“Renleigh?” I mean, duh. Of course, Renleigh.
He nods.
“I think I’ve got to get her to dinner first. I’m not sure I’ve earned my way past the smoothie shop yet.”
“You got her . . . to go to a game.” He takes a deep breath, then continues. “That’s more than most. Just . . . don’t fuck it up.”
My swift laugh surprises me. His candor is refreshing, if not harsh.
“I’ll try not to. Mind telling me how?” I squint one eye.
He picks up his beer, tipping it toward me.
“Don’t let Tulsa . . . jack a bunch of homers.” His silent snicker tells me all I need to know about his and Roddy’srelationship. I see why Roddy is protective of this man. And vice versa.
“Got it.” I get to my feet and step around the table, holding a hand out to shake his again. His grip is surprisingly firm this time. “So, basically, don’t look like?—”
“An overrated jackass,” he finishes for me.
He winks, and I somehow feel less sure of myself than I did before I came over here. But I’ve accomplished one thing. Dale Blackwood might just be in my corner. And if it doesn’t piss his daughter off too much, she might just let me buy her a damn steak.
Chapter 6
Renleigh
It’s been a while since I sat in these seats. My sister and I used to come to the Mavericks games with my dad when we were kids to catch any of his old players taking a crack at the big leagues. Roddy McKinney’s the only one who ever hit it truly big, but a lot of my father’s former athletes got their shot on the field.
“Are you sure . . . you don’t want one of those? It’s a . . . classic.” My dad gestures toward the wilted poppyseed bun hugging a blistered hotdog clutched in the palms of the man two rows in front of us, and I scoff and shake my head.
“Now that I know what those things are made of, I just can’t,” I laugh out. “And no, you can’t either. Those things probably got you into this mess.”
I prop my feet up on the seat in front of me and dig into my popcorn instead, leaving my dad with his celery and low sodium dip.
“You think that butter . . . flavor is any better than a hotdog?” He chuckles his way into a cough, and I shrug.
“Probably not.” I lean to my right, pressing my shoulder against his.
Spending an afternoon out at the ballfield with my father isn’t the worst way to give in to Hunter’s advances. I’m still notsold on my sister’s position on the whole thing, though. Flings aren’t exactly my thing. Though, now that I’m watching the six-foot-plus man saunter onto the grass in tight baseball pants and a compression shirt that does literally everything for his physique, I’m more open to the idea.
“I told him . . . to listen to Roddy,” my dad says, nudging my arm with his and jostling me out of my temporary drool fest. I guess I have been in a bit of a dry spell since I left the university. I haven’t exactly had time to date.
“That’s good,” I say, not fully unpacking my father’s tidbit until I’m well into chewing another handful of popcorn.
“Wait,” I cough out, dropping my feet to the ground and twisting in my seat to face my dad. “You told Hunter to listen to Roddy?”
My eyes narrow, and my father practically smirks his way into a massive bite of a celery stick.
“Oh no, you don’t. You don’t get to fill your mouth with food I know you don’t really want just to get out of this. When did you tell him to listen to Roddy? Because I was there when you met, and I don’t remember any such conversation.”
My father’s smirk is itching to turn into laughter. He’s loving this. My dad was never been the kind to ward off pursuers. I’m probably the only daddy’s girl whose father actively tries to marry her off to ballplayers on the regular. I’m shocked he hasn’t tried to broker a deal with Roddy to have me marry his son, Jake. My gut says that’s because Roddy and Jake have their own messy relationship to sort out first.
“He stopped by . . . the house. Real gentleman.” My father snaps off another bite of his stalk and turns his attention to the field, where Hunter is now warming up with some long toss.
“Real gentleman, huh?” I sink back in my seat and pop another handful of popcorn in my mouth while I study Hunter with a bit more scrutiny.
How the hell did he find out where I live? And shit! He knows where I live!
I mesh my father’s commentary with my experience so far, and I can’t deny the fact that cocky or not, Hunter Reddick doesn’t seem to be an asshole. Perhaps I’m being a bit unfair to him. I mean, he does have nice arms. And legs. And his thighs . . . I do like his thighs.
