Kennedy

Dean: Apparently our parents are in town for business and we’re doing dinner tomorrow night after the game.

Me: Sounds terrible. Have fun with that.

Dean: By “we” I mean you and me. You’re in Atlanta. You’re not leaving me alone with them.

Me: No one told me about it, so I’m going to keep pretending I know nothing.

Dean: I’ll be sure to remind your mother to call you, then.

Me: Don’t you dare.

Dean: Then I’ll see you there. Besides, I need you to drop the bomb that you got married so maybe for once, my father won’t focus on what a disappointment I am that I decided to play a game for a living instead of taking over the family business.

Me: Oh, yes. Such a disappointment that his son is playing in the majors. Is Mallory going to be at this family dinner?

Dean: I don’t see why she’d be here. My father is in town closing some investment deal.

Me: I’ll think about it.

Dean: See you at the field tomorrow. And don’t think we’re not going to have a very serious conversation about your terrible taste in men.

Me: Shut up.

Dean: First Connor and now Isaiah Rhodes? I swear to God, Kennedy, I almost jumped on a plane to kick his ass when you told me the two of you got drunkenly married.

Me: You know Connor wasn’t my choice.

Dean: But Isaiah was?

Staying towards the back of the line, I wait for the players and coaches to grab their room keys from the table by the front desk.

Hotel check-ins would be a nightmare with how many people we travel with if it weren’t for the team coordinators who have everyone’s hotel keys ready and waiting for us as soon as the buses pull up outside.

The crowd ahead of me disperses until it’s my turn.

Searching the table lined with key cards, I look for the paper sleeve with my last name. There’s only a handful of rooms left, and none of them are mine.

I look around, trying to find one of the team travel coordinators to inform them they forgot a room, only to find Isaiah leaning on a pillar in the lobby, too knowing of a smile on his lips.

He’s the only player still down here. Everyone else has gone up to their rooms.

It’s been a week since Opening Day and things have been better between us around the clubhouse. He hasn’t gone off on my boss again. In fact, he’s swung in the opposite direction. Now, he’s bordering on too professional. He hasn’t once publicly hit on me the way he had for the past three years.

I kind of miss it.

I wheel my luggage towards him. “My key is miss—”

Isaiah holds up a single room key with “I. Rhodes & K. Rhodes” clearly printed on the sleeve.

“K. Rhodes better be referring to your brother, because there’s no way in hell I’m sharing a room with you.”

“Guess again.”

“No,” I hear myself say.

Isaiah chuckles. “I’m a cuddler, Ken. Are you a snorer? I hope not, but then again, I’ll probably snuggle you so hard you won’t be able to breathe anyway.”

My eyes narrow. “Was that supposed to be romantic? Telling me you’re going to suffocate me?”

“But in a loving way. I’m going to suffocate you in a loving way.”

I shake my head in disbelief. I married this guy. Drunkenly, yes, but still. “We’re not sharing a room. No one else shares a room.”

“No one else is married either.”

Frantically, I look around the lobby, finding Glen, our main travel coordinator, speaking with Reese.

I take my luggage with me to sort this out.

“I book our hotels as soon as the schedule comes out,” he explains to her. “They typically fill up, and we were lucky this year . . .” He spots me waiting to speak to him. “Oh, hey, Kennedy, I was just telling Reese how lucky we got that you and Isaiah are sharing a room this season, so I was able to give your hotel room to her.”

Shit.

“Oh.” My tone is too high, too forced. “That’s . . . perfect. I just wanted to check in with you and make sure it was okay for Isaiah and me to share a room?” Please say no. “I wasn’t sure with the team rules . . .”

“My grandfather gave the approval,” Reese cuts in.

Fucking fantastic.

“Well, isn’t that . . . thoughtful of him.”

Glen chuckles. “You two are newlyweds. Even if I booked you two separate rooms, you’d just end up in one anyway. Man, with how long you guys were sneaking around, you two could have saved us a lot of money by just rooming together the whole time.”

Reese and Glen share a laugh. Glad someone finds this funny.

My cheeks hurt from the fake smile. “That’s probably true. Well, I’m so happy this worked out for everyone.”

“Me too.” Glen gestures to the front desk. “There weren’t any more rooms available once I found out Reese was going to be traveling this year.”

Of course there weren’t.

Isaiah’s grin is knowing and annoying as I cross the lobby to meet him once again. He holds up the key card, twirling it between his fingers before I snatch it from him.

“You’re not cute when you’re gloating.” “Only cute the rest of the time. Got it.”

He happily takes my suitcase from me, wheeling both of ours and leading the way to the elevator. And he doesn’t even glance back to me when he says, “Nice shoes, by the way. Great taste, whoever picked them out.”

My cheeks warm when I look down at my platform Vans, more commonly referred to as my wedding shoes—the ones he picked out.

“Gloating.”

His head falls back with a laugh, his Adam’s apple distracting and prominent along with his contagious joy.

How very inconvenient that my temporary husband has to be so attractive.

There’s only one bed.

Of course there’s only one bed.

There’s usually only one person to a room, so there’s no need for a second bed.

There’s no couch in here, only an uncomfortable-looking chair nestled in the corner.

I can’t share a bed.

Sharing a bed seems intimate. It never was with Connor, but it seems like under normal circumstances, it would be.

There’s a big part of me that wants to protest. To throw out some snarky remark to make Isaiah think I can’t stand him instead of revealing that this makes me feel vulnerable, possibly even uncomfortable.

But we’re in this situation because of me, so I suck it up. “Which side do you prefer?”

When I look over my shoulder for his answer, I find him already watching me intently. “I’ll take the floor.”

“Isaiah—”

“I don’t mind.”

“You have a game tomorrow. You can’t sleep on the floor. It’s my literal job to make sure your body is ready to play.”

That timely smirk is back. “Oh, baby, trust me. My body is ready to play.”

“Isaiah.” My voice tries to come out stern, but there’s a smile attempting to break through. “Shut up.”

He smiles at my smile, as if he knew I was in my head while looking at that bed and needed to lighten up.

“I’ll take the floor,” I decide.

“I’m not letting you sleep on the floor. I’m good, Kenny.” Stealing a pillow off the bed, he drops it on the three feet of floor space between the

mattress and the wall.

“We could call for a cot.”

“You think we should get a rollaway bed delivered to our room while the entire team is staying on this floor? And risk the staff or Reese seeing it and believing we’re having marital problems? No thanks, I’m good.”

“Who cares if they think we’re having marital problems? Maybe that will help sell it in a handful of months when we separate.”

His smile dims slightly. “We’ve got plenty of time before we need to start selling that storyline.”

Isaiah’s phone dings in his pocket. Pulling it out, he reads it before saying, “Trav and Cody want me to go grab a beer with them.”

“Okay. Have fun.”

“I’m not sure if I’m going to go.”

“Why wouldn’t you go? It’s better than being stuck in this tiny hotel room.”

“I guess so,” he says. “I don’t have any other plans, right?”

He’s looking at me as if asking me to tell him to stay here or give him plans for the night.

I don’t.

With that decision made, he uses a single hand to reach over his back, and in one swift movement, removes his shirt. He drops his hat on the nightstand and removes his shoes.

“What are you doing?” I ask in disbelief.

“I’m changing. If I’m going out, I’m not going to wear my airplane clothes.”

“There’s a bathroom right there.”

He looks at it, then me, holding eye contact as he undoes his belt. “So there is.”

“Isaiah.”

“Yes?”

His pants hit the ground, and I don’t have anything left to say.

Yes, I’ve seen his body, but from a medical standpoint. I’ve never looked or touched for any reason other than science.

But I’m looking now, and it most definitely isn’t for science.

Isaiah crouches, rifling through his suitcase while only wearing a pair of boxer briefs.

He’s strong and sculpted. I know this, but I’ve never noticed this.

His back is long and defined, muscles moving in a mesmerizing pattern as he rummages through his things. His suitcase is pure chaos, but I’m not paying much notice, especially when he runs a hand through his unruly hair to get it out of his face and the veins in his forearm decide to make their presence known.

“Nothing you haven’t seen before, Doc.” Isaiah doesn’t even have to look back at me to know I’m staring.

I glance away anyway.

Well, I try to look away but then he stands, and I get to watch the way his powerful legs flex to get him up from crouching. Thick thighs from all the years of playing shortstop in that squatting position.

And boxer briefs tight enough to make it clear why this man is so popular.

That birthmark by his eye disappears behind a smile line when my attention finds his handsome face again. He wears a knowing grin while pulling on a different pair of pants, and I finally find the strength to look away and occupy myself by unpacking my things.

My planner first, because I need to finish filling out this month’s schedule. Then my laptop, knowing there’s a research article about muscle regeneration after injury that I’ve been dying to read. I also set my daily crossword from the Times on the nightstand to ensure I finish. Since discovering that hobby, I’ve yet to miss a day, but I didn’t quite finish today’s puzzle on the flight over. Those few things that will keep me plenty busy while Isaiah goes out with his friends.

Then I open my suitcase.

“Kenny,” Isaiah laughs from behind me, looking down into my luggage. “Are you a perfectionist and I had no idea?”

Perfectionist. Type A.

Cold.

Just a few things I’ve been described as.

“You’re so cold, Kennedy,” Connor had said. “You’re the least affectionate woman I’ve ever been with. No man is ever going to want to be with someone who flinches every time they come near you.”

“Of course you’re a perfectionist.” Isaiah rests his chin on my shoulder. “Because you’re freaking perfect!”

“You’re annoying.” I shrug him off, taking my toiletries bag to the bathroom.

“I’m calling down for more blankets,” Isaiah calls out.

Emptying my toiletry case, I line each of my products on the counter in the order in which I’ll use them. It’s then I notice my missing toothbrush.

I peek my head out of the bathroom to find Isaiah on the phone. “Can you ask if they have an extra toothbrush? I forgot mine.”

“Okay, great,” he says into the receiver. “And do you have an extra toothbrush down there? My better half, she forgot hers.”

He shoots me a wink over the words better half.

“Oh. Okay, well do you have any for sale?” He nods. “You’re out. There’s a drugstore around the corner. Perfect. Will do. Thank you so much, Polly, and I hope you have a great night too. Don’t work too hard.”

Flirt.

He hangs up the phone. “They’re out of the free ones and their market doesn’t sell any. There’s a drugstore close by and I got directions.”

“From Polly?”

His lip twitches in a smirk. “Jealous.” Finding a nearby shirt, he slips it on, followed by his hat.

Backward, of course, because my body needed another reminder that it’s willing and able and very much not disgusted by my drunken choice of husband.

“Ready?” Isaiah slips the room key into his back pocket. “Ready for what?”

“To go to the store.”

Confusion is written all over my face. “You’re going out with Travis and Cody.”

“I was only going with them because I didn’t have any other plans. But now I have plans, so let’s go.”

“A run to the drugstore doesn’t qualify as plans.”

“It does to me.” He holds the door open for me. “C’mon, Kenny, let’s go be domestic.”

Standing side by side, Isaiah and I stare at the wall of toothbrushes.

I don’t know why I’m not just grabbing one so we can go, but I’m kind of lost, utterly thrown off by the giant baseball player standing by my side who I’ve only known to be a ladies’ man. Who, instead of spending his night off with his friends, is shopping for dental hygiene products with me.

Finally, Isaiah reaches out to grab one.

“Here,” he says, passing it over to me. “Red. You like red, right?” “This is orange.”

“Oh.” His cheeks tinge pink. “My bad.”

Taking it back, he hooks the toothbrush on the wall, before immediately tucking his hands into his pockets as if he were embarrassed.

He did this in Vegas, grabbing a pair of shoes he thought were red, but weren’t.

I don’t ask for an explanation, but still, he decides to give one.

“That color kind of looks like your hair and Trav once told me your hair was red. I know it’s not just red. It’s auburn. Kennedy Kay Auburn, in fact.”

Travis had to tell him my hair was red?

The mismatched clothes. Choosing the wrong colors. Having to ask what color my hair is.

“Isaiah, are you colorblind?”

His smile is sheepish as he rocks back on his heels. “Yeah.”

How did I not know or catch on to this before? Did I pass by this on his medical chart?

But it makes so much sense. His mis-paired socks. His uncoordinated outfits. A pang of guilt rattles through me for the shit I gave him for dressing like he didn’t care, when in reality, he just didn’t know when things didn’t go together.

“It’s not like everything is black and white,” he continues. “It’s called protanopia. I have trouble with reds. They’re all just green to me. At least, that’s what I’m told.”

Of course I know what protanopia color blindness is. It means his long- wavelength cones are missing or defective, essentially making him unable to see shades of red.

Oranges and warm browns would also appear to be shades of green or blue to him.

“You memorized my hair color?”

“Yeah,” he laughs to himself. It’s a self-conscious sound I’ve never heard come from the cocky shortstop. “That day we met in the bathroom, I couldn’t classify it. For the most part, I’ve gotten blonde and brunette figured out, so I asked Cody what color your hair was and he told me it was auburn. Kennedy Kay Auburn.” His eyes follow my hair falling past my shoulder until he gently twirls a piece around his finger. “Nothing else has ever been Kennedy Kay Auburn.”

That’s not true in the slightest, but I’d be lying if my supposedly cold heart didn’t warm a bit at that.

Looking up, I watch him, this man who smiles too much and memorizes the color of my hair.

He’s not at all what I was expecting.

His hand moves from the end of my hair to cup around my elbow.

I involuntarily flinch, but only because he’s warm and it was unexpected, not because I disliked it, but still, he instantly pulls his hand away.

“Sorry.”

Great.

He’ll quickly realize, just as Connor did, that there’s something very, very wrong with me.

Cheeks flaming, I return my attention to the wall of toothbrushes, hoping I can hide them.

“Kenny, can I ask you something?”

No.

“I like soft bristles. Do you see the soft bristled ones?” “Kennedy.”

Cautiously, my eyes find his. So much concern on his typically smiling face.

He’s going to figure out eventually that I’m in my thirties and physical touch is still sometimes foreign and uncomfortable for me. That crush he thinks he has on me should disappear soon. It’s for the best. He’ll get over the idea of who he thinks he married once he learns how screwed up I actually am.

“Can I ask you something?” he repeats. “Fine.”

His voice is soft. “Did someone touch you in a way you didn’t like?” Oh.

“No,” I quickly reassure him. “No, that’s not it.”

“I just don’t want to make you uncomfortable and sometimes I think I make you uncomfortable.”

May as well lay it all on the line. As I said, it’s for the best that he moves on from the feelings he thinks he has for me.

My attention quickly flicks to his, hoping to memorize the stars in his eyes before they disappear for good. “It’s not that I’ve been touched in a way I didn’t like, it’s that I’ve never really been touched at all.”

Are my cheeks red? They feel warm. “I don’t understand.”

“I um . . .” I clear my throat. “I think the first time someone gave me a hug was in college.”

His brown eyes widen. Here we go. This should dispel those supposed feelings he has real quick.

“My upbringing, it’s probably not what you’re used to. My childhood was kind of lonely and isolated. I was raised by nannies and sent to boarding school once I was old enough. Privileged sob story, I know.” I release an uncomfortable chuckle. “I only saw my parents at holidays and social gatherings. I didn’t realize until I was older that hugging and touching is a common part of life. I know it’s weird and I’m weird, but I’m working on it. It’s just that sometimes it surprises me, I guess, when you touch me.”

Here, standing in the dental hygiene aisle of a drugstore in downtown Atlanta, I have a front-row seat to watch Isaiah Rhodes fall out of like with me.

He doesn’t say anything, simply searches my face until finally he asks, “Do you want to be touched?”

I blink. That’s what he has to say? Not, “Now it makes so much sense why you’re such a frigid bitch to me.”

Do I want to be touched? I’ve never been asked that before. My answer comes out in a whisper. “Yes.”

“By me?”

“Yes.”

His smile is small but genuine. “Okay.”

Isaiah immediately turns back to the wall of toothbrushes, as if I didn’t just tell him I’m an absolute freak.

“The soft bristled ones are up there.” He points to the top right corner of the wall.

That’s it? That was the whole conversation? “What’s your favorite color?”

Yep, that was the conversation apparently. “I like neutrals. Black. White. Beige.”

“I’m not buying you a beige toothbrush. You can see every single color on the spectrum, and you pick beige? C’mon, Kenny.”

I examine the wall in front of me, a small smile lifting. “Maybe purple?” Reaching up on my toes, I try for the purple toothbrush on the row second from the top.

Even in my platform Vans, I can’t reach it, so Isaiah leans over me to grab it.

I notice he’s careful not to let any part of him touch any part of me. I think I hate that.

“Is it this one?” he asks, pointing to the one I was going for. “Yes.”

He pulls it off the wall for me.

“Are purples hard for you to see too?” “Yeah, I thought this was blue.”

His attention lands on my left hand, but he doesn’t touch it.

“That,” he says, referring to his mom’s ring. “That’s purple though, right?

I always thought it was purple.”

“Yes.” I examine the amethyst stone. “It’s the prettiest shade of purple I’ve ever seen.”

He smiles at that, nodding towards the cash register. “Come on. Let’s go pay for this.”

Isaiah walks side by side with me as we leave the aisle. “So do you have a favorite color?” I ask.

The backs of his fingers graze mine.

The movement earns my attention, but I don’t flinch or pull away. The touch is gentle, tentative, but very much purposeful.

“Besides my favorite shade of auburn, no, I don’t have a favorite color.” Our hands continue to rub against each other as we walk.

“Why not?”

He shrugs, keeping close enough that our hands never lose contact. “I was always nervous that I was going to get it wrong. Like what if I picked a dumb color but thought it was cool, you know?”

I chuckle. “There are no dumb colors.”

We get in line at the cash register just as his fingertips fall in the spaces between mine. He asked me if I wanted him to touch me, and he’s doing just that at a pace I feel comfortable with.

It makes me want to cry.

“Will you pick a favorite color for me?”

I huff a laugh under my breath. I vaguely remember thinking about this answer before. “Yellow.”

“Yellow.” He appraises my answer. “Why yellow?” “It’s like you. Bright. Happy.”

Reminds me of the sun.

“Yellow,” he repeats. “Good color. My favorite color, in fact.”

His smile is warm as he looks down at me, and maybe that’s exactly what my coldness needs.