I choke on my saliva as an arrogant smirk lifts on Kai’s mouth.
“Well, as I said, good luck tonight. I hope you have some . . . gold star pitching.”
He bursts a laugh, so much bright joy coming through his smile. Kennedy was right. He looks different today. So light. And so, so good.
“Gold star pitching, huh?” There’s a twinkle in his eye at the memories of last night, I’m sure. In the same way, I haven’t been able to wipe the knowing smile off my face when those same memories have flooded my mind today. “Thank you for the luck, but I don’t need it.”
“No?”
“I’ve got superstition on my side.”
“I wouldn’t rely on that.”
“Oh, I would. I know the kind of weight it holds. How important it is that I pitch well because of it.”
I roll my eyes playfully. “Well, you’re starting on a Friday night at Fenway, so I’ll say good luck to you regardless. This is big and it only happens a few times in your career, so enjoy yourself.”
He nods. “Thanks, Mills. I will.”
We both linger, unsure how to end this. He seems like he wants to lean down and kiss me, but because of my rules, he can’t.
So instead of doing anything, I turn, carrying Max towards the exit.
“Hey, Miller?” he calls out to stop me.
“Yeah?”
“I promise I won’t text you to check on Max between innings, but if you want to text me about how good my ass looks in my baseball pants, I wouldn’t be mad about it.”
My laugh comes easy. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Kai’s smile is smug and excited and looks so damn good on him as he ducks into the clubhouse to get ready.
And that night, on the TV in the hotel room while Max sleeps soundly in his crib, I watch his dad’s game. Kai starts each inning looking at the interior of his hat, running his thumb over something tucked into the corner, and by the end of the ninth, I watch as his teammates explode in excitement for him because he just completed his second career no-hitter.
Earning himself a new superstition.
Chapter 25
Kai
Our second game of the Boston series was earlier today. An afternoon start, which means Max came to hang at the field. The boy is so busy on his feet these days that he only made it three innings before Miller took him down to the training room and field offices, allowing him to run around for the remainder of the game. The two of them came back to the hotel before the buses so she could get him ready for bed, and I stayed at the field longer than usual, bombarded with questions over my no-hitter last night.
I can’t explain what was going on with my body last game, but I was on. Every pitch felt fluid and strong as it left my grip. My shoulder wasn’t humming with pain the way it typically does when I pitch late into a game. I felt electrified. Rejuvenated.
Yeah, I got laid, but can I really contribute one of my career-best games to sex?
It was great fucking sex, so yeah, maybe I can.
There was something about that night that reminded me of who I am, what I have to offer, and the idea that a woman like Miller could want me, even if it’s just for the remainder of her time here, had me walking around as if I were invincible. Clearly, it translated to my game.
She, on the other hand, is entirely freaked out, and I’m not sure why. It was her idea, and I’m playing by her rules, but yesterday it was as if she thought every simple touch between us meant I was going to lock her down, wife her up, and put a baby in her just to keep her from leaving Chicago.
Her fucking rules. They’re undeniably worse than any I had ever put in place. Now we can indulge in having one another, but only in the dark and never overnight. It doesn’t feel like enough. But then again, I’m worried nothing will be enough when it comes to Miller Montgomery because no matter if I could kiss her in public or have her sleeping in my bed, the fact is she’s leaving in three fucking weeks, and our fling ends then.
I know Max isn’t asleep yet, but it’s getting close to his bedtime, so when I enter my hotel room, I make sure to do it as quietly as possible.
But the two of them aren’t in my room, so I make my way into Miller’s and find them laying on the couch in the corner. Max is on Miller’s lap with his head resting back on her chest. She’s got a blanket surrounding them, but I can spot my son already in his pajamas as Miller reads him a story, speaking low and hushed.
They don’t know I’m here, so I steal the memory, leaning on the doorframe to watch them together.