Caught Up (Windy City Series)
Caught Up: Chapter 6

Still in most of my uniform, I jog down the hall to my hotel room. As quietly as possible, I enter the darkened space, Max’s noise machine covering up whatever sounds I do make as I hurry to his crib.

He’s okay. In fact, I’d say he’s better than okay, sleeping soundly in a cozy pair of pajamas with his favorite lovey in his fist that I didn’t even tell Miller about.

I don’t know why I didn’t tell her about the tiny fox-shaped comfort he’s obsessed with. Max doesn’t sleep without the thing, but even though I’m glad he’s getting some rest, I can’t lie and say I’m completely stoked that she seemingly did fine without my guidance.

Following the light filtering through the crack under the adjoining door, I tap my knuckles against the barrier between Miller’s room and mine.

“Come in,” she says just loud enough for me to hear.

Opening the door, I replace her sitting on the mattress, legs crossed, attention on the TV. Max’s baby monitor sits on the nightstand where she can check on him while she watches the Food Network without any sound.

“Does this make sense to you if you can’t hear it?” I gesture towards the TV, but Miller doesn’t look in my direction, keeping her eyes on the screen.

“It makes way more sense with the sound off. I only wanted to see how they made their frittata. I don’t need the backstory about how their great grandmother had a chicken farm, so it inspired them to create this dish for their children on the first day of school, ya know?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Mesmerized by the woman on the television, she barely glances my way to wave me off before doing a double take, her eyes falling right back to my body.

“Are you still in your uniform?”

“Had to rush over here and make sure my kid was still breathing.”

“You texted all night. Lighten up a little, Baseball Daddy.” She refocuses on the screen, but then her brows furrow and her attention replaces mine again. “You know, this uptight control freak thing is making it really hard to imagine myself watching Max all summer long.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “Is that supposed to deter me?”

Her eyes narrow. “For someone who says they like my dad so much, you’re hell-bent on making his job hard, huh? You act like this towards any person who comes within a ten-foot radius of your son, they quit, or you fire them, only for him to bend over backwards to do it all over again for you.”

Well . . . shit. That’s annoyingly perceptive.

And because I hate that she’s calling me out on day one, I deflect. “If he’s so important to you, where have you been? I’ve been playing for him for a year and a half and assumed you were a kid, not a full-grown woman, because you’ve never come around before.”

“I’m not around because he’s important to me.”

I nod my head as if I understand. “That makes no fucking sense.”

“Emmett Montgomery would give up his apartment, his dreams, and his career if it meant he could live near me. Work keeps me busy, keeps me from staying in one place for long, so we see each other on the road a few times a year. This is the first time in my adult life I have some free time and he wants me around. I owe him, so could you stop making it so difficult to pay him back?”

“What do you mean you owe him?”

She waves me off. “Maybe one morning we could get drunk together and I’ll explain it to you then.” Miller grabs her phone from the nightstand, holding it out for me to see. “Look at this video of Max. Look how happy he is.”

On the small phone screen, a video plays of my giddy son sitting on the couch, pointing up to the television screen where he can see me pitching. He’s never been to one of my games and, for all I know, this might be the first time he’s ever seen me play. The constant repeat of “Dadda” makes my chest physically ache as he watches me do something I’ve loved my entire life, but all that changes at the end of the video when I watch him cuddle up to his new nanny.

I can feel my face fall in conjunction with my stomach. He’s never been so comfortable with someone else so quickly, never had a woman in his life that he wanted to cuddle up to.

It scares the shit out of me.

Because as much as Miller has freaked me out today, what scares me more than anything is how Max will react in two months when she’s gone, if this is how much he likes her on day one.

She continues to scroll through picture after picture of him, Max smiling as widely as his little mouth allows, and when she’s done with her slideshow, without a word, I head back to my room.

“That’s it?” she asks.

I linger back into her space. “What else do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know. How about ‘Thank you, Miller. I’m not surprised my son loves you already because you’re the easiest person to get along with’ or maybe you could try to get to know me. Anything really.”

“I don’t want to get to know you.”

What’s the point when she’s leaving soon?

Her head jerks back from my words. “Did the fucked-up social skills come with fatherhood, or were you born this way?”

I don’t say anything, continuing to lean my shoulder on the door leading from her room to mine.

“You do realize you’re the issue here, right? Your son is easy.”

Again, I don’t respond.

She doesn’t have to tell me that. I’m self-aware enough to know I’m the problem. I know I’m overly protective. I know Max is easy, but he’s also my only family outside of my brother, and I’m his. He’s all I’ve got.

Miller exhales a tired sigh, and it sounds awfully like she’s tired of me. “You’re just not going to respond? Cool. Do you need anything else?” She gestures towards my body. “Do you have any post-game therapy you need to do before I call it a night?”

“No, I’m done.”

The lie slips easily off my tongue. My body is going to pay for pitching into the eighth inning without taking care of my shoulder, elbow, or wrist tonight. I should be going for a midnight swim or spending the next hour in the training room, letting them run me through stretches and mobility work. Instead, I got on the first bus to leave the arena without even giving the equipment guys my uniform.

Miller laughs and it’s without humor. “God, you finally say something and it’s bullshit.”

I should’ve known better than to lie to her about my post-game routine. She was raised by a baseball coach.

She stands from the bed, handing off the baby monitor as a physical sign that she’s done for the night. “I had fully planned on playing Mary fucking Poppins this summer, but there’s no way I can deal with you for two months.” She casually grabs her things from around the room. “I thought I could do this. Max is great, but you—” She shakes her head. “You are not.”

What is she doing? And where does she think she’s going? My entire game, I expected her to fuck up so I could fire her, but now she’s leaving on her own accord.

And all I can think about is that little boy in the next room who is sound asleep after happily spending his day with this girl who’s going to leave because of me.

I step in front of her, between her and the door. “Where are you going?”

“As far away from you as I can get. This whole overbearing single dad thing was kind of hot at first, but now”—she motions up and down my body—“this is exhausting.”

She steps to the side, reaching for the door to the hallway, but I move with her, blocking the exit.

“Please move.”

“Where are you going?” I ask again. “It’s late.”

She throws her head back for a moment to compose herself. “I have a house rental I need to pack up so I can drive to Chicago tomorrow.”

“Oh.” Well, that’s a good sign. She’s heading back to my city. “So, I’ll see you on Sunday then? At my house.”

She chuckles and it’s laced with so much frustration. “First, you don’t want me to watch your son. Now, you do. Make up your mind, Rhodes. Which is it?”

Great fucking question. Does she think I have a goddamn clue what I’m doing? I want Max to be safe. I want to be the one to keep him safe, but I can’t be with him 24/7. I want him to be happy, but I also don’t want him to get his heart broken when this woman leaves in two months.

I lift my hat off my head, running a frustrated palm over my scalp before flipping it, brim to the back. “I don’t know, Miller.”

“Oh my God.” She throws her hands up. “I’m so done with you. Move.”

She bolts to the other side of me to get to the door. Without thinking and without words I reach out to stop her, but she moves one way and I move the other far too quickly so that both my hands land on her tits instead of my intended destination—the safety of her upper arms.

We freeze by the door, my hands cupping her.

Miller’s greens bounce down to my hands then back to me. She pauses for a beat, not saying anything until finally she clears her throat. “You gonna keep them there all night, or . . .”

“Shit.” I jerk my hands away, letting them settle at my sides, forming them into fists to resist accidentally touching her again because holy fuck, she felt good to touch.

My skin is buzzing; my nerves are on fire. I almost forgot what a woman’s body felt like, how delicious the weight felt in my palm. My fingers are tingling to remember again.

God. How fucking pathetic am I that an accidental tit grab is the most action I’ve seen in well over nine months?

“You need to touch them again?” Miller asks and it’s when my attention snaps to her that I realize my eyes have been trailing all over her body, thinking, fantasizing. “If touching my boobs makes you chill the fuck out, please, be my guest.”

“Sorry . . . I . . . It was an accident.”

“You’re acting like you’ve never touched a set of tits before. You have a kid. I do hope there was some boob grabbing on the night you made the little guy.”

“I’m sure there was, it’s just . . . Sorry.”

Miller softens, no longer trying to escape, but now I feel like a creepy old man standing in front of her door, refusing to let her leave after manhandling her without permission.

I move to the side, giving her a path to go, and wordlessly, she does.

“Will I see you in Chicago?” I desperately ask before she’s fully out the door.

Miller pauses for a moment before turning back. “Kai,” she exhales, her voice all gentle and I can tell from the tone alone that I won’t like the answer I’m about to get. “I’ve got a lot going on this summer, things I’m far too stressed about. I can’t handle your stress on top of my own. I thought I could do this for my dad, I wanted to do it for him, but I don’t think it’s going to work out.” She offers me a placating smile. “You’ve got an awesome kid. For both of your sakes, I hope you can learn to loosen the reins.”

Fuck.

There are so many questions I want to ask. What is she stressed about? What can I do to change her mind?

Then there’s the other part of that equation—Monty.

God, my brother was right. I am a grumpy dick because who else would ruin this for Monty of all people? He’s been so good to me and my family and all he wanted was to spend the summer with his daughter.

And my son. Fuck. My son liked her.

How many nights have I stayed awake, worrying about what being raised by an all-male baseball team is going to do to him? He genuinely liked a woman for the first time in his short life, felt comfortable with her, and my own bullshit scared her away.

I watch Miller leave down the hall, watch her get into the elevator, and I’m stuck wondering about how only hours ago I was wishing her away and now that she’s gone, I replace myself desperate for her to stay.