“Seriously?” Leighton grumbles.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the stadium announcer says, “it’s closing time, and we all know what that means. Let’s all rise for our… number fourteen… FOSSSTTEERR ‘The Reaper’ DAVVIISS!”
Foster jogs out of the bullpen and stops at the edge of the infield to let the umpire check his hands and glove. His tattoos sneak out past the edges of his jersey and up his neck and down both arms. You can’t see much of his dark blond hair because of his ball cap, but his blue eyes shine on the Jumbotron screen.
“Okay, you’re right, he’s hot.” The friend sits up in her seat. “Does he have any brothers?”
I feel like a mean girl in high school from the number of times Leighton and I have shared a judgmental look at these two women’s expense.
“Decker Davis.” Lincoln’s voice has both mine and Leighton’s heads swiveling to see him standing next to Leighton. At some point, he and Lake must have switched seats.
The lights are back on, and all the infield gives Foster slaps on the back and fist bumps.
The two girls turn around and look at Lincoln.
Lincoln points toward third base, and the friend’s shoulders deflate.
“No tattoos?” Her disappointment is clear in her voice.
My eyebrows are at my hairline. Did Foster really get these women tickets? I look at the blonde. So, she’s his type—blond, young as fuck, and doesn’t know anything about baseball. Good to know he’s as superficial as I thought.
I have no idea why it upsets me… well, that’s not exactly true.
But it’s not as if I had any delusion that Foster Davis and I would ever be romantically involved. He’s only going to be the father of my child. I just need to get up the nerve to tell him.
Chapter
Two
Foster
* * *
The only good thing about today’s game was that we won.
I pitched like shit. My velocity sucked. My command was worse. Hayes’s framing saved my ass, so walking out of the stadium and into the streets of Chicago, the cheering makes the oily feeling inside worse since I don’t think I did anything to contribute to our win.
I zip up my jacket, ready to head to my condo to brood.
“Foster!” a woman shouts.
I don’t even glance in the direction it came from, falling in line with Easton and Decker, but we’re stopped when Hayes and Leighton’s family find them ahead of us.
Lincoln runs up to me. “Did you see Miller fall to his knees on your last pitch?” He laughs.
What can I say? The kid loves me. He boosts my ego on a good day, but on days like today, I don’t feel as though I’ve earned his enthusiasm. But I remember myself at his age, when I revered all my favorite players. That was so fucking long ago, and I don’t think I was ever as innocent as him.
“I did.” The one pitch of mine that did what I wanted it to today.
“I’m calling a sleepover at Grandpa and Grandma’s tonight!” Hayes’s dad shouts.
Lincoln disappears from my side, joining Monroe as they jump up and down, both asking their grandparents questions about stopping at McDonald’s and what kind of ice cream they have in the freezer.
Growing up, I thought those kinds of families were only television sitcom shit. Turns out I was wrong.
“We can take them home.” Leighton fights Hayes’s parents about babysitting them, but from what I hear, she and Hayes get no alone time. Especially during the season. Our career isn’t really meant for a family.
My gaze strays to Callie.
