I gulp. What am I meant to say to that? The sound of Lydia’s voice from close by has me stepping backward so fast, I knock into a tall table, probably bruising my hip. “Ow.”
Ronan moves forward, concern on his face, but I move out of his reach just as Lydia approaches. “There you are. What’s taking so long? The hotel staff will do the clean up, Willow, we need to get moving if we want to get back to the city on schedule.” The reprimand is clear in her voice, and with a start, I realize the room has emptied of everyone except me and Ronan.
“Sorry. I just need to grab my bag from the conference room.” Without a backward glance, I hurry from the room, mentally cursing myself the whole way. Did Lydia see us? It’s not like we touched, but we were so close to each other, it had to look suspicious.
Sure enough, she finds me in the conference room.
“What’s going on with you and Ronan, Willow?” Lydia stands in the doorway, her arms folded across her chest. “If you really think you’re ready to take over for me, then you had better think twice before leading one of the players on. That’s not appropriate behaviour for the person in charge of media relations.”
I bite my tongue at her chastisement. I didn’t lead anyone on, and I alreadyamin charge of the department, in every way except title. But she’s not done verbally taking me down yet.
“I don’t know if you think you’re above the rules or just naive. Mike might have a soft spot for you, but his players will always come first. The team always comes first. And if you mess around with one of them, you’ll be the one who will suffer the consequences.”
My fists clench as I watch her leave. She has no right to come in here and accuse me of being naive. She couldn’t be more wrong about that. But she’s right about the other thing.
The team comes first.
Which means any feelings I might have about Ronan Sinclair have to stay stuffed in a little box and pushed to the back of my mind, never to be thought of again.
Chapter eighteen
Ronan
Peyton’s hand is clutching mine as we walk out onto the field where the entire team and their families, plus office staff and their families, are all milling around. The air is cold and damp, as is to be expected in the middle of March on the West Coast. It’s a different feel to Toronto where there was every chance we might still have snow on the ground even this late in the spring. The stadium has one of those retractable roofs, but it’s not raining today, so it’s open, letting in the light from the rare late March sunshine.
When Monty told me about the kick off barbecue the team hosts every year, it just solidified my belief that this move was the right one. A team that cares this much about family is where I want to be.
“Daddy, where’s Monty?”
I grin as she tugs on my hand. Peyton’s already decided the friendly catcher is her favourite player. “He’s here somewhere, Rocket. You gonna challenge him to a base race?”
Peyton giggles. “Yeah!”
“You’ll leave him in the dust.” I know the second Peyton spies Monty because she goes to drop my hand, but I don’t let her. “Hang on, kiddo, I’ll come with you.” We head toward him together. It’s not that I don’t trust that Peyton will be fine, but most of these people are strangers to her. I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t keep close. Even if sometimes my little girl is too independent for my old dad heart to handle.
Monty spies us coming and drops down into a crouch, holding his fist out for Peyton. “Hey, kid.”
“Hi, Monty! Imma beat you in a base race,” Peyton announces with all the confidence of a four-year-old who’s been raised around ball players.
“You better make sure I’ve got someone there to record it.” Willow’s voice dances across the field at us. “Assuming Dad is okay with it?” She looks to me briefly, then smiles back down at Peyton.
“That’s fine,” I answer gruffly, feeling off-kilter having her here. She’s wearing a Tridents shirt. No name on the back, though, and a part of me really fucking wants to see her wear my name someday.
Peyton tilts her head up at Willow. “Got any Skittles?” she asks innocently, and now Monty and I are both fighting back a laugh.
“Wh-what?” Willow asks, stifling her own smile. “How do you know about my Skittles?”
“The trainer lady gave me some,” Peyton answers, but she doesn’t stop there. “She said you’d eat ’em all if they’re in your office, so she keeps them. And I got some. That’s okay, right? Ms. Kerry at preschool said sharing is caring.”
Willow’s smiling down at my daughter so widely it makes my heart physically ache to see her so enchanted by Peyton. “Of course, it’s okay. You’re welcome to my Skittles anytime. And as a matter of fact —” she reaches into her back pocket and pulls out two packets “— I always have some with me.” Handing one to Peyton, she opens the other and looks inside before picking out the yellow ones and holds them out to Monty. He takes them and tosses them back without a word, but Peyton looks at her like she’s crazy.
“Whaddya do that for?” she asks.
Willow shrugs. “I don’t like lemon-flavoured candy, so I always give the yellow ones away. Sharing.” She winks.
“And we’re always happy to take them off her hands,” Monty interjects. Just then, Lark walks up with some preppy-looking guy with a bored expression on his face behind her, staring at his phone. If I wasn’t looking at him, I might have missed it, but Monty’s face grimaces when he sees the guy.
“Hey!” Lark says, giving Willow a hug, then lifts a hand for a high five with Peyton. “Good to see you again. Looks like you found yourself another Skittles fan, Wills.”
