Page 135 of Instigator

“I like to be aggressive.”

“You struck out twelve times.” He rolls his eyes, his smile fond.

“Only because your pitcher was unrealistically overpowered.”

“Sounds like a skill issue.”

The knot in my chest loosens a little.

The future is still uncertain. Tomorrow, all the questions waiting for me will still be there. The career decisions. The what-ifs. The fear of getting it wrong.

But tonight, I don’t have to figure any of it out.

Tonight, I can just be Annie.

“Fine,” I say, reaching for my controller. “Get your bullpen ready.”

Aidan chuckles. “I’ve been ready. You’re the one who’s about to get mercy ruled.”

And for the first time all night, I laugh. “Oh, it’s on.”

fifty

. . .

Aidan

Somehow, my apartment has become the gathering place for team activities. I’m used to Ryan and maybe Sinclair and Jenkins coming by to game, or Henry and Lewis popping in to talk strategy, or Gonzo and Mitchell showing up for book club.

What feels like the entire twenty-three-man roster is in my tiny little three-bedroom apartment, though in reality it’s probably only eight or ten guys. Those who have partners have brought them. A few have their kids with them. It is crowded.

I’m in hell.

Ceci, however, is in her element. She even invited all of her book club friends to join us for an informal get-together—at least, those connected to the hockey team.

Henry and Audrey.

Larsson and Vanessa.

Lewis and Rachel.

McKittrick and Amelia.

Gonzo and Riley.

Mitchell and Bex.

And, of course, Ryan and Hailey.

For some reason, Sinclair and Jenkins decided to drop in too, so we’ve got a full house. Plus, Colt and Robby are soft launching their relationship tonight. Our assistant equipment manager doesn’t often hang out with us when we’re all in town, busy with his life away from the arena, but on away games, he’s as much a part of the team as any of the other players.

A knock raps on the door, and I open it to find Tyler Owen, Amelia’s brother and my meal prep guy, and his husband, Brandon Walker, elite pitcher for the Boston Bulldogs. Brandon is holding their two-year-old daughter, her face sticky and hair in tiny little pigtails. I have the inexplicable urge to boop the tiny tufts of curls to see them spring back.

“Sorry we’re late,” Tyler says. “The little one did not want to cooperate tonight.”

“Not a problem. Thanks for coming. She’s going to flip her sh—stuff.” I catch myself in the nick of time. I don’t know much about childrearing, but I’ve heard that cursing is a no-no.

I step back to let them in, and Tyler hands over a casserole dish.