Caught Up (Windy City Series)

“Isaiah, you’re coming over tonight.” I grab my car keys, wallet, and phone from my locker stall after practice on our home field. “Cody and Trav, you too.”

Isaiah struts out of the showers with nothing but a towel around his waist. “Why?”

“Because I said so.”

Cody’s brows shoot up. “Yes, Baseball Daddy.”

“You’re not allowed to call me that.”

“No,” Travis cuts in. “Only the coach’s daughter is allowed to call him that.”

“Yeah, well, for reasons I’m not going to discuss with you, she can call me whatever the hell she wants.”

“Trust me, Ace. We all know why the coach’s daughter gets to call you ‘Daddy’,” Cody says. “So why are we coming over?”

“Miller is working on some new recipes at the house tonight and I need people other than me to hype her up. So come over, eat, and sing her fucking praises with whatever dessert she puts in front of you.”

“You should’ve just said that. You wouldn’t have even had to ask me to come over. I would’ve just shown up.” Isaiah throws his shirt back on. “Maybe you should invite Kennedy too.”

“She doesn’t want to hang out with the team outside of work.”

“But she’s friends with Miller now, so she’d probably be into it.”

“Then go ahead and invite her.”

Isaiah sighs in defeat. “She’ll definitely say no if I’m the one to ask. Cody.” My brother turns towards our first baseman. “Will you ask her?”

“Why?” he laughs. “So I can trick her into spending time with you?”

“Well . . . yeah. Exactly.”

I grab my hat off the bench before leaving the locker room. “Come over around seven.”

Before I hit the parking lot, I take a sharp left and round the corner to Monty’s office. The door is slightly cracked already, so I rap my knuckles against the wood and let myself inside.

“Hey, Ace.” He barely peeks up at me over his computer screen. “How’s the arm?”

“Good.”

“Did you get some time in the training room? Let the staff work on it?”

I take a seat on the chair opposite his desk. “I did.”

Monty finally peels his eyes away from the computer. “I’m assuming you’re in here because there’s something you want to tell me.”

I exhale a shocked and uncomfortable laugh. Fuck my life.

“Want to tell you?” I ask. “Not a chance in hell. Is there something I should tell you? Probably.”

“Well, are you going to?”

Am I going to look him in the eye and tell him I’m sleeping with his daughter? Abso-fucking-lutely not.

“I’m gonna plead the fifth on this one, Monty.”

He laughs to himself, clearly entertained by how uncomfortable I am.

I change the subject. “Are you free tonight?”

“I am. Well, I was going to see if Millie wanted to get dinner.” He lifts a brow. “Or is she busy?”

God, this is weird. Six weeks ago, I thought I couldn’t stand the girl, and now I know her schedule better than her dad. And he knows as well as I do that if she’s not free, it’s because she’s with me.

“As far as I know, she is, but what do you say about having dinner at our—my house instead?”

A knowing smirk lifts on his lips at my slip-up. “I could do that.”

“Great. And after, I need you to stick around for a bit. Miller is working on some recipes for work tonight. Well, she doesn’t know she is yet, but I think it’d help her if you were there for that.”

Monty leans back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach, his tone full of suspicion. “What are you planning, Ace?”

I lean back too, sprawling my legs out in front of me. I guess if this man were anyone other than Monty, I’d feel uncomfortable being so honest, but more than being Miller’s father, he’s my friend.

“Look, the other night she got a call about work, and she was pretty upset because she hasn’t had much time in the kitchen. That’s my fault, so tonight, some of the guys from the team are going to come over and try whatever she comes up with. She needs to regain some of her confidence in the kitchen, and I know that more than anyone else, Miller wants to impress you.”

He shakes his head. “That’s ridiculous. I’m always impressed by her.”

“I know. Trust me, I know, but . . .” Fuck. How the hell do I tell Monty about his own daughter who he clearly knows better than me? “She’s putting a lot of pressure on herself to get back to the level she was at before she won that award and hearing it coming from you that she’s doing a good job would help ease that burden, I think.”

Monty pauses, a bit confused by my spiel, but eventually he relents. “Okay, I’ll be there.”

“Great.” With a simple nod of my head, I stand from the chair, but he stops me at the door.

“I know you don’t want her to leave, so why are you helping her do just that?”

Well, shit.

There’s no way to answer that question without him figuring out just how fucking deep I am.

I sink into the chair again with a heavy sigh. “Because it’s her dream, and I care about her too much to not help her chase it, even if that means I won’t be there when she gets everything she’s worked for.”

Monty watches me, looking for any signs of bullshit, I’m sure. I wish I was lying. I wish I wasn’t such a fucking sap that I could, in good conscience, do everything in my power to make her stay. But I won’t be the reason she gives up on her dreams.

“You’re good for her, Ace.”

“No, it’s . . . it’s not like that.”

“Oh, it’s not like that, huh? So you’re going to sit here and tell me you’re sleeping with my daughter but it doesn’t mean anything? Can’t wait to hear that.”

Goddamn. I should have never come into his office today.

“Hey, don’t look at me.” I hold my hands up in surrender. “If you want to have that conversation, you talk to your girl about the rules she made regarding sex.”

Monty grimaces.

“Jesus. I can’t believe I just said sex in front of you.”

“Yeah, let’s never do that again, especially in reference to my daughter.” He sits back in his chair. “Even if you two are too blind to see it or are too stubborn to admit it, I know what this is.”

“She’s leaving.” My two least favorite words that tend to fall from my lips whenever I’m looking for an explanation.

“She is,” Monty agrees. “Are you going to be okay when that happens?”

I look right at him across the desk and lie. “I’ll figure out a way to be.”

His smile is full of pity. I’m now getting pity from the man whose daughter I’m sleeping with. Fucking great.

“You remember our conversation, right?”

He’s referring to the time he requested I speak to him if I ever felt the urge to ask Miller to stay, to leave her dreams behind and settle into life with me and my son.

The urge is there every single day, but I won’t ask that of her. It’s not what she wants, and I don’t have the strength to hear her rejection.

Miller doesn’t allow me to show her how I really feel about her, so the best I can do is tell her through my actions. Support her dreams, help her chase everything she wants. I’ll continue to do just that as much as it’ll kill me in the end because unfortunately, I’m well aware that a simple life with me and my son would never be enough for her.

“I remember,” I say. “But that’s not what this is for her. She has so many opportunities waiting for her when she gets back to work.”

Monty gives me an understanding nod. “What time should I be over tonight? Make sure it’s early enough that Max is still awake. I want to see my little guy.”

“Six?”

“I’ll be there.”

Once again, I stand to leave, but my eyes are drawn to the picture sitting on Monty’s desk. Miller in her bright yellow softball uniform, kneeling with a pitcher’s glove on her knee.

“How many of those do you have?” I gesture to the frame. I know he has one at home, this one at his Chicago office, and one he keeps in his travel bag for road games. I think he might even have one in his wallet.

“I don’t know. Three or four.”

“Why?”

“Why do you have a photo of Max in your hat?”

Touché.

“To remind me of what’s important when the stress from work or life starts to become too much.”

“Exactly.”

Without hesitation or asking for permission, I take the frame off his desk and unclip the back. The photo is small, maybe only two or three inches in height and fits perfectly next to the one of Max in my hat.

Monty stays silent as I put the empty frame back on his desk.

“Shut up.”

He laughs. “I didn’t say anything.”

I tuck the photo of Miller under the band, close to the one of Max, running my thumb over both of the edges. “How old was she here?”

“Thirteen maybe?”

“She looks happy.”

“She was. She was a really happy kid, much in the way yours is.”

Monty slides in the gentle reminder that I’m doing okay. It’s his way of reassuring me that Max is all right. That I’m doing a good job, just like he did. But I’m only doing a good job right now because of the girl in the photo next to my son’s.

I put my hat back on and leave his office.

My hands are full of groceries by the time I make it home. The house is empty and quiet, so after I set the shopping bags on the kitchen island, I make my way to the backyard in search of Max and Miller.

My son’s laughter echoes off the glass of the back slider, and I open it to find him in nothing but a diaper at his water table, splashing and clapping for himself when he dumps water from one small bucket into another slightly larger one. Miller sits on the ground and claps with him, cheering him on as he drenches himself in water, perfect for a hot August day.

When she catches my eye as I stand on the back porch, she offers me a small wave. Max follows her hand and, with a beaming smile on his face, takes off in my direction, arms up above his head as he races towards me.

“There’s my boy.”

“Dadda,” he squeals.

I gather his wet little body in my arms, hoisting him up to sit on my forearm. Miller follows behind, and when I kiss my son, I’m beyond tempted to lean over and kiss her too. This is a normal, everyday moment, one I want to seal into my memories because these are the moments that matter.

But I don’t seal it with a kiss because the soft, easy kisses are against the rules for her.

I nod towards the house. “Come.”

“Malakai,” she scolds. “Inappropriate.”

Shaking my head, I let her pass by us, giving her a slap on the ass. “Get your dirty mind inside.”

She finds the groceries on the counter. “Do you need help putting these away?”

I give her a second to rifle through them. She pulls out more flour, sugar, brown sugar, and milk. The best chocolate I could find from a local baking store. I purchased the most expensive vanilla extract on the shelf. I bought every kind of fruit the store had to offer.

“Nana!” Max hollers when she pulls out a bunch.

“What are you making?” she asks.

“I’m not. You are.”

“I’m making what?”

“Whatever you feel like.” I adjust Max in my arms. At almost seventeen months, he’s starting to get heavy. “You haven’t had time to create because we’ve been on the road so much, so I’m taking care of Max tonight and you’re going to get to work. I know you do better in the kitchen when you get to see someone try your desserts and gauge their reaction. I figured maybe you should go back to what makes you happy, and bake for the people you care about, so a few of the guys from the team are coming over. Your dad too. Whatever you feel like making, we’ll feel like eating.”

She doesn’t say anything, simply stares at the groceries.

“I hope that’s okay.”

Miller’s nose takes on a rosy hue, but that girl doesn’t cry. “More than okay.” She turns to me with a crooked smile. “Thank you, Kai.”

“It’s the least I can do after stealing you away all summer.”

She looks too soft, too vulnerable for me to resist, so I break her rules by cupping her head to pull her into my chest, placing a kiss on the top of her hair. Max, in my other arm, catches on and flops his body in half to place a sloppy one on her head as well.

She laughs, looking up to find my very proud son. “Thanks, Bug.”