Times like these make me think that I preferred when Mateo was quiet and kept to himself. But ever since he got with Isabella, his whole demeanor has changed.
It’s great for him, but terrible for my lack of patience.
But I meant what I said. If he wants me standing there on his special day, then that’s where I’ll be. Because try as I might, I’ve unwillingly let a good portion of the Monarchs family get close to me. At least as close as I’ll ever allow anyone to get.
Well, almost anyone.
“F-bombs don’t make for family-friendly television, Luke.” When the sweet voice carries over my back, I have to remind my muscles not to lock and remain seemingly calm. Something that I’ve come to master over the last year.
I turn only when I know I’ve mentally prepared myself to see her standing in my dugout.
It still doesn’t stop the gut punch from hitting its mark.
Because there, standing before me with a wide smile, long dark hair clipped half up and half down, with warm brown skin I’ve spent one too many nights imagining feeling beneath my calloused hands, is Daisy Stonehaven.
She holds up a small mic pack with a teasing look on her face. “Going to have to save the potty mouth for the after-game interviews, Coach. Not on my channel if I can help it,” she mock scolds.
I force the breath out of my chest and play along. “And exactly how many people are going to be listening to me while I’m mic’d up?” I raise a knowing brow.
She breaks out into a soft laugh that should be reserved for only the best humans to ever grace the earth and not tainted souls like mine, but I bottle up the sound every chance I get like a man starved.
“Luke, while I appreciate you being my very first guinea pig when it came to testing out Hot Mic, you no longer have to get wired up for every game.”
My face scrunches. “Why the hell not?”
She does what she always does, which is bite the corner of her lip, and I do what I always do and act like it doesn’t burn me from the inside out.
“First of all, you don’t speak when you’re mic’d up, which kind of defeats the purpose.”
“I’m orchestrating the entire game, Daisy. I talk.”
She considers my statement while tilting her head from side to side, clearly finding my answer unsatisfactory. “You point, huff, glare, and smack a few butts. A method that clearly works for you and the team but is kind of useless for a recording.” She wiggles the mic pack.
A huff escapes my mouth. I don’t realize my mistake until she points at my face and shouts a triumphant “Aha!”
“I’m not that bad,” I mutter to myself, noticing that our media team looks ready to start with the national anthems and my guys are filing into the dugout.
Her face gentles as she hands me the pack and her fingers move swiftly to clip the small microphone to the inside of my Monarchs jacket. “Yeah, I guess you’re all right.” She pats just below the mic, keeping her hand there longer than necessary.
I clear my throat as I stuff the pack into my back pocket. “Channel?”
She rolls her eyes. “The usual. Seven.”
The first day I mic’d up, she asked me what channel I wanted to broadcast from. I asked for her favorite number, then almost smacked myself upside the head when I realized how flirty my tone had gotten.
She’d blushed and said “seven.”
I told myself it’s many people’s lucky number.
But it also happens to be the number I wore when I played.
And the thought that she was giving me a subtle nod was enough to send my simple crush into forbidden territory.
“And who has access to that channel?” I keep to the script we’ve said back and forth since I first volunteered to be her first test subject for the Monarchs online channel she runs.
She rolls her eyes playfully. “Only me.”
“Good.” My lips twitch with the urge to smile down at her.
