“You too.” Silence settles between us, neither one of us really knowing what to say.
“She’s adorable.” He motions to Paisley, who’s chatting with one of her teammates. “She looks just like you.”
“She has her daddy’s eyes,” I say, not thinking.
His eyes drop to my hand, I assume looking for a ring. “Is he here?” he asks.
“No, he passed away before she was born.” I swallow back the lump in my throat that always rises when I think about him missing out on her life and the void he left us with. My little girl doesn’t know what it’s like to hav
e a daddy—hell, she doesn’t know what it’s like to have any male figure at all in her life. This is her first year of T-ball, and her coach is one of the dads, which is really her first true interaction. My dad passed away from a massive heart attack when I was ten.
“Ris.” He reaches for my hand, but I step back. His hand drops back to his side, a dejected look on his face.
“The line’s moving. I better catch up,” I say, realizing that I am in fact losing my group.
“Stay.” He places his hand on my arm to stop me. “After, I mean, stay. I’d love to play catch with her,” he says, looking at the line where Paisley and her team are starting our tour.
“I really gotta go.” I toss him a wave and jog to catch up with my group. Paisley reaches for my hand and swings our arms between us. She’s so excited about today, hence the reason I couldn’t not go. My arm still tingles from his touch, my heart races in my chest, and my mind swarms in a thousand and one different directions.
“Come on, Mommy,” Paisley says, pulling me along.
Shaking myself out of my thoughts, I focus on my little girl and her excitement. We follow along as we walk the bases. The leader of the group, an older gentleman who we learned is retired from the Blaze, explains the importance of each position.
“Who wants to see the locker rooms?” he asks. The kids jump and cheer with excitement. He leads us down a long hall then pushes open the door to the locker rooms. I tune him out, just taking in the room, and that’s when I see it. The name Monroe printed over one of the cubbies.
That’s his.
That’s Easton’s.
That’s where he prepares before every home game—where he gets dressed after his shower. That thought leads me to water tracing down his toned body, sliding over his muscles that are so obviously visible even beneath his clothes.
“Mommy.” Paisley tugs on my hand. “You’re not listening,” she huffs.
“Sorry, sweetie.”
“We’re going to see where the hurt players go,” she informs me. “Do all players get hurt?”
“No, but with any sport, there’s a chance of injury.” I try to explain it the best that I can. She shrugs, as if the potential of being injured isn’t even on her radar. She can leave the worry up to me; I stress enough for both of us. I mean, it’s T-ball, not football, but she’s my baby and I worry. That’s what I do. It started when my dad passed away. I worried about my mom, about how we were going to make it on our own. I worried about her crying herself to sleep at night. You name it, I worried about it. My anxiety got better as I got older, until the day I opened the front door to a uniformed officer telling me that my husband lost his life in the line of duty. He was a rookie on the force, and his pension was pretty much nonexistent. We had life insurance, but that only lasts so long. We were young and thought we had all the time in the world to plan for retirement and big life insurance policies.
That day brought on an all-new list of worries. How was I going to make it through without the love of my life? How was I going to be a single mother? Could I provide for me and our baby? This time the worry didn’t stop; the list has just changed over the years. One that has remained the same is the worry I have for my daughter. The world is a big scary place, and I just want to keep her wrapped in my arms. I want to protect her from anything that could ever hurt her. I know that’s unrealistic, but it’s always there in the back of my mind.
“Looks like we have a special guest,” our tour guide announces, catching my attention. There, standing beside him, is Easton. “Boys and girls, this is Easton Monroe.”
The kids cheer, the dads rush to shake his hand, and the mothers, well, all of them except for me, turn on the charm, some of them with their husbands standing right next to them. Me, I stand stock-still in the back of the pack, just watching it all go down.
“That’s my mommy’s friend. Hi, East,” Paisley says at the exact moment our group quiets down. All eyes turn to us. My face heats. My mouth opens, but no words come out.
“Hey, Princess P.” Easton waves at her, and she giggles, which in turn causes a smile to cross his handsome face. I keep my eyes straight ahead, avoiding the stares of the other parents.
“Welcome.” Easton’s deep voice washes over our small group. “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Easton Monroe. I’m the starting first baseman for the Blaze.” The group murmurs with hellos and reassurance that they know who he is. “I was hoping to highjack the kids. Me and my teammate, Andrew Milton, thought it would be fun to throw around a few balls with them,” he offers.
“Yay!” all the kids cheer, including mine. The parents are quick to agree to this surprise in our agenda. Our leader tells us to follow him to the field. The crowd thins as I stay back, not by choice. Paisley’s feet are planted firmly on the ground.
“East,” she says once the majority of our group disappears. Easton is still standing there watching us.
He steps toward us and crouches down on his knees, getting more on her level. “What’s up, princess?” he asks, melting my heart a little.
Paisley grins up at him. She surprises me when she jumps into his arms, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Thank you,” she whispers.