Page 8 of Draft Pick
Callaway places a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sure everything’s okay. She would have called you right away had something happened. You drive or need a ride?”
I shake my head and stand. “Nah. I drove. Thanks, though. Appreciate it.”
“Call if you need anything, Briggs. You know where to find me.”
Most of the team has already left the clubhouse, leaving just a few of us. Slipping my phone into my back pocket, I grab my backpack and sling it over my shoulder. I take a deep breath, soaking in the place that’s been my home away from home for too many years to count. Makers Park is designed with luxury. Wood and black accents give the entire clubhouse an urban feel. Yet comfort and pride ooze from it with ease. The black-and-yellow Strikers’ color palette tastefully decorates each space of the park. The spirit of the team can be felt from anywhere, but it never loses that high-end value. Navy has worked hard tomake the design of everything feel modern by the blueprint, but vintage and classic to add charm.
She succeeded. And no matter how many times I enter this space, the place where we congregate for all of our hash-outs or praise reports, find a couch to crash on, or need a crappy snack to get us through it, it’s a comfort for me.
This game is my comfort. The team. The staff. The fans. All of it.
But what’s the point if my favorite girl is at home waiting for me? What’s the point if I don’t have the one thing I’ve wanted since I was a fucking kid? Love. I’ll never have a chance to meet the love of my life if I’m never home.
I need to be home.
Without another glance around, I’m pushing through the clubhouse doors, on a one-track mind to get some much-needed rest before surprising Doodle with a “yes day” tomorrow.
She’s going to lose her mind when she hears what I have in store.
I can’t wait.
3
CREW
The streetlights are eerie.
As if a plague ran haywire, all signs of population scarce for miles. Everyone in my suburban neighborhood must be out doing things with family and friends or sleeping—something every aching bone in my body craves right now.
I’ve lived on the outskirts of Atlanta for a few years now, finally deciding to retire my penthouse apartment once Addie became more mobile. Glass everywhere in a high-rise wasn’t exactly what I’d consider a safe play environment for a child learning to walk and fearlessly climb.
Our two-story modern home still holds true to the contemporary style I favor, but upon building, I made sure wood-rounded surfaces were incorporated for Addie’s sake.
The paved driveway is nearly a mile long before reaching the front steps to the porch, the exterior painted a sleek black with black trim.
I’ve got a thing for the color. It’s clean-lined, moody, and sharp. Exactly my style. It works. But fuck if we don’t have too much space for just us. That’s the only logical reason I could ever muster to say this place isn’t exactly what we need.
Five minutes from my parents’ house. Twenty minutes from Makers.
Ten minutes from Addie’s school. It’s prime real estate, baby.
Walking to the front door, I search for the house keys in my pocket before carefully unlocking it. It’s nearing eleven, and I know Vanna likely has Addie down for the night. Or at least, I hope. Sometimes, my nanny pulls a wild card out of her gentle soul and commands that Fridays are strictly for fun. No time for rules—her order, not mine.
The moment the door gives way, my phone rings in my other pocket.
Finally.“Hil?” I answer, unable to hide my worry.
“Hey, Crew. Sorry it took so long. I met up with some friends for dinner afterward, and I’m just now getting home.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank fuck, Hilary. You scared me with the panic message.”
The phone falls silent before her steady voice crosses the line. “I know. I’m sorry. I left the school and wanted to make sure I messaged you in time so that you saw it after your game. Vanna said she had already tucked Doodle in for the night when I spoke to her a while ago.”
Finally feeling like I can move again, I enter the house with the phone tucked to my ear. The lights are dimmed, and the sound of the dishwasher running tells me Vanna is cleaning up from the night. I drop my backpack on the entryway table and quietly walk into the kitchen, careful not to spook her.
I don’t have a chance before she beats me to it. “Hi, Guapo. How was the game?” Vanna greets me with a kiss to the cheek, already heading to the freezer and pulling out a bag of peas, placing it against my elbow. My kind—and sometimes saucy—sixty-year-old nanny, Vanna, not only cares for my daughter, but also for me.
“We won. Not that it matters. Final game of spring training is wrapped.” I smile before pointing at the phone attached to my ear and murmuring, “Hilary.”
