my own. “Damn, Ace. You’re going to bruise my palm with that speed. How’s the arm?”
I round my shoulders. “Still feels good.”
I would add that I’ve got at least another inning in me, but I wouldn’t dare speak that out loud. Superstitions and all that.
“That’s what I like to hear.”
“Let’s go, big bro!” Isaiah jogs in from his position between second and third base, smacking my ass with his glove. “What’s gotten into you tonight?”
I steadily jog to the dugout with them. “Just ready for this game to be over. Would like for it to happen as quickly as possible.”
“Fucking hell,” he laughs. “Is this because of the hot nanny?”
“What the hell did you say, Rhodes?” Monty yells out as we pass him, taking the stairs into the dugout where I’m met with ass slaps, shoulder claps, and endless praise for tonight’s pitching.
“Nothing. I don’t think I said anything.” He looks around. “Nope, didn’t hear anything either.”
“Good. I like you a whole lot better when you don’t speak.” He palms the back of my head. “Nice pitching, Ace.”
Nodding, I find the first staff member who isn’t busy.
“Sanderson,” I call out to one of our trainers as I take a seat on the back of the bench, high enough to give me a view of the field. “You got your phone on you?”
His eyes bounce to mine nervously, probably because he knows better than to speak to a pitcher between innings. In fact, I typically don’t talk at all, and my teammates know not to break my focus once I take a seat on the bench, but tonight is the exception.
Seven innings down which makes this the seventh text I’ve sent to Miller. Only I can’t be the one to do it because there are too many cameras focused on me in the dugout.
“Send a text for me,” I call out before rattling off Miller’s number I memorized this afternoon.
“What should I say?”
“Checking in. Ask her how Max is and remind her she can bring him here if she’s having trouble with him. You can take him off her hands, right?”
“Ace!” Monty calls out. “Stop texting my daughter and focus on the goddamn game.”
“Hey, you’re the one who not only raised an absolute wild card, but also hired her to watch my son. This is your fault.”
A crack of a smile peeks through his lips.
Sanderson clears his throat. “She texted back.” He reads from his phone with absolutely no inflection in his voice. “She says, ‘Tell Kai if he doesn’t leave me alone, I’m going to feed his kid all the sugar I can find in this hotel, sit him in front of a screen so he can get brainwashed by whatever the hell a Cocomelon is, then leave his grouchy ass to deal with Max all night.’”
“Not funny.” I go to grab his phone.
“Ace,” Monty says under his palm so outsiders can’t read his lips. “Cameras.”
Exhaling a resigned sigh, I say, “Text her back and tell her she’s fired.” Monty chuckles under his breath.
Sanderson holds up his phone for me to read as texts continue to roll in.
Miller: I got fired in the third and sixth innings too! This must be a new record.
Miller: Tell him his change-up should get him fired. That was ugly.
Miller: Oh, and tell him his baseball pants aren’t doing anything for his ass.
Miller: Actually, don’t lie. His change-up though, that’s not a lie. It really was ugly.
“Jesus,” I huff out, shaking my head. “Just ask her if my kid is alive.” Sanderson’s phone dings. “Alive.”
A small weight lifts from my chest. Seven innings down, two to go.
“I can’t wait to meet her,” I hear Travis chime in from down the bench, talking to my teammates.
“About time Max got a hot nanny,” my brother says.
“About time we got a hot nanny. We deserve this,” Cody, our first baseman adds. “This is far more exciting for the boys than it is for Maxie.”
Monty turns around to rip my teammates a new one, but I beat him to it. “Watch it,” I say from my isolated seat. Standing, my jacket falls from
my shoulder as I project my voice loud enough to be heard from the other end of the dugout. “I’m going to say this only once, so listen up. No one better try anything with her. I don’t give a shit if you think she’s God’s gift to this team, she’s not here for any of you. So let this be the one and only warning that if you mess with her in any way that makes her feel uncomfortable or unwelcome, you will be answering to me. You think Monty is scary when it comes to his kid?” I chuckle condescendingly. “You don’t even want to know what I’ll be like if you fuck with mine, and
messing with Miller, or anyone who is watching my son, is the same thing as messing with Max, so don’t fucking try it.”
Sinking back onto the top of the bench, I re-cover my shoulder with my jacket to keep it warm.
The dugout is eerily quiet, probably because my teammates are shocked to hear me speak. Baseball’s unspoken rules and superstitions are no joke— you don’t mess with them, but making sure Max is okay is more important than any superstition.
“Yeah!” my brother calls out, breaking the awkward silence. “Only Ace is allowed to make her feel unwelcome, isn’t that right, Coach?”
“Isaiah, stop being such a kiss ass and get on-deck. You’re batting next.” “Yes, sir!”
He swaps his hat for his batting helmet, scurrying out of the dugout to the on-deck circle, while I sit and wait for this goddamn game to be over.
