Over the Fence Box Set

by Carrie Aarons

  There is no better job than taking care of our daughter, though. I discovered my passion for animals long ago, but never did I think there would be something else in this world that I would take to so passionately. When I first got pregnant, I was scared out of my mind. With Clint’s help and learning together, we grasped what it takes to be good parents. Or at least I think we are good parents. Sure, we’re a little unconventional, and goofy more than we are serious, but our family is a happy little unit.

  We’re still living in Virginia, but we bought a house a year ago. We found an old, craftsman style in a neighborhood we love. I insisted we fix the thing up ourselves, because, of course, I’d never settle for one of those cookie-cutter builder’s homes. Now it is home, a place we spend most every night playing with Nia on the floor of the living room. And then after she goes to bed, Clint and I practice at making more babies. Recently, he’s been begging for another. I am close to giving in.

  Things at the preserve are better than ever. We just got two new tigers in, whom Nia loves to call Simba and Nala—we’re on a Lion King kick these days. Even better than my work and how well the preserve is running is seeing my dad, Jackson, with his granddaughter. He’s smitten, and when they are together, inseparable. Nia gazes at him as he talks, in awe of every word that comes out of his mouth.

  And Clint is helping kids to gain the confidence and self-esteem they need to feel comfortable and get healthy. I admire him more every single day. He’s still my best friend, my support system, and a tiger in bed. Have I mentioned that our sex life is incredible?

  “Daddy!” Nia gives a huge shriek and I turn as Clint walks up from the dugout. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention his other job.

  This season, Clint was asked by his former coach at Grover to be the pitchers’ coach. Having been a catcher, he knows the psyche of a pitcher, knows what will work and when. They couldn’t have picked a better man. Because not only does Clint love baseball, but he loves these players. He’s stood in their shoes, knows what it’s like to juggle a sport, school, and a social life. And for my benefit, it’s damn sexy to be able to call him Coach.

  “There’s my girl!” He catches Nia mid-jump and swings her around. She might love me, but Clint is the one who hangs the moon. As in awe as she is of her grandpa, her father is her knight in shining armor.

  Clint walks to me, that sexy swagger igniting everything south of my waist. Another great perk about him being a coach? I get to see him in those white baseball pants again.

  He fist bumps both Owen and Miles as he walks up to them with Nia in his arms. Our baseball superstars. Miles is still in New York, and fresh off a World Series win last year. I can see the massive team ring sparkling on the hand opposite his wedding ring.

  Owen isn’t too sore about not being a champion this year, though. He already has a Series ring from two years ago. Plus, being awarded the Cy Young this year is a pretty good second.

  He grabs the back of my neck, bringing me in for a kiss that is familiar and yet makes my knees weak. “And there is my wife.”

  Oh, yeah, about that. Clint had been asking me since the fifth month of my pregnancy to marry him. I always refused, not wanting the fact that we were having a baby together to cloud our judgment. I know plenty of people who are not married that are completely happy. And I know plenty of married couples who are miserable as shit.

  It was only recently, when Nia started asking about mommy and daddy’s marriage. She overheard the word married at one of her playgroups and was hooked on the notion ever since. I knew then that I had to do something about it. I didn’t want my girl growing up thinking Clint and I didn’t love each enough to put that silly label on it. It didn’t mean anything anyway, just a piece of paper. I could easily do that if it made my daughter happy.

  And so I did something about it. On our New Year’s trip to Las Vegas, as Clint, Owen, and Miles sat at the blackjack table, I took Minka and Chloe to help me pick out a white dress. They both already had their extravagant weddings, Minka’s in a park in our hometown complete with twinkling Christmas lights overhead and vintage wooden tables filled with succulent blooms. Raquel helped her plan absolutely everything. Chloe and Miles got married at a venue on the Hudson River, with a spectacular rooftop view of the entire city. And, of course, they performed a choreographed tango at the reception.

  Me? We all know my wedding would never be that traditional. I surprised Clint by asking him and the boys to meet us in one of the small ballrooms at the casino. Waiting for him was his bride, in a white mini-dress, and Elvis ready to recite vows to us.

  Everyone cried, especially Clint after he’d been so patient all of that time. We laughed a whole lot too. I couldn’t have thought of a better way to commit myself to the man I love forever.

  “Nice win, Coach. Who’s taking you home tonight?” I wink at him as our friends joined us.

  They came to watch Clint’s last home game of the season. Sadly, Grover isn’t making the championship this year. But on the upside, Clint had taken the rookie freshman pitcher and molded him into something great this year. The kid has a real shot at the majors, and buzz is already starting about how great of a coach Clint is. We all stay after the game, after everyone is gone … I think the guys want to reminisce about their glory years on this field.

  Owen puts his arms around his wife’s shoulder and nuzzles her hair. Minka is due any day now with their first baby. She’s already such a mom, I’m surprised it took this long. I call her every single time Nia even coughs, checking with my on-call nurse to make sure my kid isn’t sick.

  “Come on, babe, can we get one too?” Miles put on his puppy dog face and pouts at Chloe.

  She wants to wait, we’ve had this talk the three of us girls many times before. Ballerinas only have a shelf-life of so long, and she doesn’t want to take herself out of the game by getting pregnant. I respect that; she worked too hard to cut her career short. But I just hope she decides to be done sooner rather than later. Having a child was the best moment of my life, and Chloe deserves that too.

  She gives him a wink and kisses his cheek chastely.

  “We can play catch?” Nia hugs Clint’s neck tight, silently begging with those big baby blues. Of course, her father and her uncles aren’t going to say no.

  “Catch? We can play a whole dang game!” Owen plucks her out of Clint’s arms and runs toward home plate.

  He plops her down as I get her little Wiffle ball and bat out of the bag I brought. Like after every home game, I knew she would want to play on the big boy’s diamond. Her imagination and drive are enormous.

  I walk over, handing her the little bat and throwing the plastic ball to Owen while eyeing him. “Don’t hit my kid.”

  I give her a fist bump as I walk away. Clint lines up behind her with Miles jogging over to first base. Nia steals her daddy’s hat, plopping it on her little head and winding up, getting into an adorable batting stance.

  My best friends and I trade smirks, holding each other’s hands like the lifelines they’ve always been.

  And then Clint stands, his big booming voice echoing through the empty stadium.

  “Let’s play ball!”

  Fielding to Win

  Over the Fence, A Novella

  1

  Parker

  Rage fills my bones, my veins, my blood.

  It’s a poison, one I’m so familiar with that I can live with the acid running through my body on a daily basis. Not that I feel much anymore, but there isn’t much point in that.

  The baseball bat in my hands … I don’t even register it. Not only do I use this weapon almost every day to crush the dreams of opposing teams, but the weight of it feels so natural that I’m not even aware of the damage I’m doing.

  Chunks of plaster fly past me, knocking my skin … but again, I don’t feel it. Heavy shards of the wall fall around my feet, the detailed woodwork that my architect designed being blown to bits.

  Bash, bash, bash.

  My arms s
ing with pain, with extra exertion, and I won’t be surprised if I throw one out. That’d really fuck up my career, huh?

  Who fucking cares anymore though?

  The stench of whiskey fills the air, and I’m sure I spilled a few bottles’ worth in my haste to guzzle it down my throat. With how much is floating around my custom, hundred-thousand-dollar floors, the house would probably ignite if I flick a lighter open.

  Would it be so bad if it did? No one would miss me.

  No one has missed me since she died, ten years ago to this day.

  Not my shitty parents, not my shitty friends, not even the coaches who promised they’d always be there for me. People’s promises are a crock of shit, if you ask me.

  The wall in front of me is completely shredded, the insulation spilling out of it like guts out of a car crash victim. That’s not how she died, but sometimes I have nightmares about that very scenario.

  Would it be easier for me if she did? If she wasn’t responsible for taking her own life? Could I live with what she did to me, what she doesn’t have to answer for because she left this earth?

  Summer, the girl who checked off every first for me, killed herself ten years ago on this night, and my life has never been the same.

  Angrily, because apparently smashing my home to bits hasn’t satisfied my blood lust yet, I throw the bat down. The object clanks along the hardwood floors, rattling in its exhausted agony. Picking up the bottle at my feet, I swig, letting the alcohol burn my throat.

  With each ounce of whiskey that filters through me, I grow more tired. To the point of exhaustion, that I begin to slide down the wall. My body lands in a hard thud, though I feel almost nothing at this point.

  Somewhere in the background, where I left my sixty-inch 4k television on in the den, a sports announcer is talking baseball. I lean my head back against the wall, heaving breath from my lungs as I attempt to calm down. Or fall into a drunken stupor. Either would be preferable to this state.

  “And this just in, California has traded pitcher Owen Axel to Philadelphia. Get ready, the city of brotherly love is getting a major player.”

  The TV announcer’s voice is ecstatic, which is the exact opposite of the anvil of shock and misery that falls on my heart. One of my college teammates, who all but forgot me when he got his fairy tale, was going to be playing on my team.

  Fan-fucking-tastic.

  Looks like all types of ghosts are coming back from the dead tonight.

  2

  Brennan

  “Holy shit. Someone did a doozy on this wall.”

  The words fall out of my mouth before I can think about stuffing them back down, but in the end, I don’t regret it. I’m trying this new thing in my life where I don’t limit myself to the control and rules of society. Not my thoughts, my words, or my appearance. I live exactly the way I want to and don’t answer to anyone else.

  “We got into a fight. I won,” a low, ominous voice sounds from behind me.

  Whipping around, I’m temporarily blinded by the honey-brown locks I regrettably did not tie into braids today. My hair hides the man for a moment so that he probably gets a good look at me before I can get one of him.

  “I can see that. You practically shattered the sheetrock,” I say, a bit impressed.

  “Who are you?” he snaps, and either he hasn’t had his morning coffee or …

  Oh, crap. I forgot to introduce myself again.

  “Brennan Raker, the fixer you called. Apologies, when I get excited about architecture and construction, I tend to ramble.” I extend a hand for him to shake but he just eyes it, and I let it drop.

  The house had been so spectacular when I drove the full mile of gravel driveway it took to get here that I couldn’t help but walk right in. The heavy, oak double front doors were unlocked, so he must have been expecting me. With its log cabin design, charming porch complete with swing, overgrown moss, and lavender bushes out front … it’s impossible not to want to see the inside. It’s only a short drive from my apartment on the outskirts of Philly to this house, just over the river in New Jersey. Still, I’ve never been here, and a mysterious, humongous house in the woods would kill the cat immediately there is so much curiosity surrounding it.

  “And apparently break in. You call yourself a fixer?” One dark, judgmental eyebrow goes up. “Do fixers often let themselves into a house uninvited and curse in front of clients?”

  My cheeks go scarlet, or at least they feel like they do. Typically, I’d cower under this kind of scrutiny, but like I said, I’m trying something new.

  “I am a fixer because contractor or flipper are too specific. I love every aspect of the process, from the teardown to the blueprints to the planning to the reno and finally, the design. I’m an all-in-one type of woman. And you’re the one who called me, gave me a specific time to show up, and left your front door unlocked. As for the cursing, you wouldn’t say that if I was a man. That’s expected of men on construction sites. You also spend a lot of time in the locker room, so don’t tell me you get your panties in a bunch over a four letter word.”

  Of course, I know who he is. Parker Avery, starting outfielder for the institution that is the baseball team in Philadelphia. He’s already established himself as somewhat of a legend in the short five years he’s played here. A powerhouse on the field, and behind home plate when holding a bat, Parker Avery is known for his monstrous catches, ridiculous homers, and extremely short temper. I watched a video on YouTube of him absolutely decimating a Gatorade cooler last season … dude is scary as fuck.

  He’s the kind of guy I normally stay away from, or date if I was my former self. Six feet and seven inches of badass, Parker Avery’s picture appears in the dictionary under tall, dark, and disturbingly handsome. Not because he’s too handsome to look at, but because he has that kind of rugged attractiveness that spooks you a bit. Like he can kick ass and take names, or just stare you into an intense oblivion. With piercing dark eyes, a cleft chin, and a haircut so cropped it can technically be a military cut, he’s intimidating, to say the least. And the way he’s wrapped in muscle, as if Zeus and his gang of Greek gods got together to gift him unending brawn … it’s just, frankly, ridiculous. No man should be this eye-catching. Especially, not one as notoriously sullen as Parker Avery.

  But when I got the call that a local celebrity wanted me to fix up his house, I couldn’t pass it up. For one, I’m going to charge him double what I would for this typical job, because I know he’s good for it. And two, if I can bleed just one reference out of The Incredible Hulk here, it will lead to more high-paying jobs and celebs on my list of clients. Or so I hope.

  I’ve been working construction, both flipping houses and on other people’s crews, for as long as I can remember. College wasn’t an option for me, but putting on a hard hat for my stepfather’s business right after I graduated high school was. From where I grew up in South Philly, this was an honest living, especially for a woman. The money is decent, and now I work on my own, so I don’t have to answer to anyone. Which goes along with the way I am trying to live my life these days.

  After moving out of my mom and stepdad’s crowded row home, with the two brothers, two dogs, and countless city noises, I rented a one-bedroom on the outskirts of the city. It’s not much, but it’s mine, and I’m slowly renovating the building apartment by apartment, much to the appreciation of the landlord. He’s happy to have updated countertops, and I don’t have to live in a dump. Plus, he knocks a little off the rent each month, so it works for everyone.

  Parker’s face doesn’t move an inch, but something in his eyes changes. “So, are you going to fix it?”

  “Why did you smash it up in the first place?”

  From what’s left of the wall, I can tell it used to be beautifully done wainscoting. Shame he had to obliterate it.

  “I’m not paying you for therapy, or girl talk. Can you fix the wall or not?” The mouth needs a good slap, I just wish I could deliver it.

  “You know,
the papers aren’t wrong about you. Real Oscar the Grouch type, huh? Were you trying to create a good trash pile to live in?”

  Again, my mouth moves faster than my head. Fuck. Now I’m really not going to get this job.

  Something crackles in the air between us, an unfamiliar spark I haven’t felt in way too long. Then I notice Parker’s eyes. They’re not on my face anymore.

  Instead, they’re doing a long, slow sweep down my body, lingering on every curve. Why did I wear this form-fitting T-shirt today? Usually, I wear my boyfriend jeans and a baggy white tee to a job site, but I had to get a little feminine with the navy top Mom sent me over the weekend. Bad decision, because my cleavage is completely visible when he rakes his gaze back up.

  And as it comes up, so do my eyes, which firmly lock on the teeth sinking into his bottom lip.

  He’s the big bad wolf, and apparently, I’m his next meal.

  The moment my gaze lands on that hunting snarl, a fire so hot it nearly burns my core ignites between my legs. My lord, it’s been a long time since I felt this kind of desire. The kind of animalistic need to mate that isn’t rational or logical, and won’t be satisfied until the urge is spent.

  I’m both terrified and exhilarated to see just how well he can meet that need.

  As he grabs for me, at the exact moment I lunge at him, I can’t help but think how he’ll destroy me just like the wall behind us.

  Judging by the pheromones in the air, you’d think we could level an entire city.

  3

  Brennan

  Parker slams me against the wall, and luckily it isn’t the portion with shards of drywall sticking out or I’d be impaled right now.