Fix Her Up (Hot & Hammered #1)(18)

“And you’ll have to replace the balls she’s going to rip off,” Dom muttered.

“If she hasn’t changed since high school, that sounds about accurate.” Travis dropped the sledgehammer and started to gather his tools, knowing it would be pointless to move on until they brought in a crew to bolster the structure. “You guys up for a beer?”

“I’m in,” Dom said, taking off his work gloves and shoving them in his back pocket. “Rosie is taking some exercise class tonight, so I’m fending for myself. Again.”

A deep trench formed between Dom’s eyebrows. Growing up, Travis remembered those two being a solid couple who seemed to speak their own language, no one else in the room existing when they were together. They’d had each other’s backs, named their future children, and were voted Most Likely to Get Married. After graduation, Dom made the yearbook prediction a reality and proposed to Rosie, right there in the center of the football field, both of them in caps and gowns. Months later, having parked a ring on Rosie’s finger, he’d joined the marines and spent time overseas—but he’d come back quieter. More serious.

Travis didn’t intend to diagnose Dom the way Stephen might, but there definitively appeared to be trouble in paradise where Dom and Rosie were concerned. Even Travis, who thought marriage was an unrealistic institution, didn’t want to see the couple drift apart. Back in the day, everyone had been so positive they’d be the ones to beat the odds.

If Dom and Rosie were going to separate, Travis could only be grateful they didn’t have children. He knew too well how divorce could turn a child into a pawn in an ugly game of chess. After all, he was standing across the street from the hell his own parents had created for him.

Yeah, definitely time for that beer.

They each took their own truck into town, parking in the lot behind Grumpy Tom’s and piling in through the back door, reserved for regulars. Port Jefferson was a small town, but it had become an increasingly popular destination over the years. Most of the sightseers stayed near the water where the ferry let off or shopped on Main Street. Every once in a while, some of them wandered into Grumpy Tom’s, but most of the bar’s patrons were locals. Some blue collar, some white collar, and all with one goal: to watch the ball game and unwind. Tonight in particular that was exactly what Travis needed.

Before they could order drinks, a man slid in beside them at the bar, pounding a fist on the wood and drawing attention with a booming laugh. “There he is. I knew Two Bats would get back on the prowl if we just gave him time.” The man scanned the bar. “Slim pickins tonight, but once the ladies hear you’re around, it’ll be standing room only. We all stand to benefit.”

Having his sordid past glorified didn’t sit right. Over the last year, he’d been traded to Chicago, San Diego, Miami. During nights out, or even in professional settings, men would approach him and ask for details of his exploits. Travis usually satisfied their curiosity without actually imparting any real information. The old I never kiss and tell routine. But even that felt wrong now. He wasn’t up for it anymore. And the reminder of his reputation was bothering him more than usual tonight, having Stephen within earshot—the man whose little sister had fallen asleep on his bed last week.

Travis sent the patron a vague smile, hoping he’d take the hint and fuck off. “All right, man.”

“The boys were saying you haven’t picked up one skirt since coming home, and I said . . .” He paused to swig his beer. “I said you’ve probably been going into Manhattan for the high-quality pu—”

“Okay, buddy. I’m going to stop you there.” Travis slid off the stool, avoiding Stephen’s eyes. “Order me a beer. I’m going to make a phone call.”

Stephen was eyeing the idiot with disgust. “Sure.”

Travis didn’t actually have a phone call to make; he just needed some air. Salt and humidity filled his lungs as he stepped out the back door of the bar. Wind kicked up from the distant water, blowing his hair around. Thankfully, the alleyway running behind Grumpy Tom’s was empty so he could have a minute to himself. He tugged his cell out of the back pocket of his jeans to check the time, surprised to find a missed call from his agent.

Hope straightened his spine before he could stop it. Was it possible a shortstop position had opened up and he was being called to suit up? They’d exhausted all options weeks ago, his agent telling him playing professional ball again was hopeless. What if something had changed, though? Maybe an overseas option?

He hit the call back button, holding the phone to his ear as he paced in a circle.

His agent picked up on the second ring. “Ford. My man.”

“Donny.” He tried to shake off the hope and failed. “What’s up?”

“First of all, it’s not what you think. Sorry. Nothing has changed.” Donny rambled right over the thick slowdown of Travis’s pulse. “But I’ve got a line on something better.”

Travis pressed his palm to the bridge of his nose. “Better than playing ball?”

“Fuck yes. Do I have to remind you about ice baths, road fatigue, and B12 shots in the ass? I know, I know. You’re going to tell me that sounds like heaven. But what if I told you, Ford, you could sit in an air-conditioned box at the stadium in a suit and commentate?”

The idea was so out of left field, Travis could only shake his head. “What?”