It was only supposed to happen once.
One Kiss.
One Touch.
One roll in the sheets.
Just one time to make me forget about her.
But once wasn't enough. Neither was ten. Or twenty. Or even one hundred.

But it was number one-hundred-and-one that did me in.

Now my career is hanging in the balance, and the person responsible for saving my ass is the very woman I walked away from ten years ago to pursue the said career.

It's bases loaded, the bottom of the ninth, two outs, and only one pitch left to end the game.

Will I strike out? Or will I knock it out of the park and take her home?

Chapter One

"Dimitri, you have just won the World Series, what are you going to do now?" the scrawny, pocket-protector-wearing reporter spoke the question into his recorder before stretching his arm out to catch my answer.

Grating my knuckles against the scruff along my jaw, I take a moment to consider his question. The first thing that pops into my head is, I'm going to Disney World.

That's what usually happens right?

You win the biggest game of your career and spend the next week of your life living like a child, doing all the things you never got to do because you spent every waking moment preparing for this; for one game, or in my case, seven, that in truth, means jack shit.

It's just another tick mark in the 'W' column, another piece of brass on the shelf and pennant to fly high on the pole, nothing more than a title.

And yet, I have worked my entire life for this moment, to be a World Series Champion, and now that it's here, all I want to do is to go home. I want to walk off this stage, leave behind the reporters, the groupies, the fame, and be alone.

"Dimitri," the pocket-protector reporter repeats my name, pulling me back to the present.

I adjust my cap, curving the bill as I pull it up, then back down to shield my eyes from the dozens of spotlights scattered around the interview room. I have always hated these things, but as part of my contract, I am required to sit at this table once a week.

Leaning forward, I pinch the mic between my thumb and index finger, "I'm going home," I pause for a beat and push away from the table, "no more questions."

Rising from my chair, I catch the eyes of my manager, who is less than happy with my abrupt cutoff. Shrugging my shoulders, I raise my brow to say, what-are-you-going-to-do, and step off the stage.

"Belikov," he calls out over the clack of his designer shoes on the concrete floor, "where are you going? We have three more interviews."

"No," I shake my head and pull open the back door, pausing to look back at him. "I am done for the season. Take a vacation, Ash, you earned it," tossing two fingers in the air, I end the conversation.

Don't get me wrong, Mason Ashford, Ash, is the best manager money can buy, but the little prick needs to remember his place. This isn't our first season together, or even the second, he has been by my side since the start, six years now. He should know by now when I say, 'I'm done,' I mean it.

"Don't get into…." he starts to yell, only to cut himself off with a loud sigh.

I point to the ceiling without looking back, letting him know I heard him, even if I have no intention of taking his advice. And he knows it too.

Turning left at the end of the hall, I swing through the locker room to grab my bag, taking one last look at my second home.

At the end of every season, I always take an extra few minutes to simply sit in my locker and think back on the year. In the past, I would wonder what I could have done differently over the last seven months to get us further. Should I have worked out an extra thirty minutes every day? Should I have learned to put just a little more spin on my breaking ball?

This year, though, I don't have to wonder what I should have done differently, because three hours ago, I became a champion. I, along with my team -I'm not that much of an ass that I won't acknowledge the team effort- brought home the title of World Series Champions.

Brushing my seat clean of the blue and white confetti, I stare into the small cubby of my locker, lifting the lid on the bottom to see my hidden pleasure. None of the guys know that these are here, and if they did, I would probably never hear the end of it.

Taped up in no particular order is a dozen of pictures of my former life. My mother, sisters, cousin, friends, and my Roza- the latter is always the hardest to look at. Call me a masochist because it's a pain I welcome frequently.

She was the light of my life, my whole world, and my little sister's best friend.

We met when we were kids, I was twelve, she was ten, and her family had just moved in a few houses down. Her and Viktoria became fast friends, inseparable to the point where Rose lived in Vika's room on the weekends, and sometimes during the week too.

Vika claimed Rose off limits to me, and our cousin Adrian, as soon as they met, and it only grew stronger the longer the friendship went on. Adrian didn't have much of an issue with it, he had his eyes fixated on a pretty blonde at school. I, on the other hand, had a very... hard time accepting it.

Still, I tried not to fall for her for Vika's sake, but in the end, I couldn't stop myself. She was, surely still is, beautiful inside and out. She had this air about her, a charisma, you just couldn't help but want to be around. Her friends were her family, and her family her everything. She would move heaven and earth to make the ones she cared about happy, and go out of her way to help anyone in need.

Not to mention her breathtakingly gorgeous body, but that was second to the beauty of her soul. I held out for as long as I could -five years to be exact- until the pull between us became too much to resist, and I, we, gave in.

It was meant to be a one-time thing, feed the fire and then put it out for good. But one night turned into two, and then three, and well, you see where this is going.

Every time we came together, the fire spread, taking over my body first, igniting my skin with the simplest touch. And then my mind. She was everywhere, in my dreams, my waking thoughts, I couldn't escape it, and at the time, I didn't want too. She captivated my senses, lingering on my lips, her scent in my nose, long after I walked away. Her spirit clung to me, making me feel things I didn't know I was capable of.

That's when she took over my heart.

Not even the roar of the crowd can make my heart explode the way it did when she would whisper 'I love you' right before she fell asleep tucked tightly against me.

It was amazing, wonderful, and beautiful, but it was also extremely dangerous.

I never knew it was possible to love someone so much.

And I had to let her go.

Not only because she is my little sister's best friend, but because her whole life was in Baia. Her dad, her friends, and her education, I couldn't rip her away from that to follow me around as I chased my dreams, making her put her life aside for mine. Not to mention, she still had two years of school left, and I know her father would never allow her to drop out and fly around the world with me.

I have known since I was ten that I wanted to play ball professionally. I wanted to move away from our small town in Russia and make something of myself. Working day and night to become the best, and when I received the scholarship to the University of Texas- Austin for the foreign exchange student program, I hesitated.

Fucking hesitated.

The offer was there, my dream come true, and I hesitated because the stupid muscle inside my chest shattered at the thought of leaving her. I didn't want to chase the dream without her by my side to enjoy the ride. I wanted her with me through every up and down, the good and the bad, but in order for that to happen, I would have had to rip her away from her only family, forcing her into the life of a 'ballplayer's wife', it wouldn't be fair to her.

I was faced with a choice; decline the offer and wait until she could come with me, or pack my bags and leave now. If I declined the offer, I would forfeit my chance at a better life, with no guarantee of another opportunity being dropped in my lap. And if I packed my bags, I had to say goodbye to my only reason for breathing, but it would give both of us the shot we deserve.

So I did what I thought was best for the both of us, -alright mainly myself, because I was a selfish bastard back then, still am most days- and I packed my bags, booked the first flight out of Omsk that I could find, and left without telling anyone until I landed in St. Petersburg for my first flight change.

Dick move?

One hundred percent.

I won't argue with you on that point. I am man enough to accept the fact that leaving her, along with my entire family, and childhood home, is top notch asshole material.

But, in my defense, it was a once in a lifetime opportunity, and I couldn't let it slip by. I know had I talked to her before I left, I wouldn't have gone, and that would have left me regretting my choices. I would have blamed her as well as myself. Truly, I was in a lose-lose position, neither outcome would give either of us the lives we wanted.

For six months I tried contacting her, calling, texting, emailing, and Skyping, all of which went unanswered. Not that I blame her, I would be mad at me too. At that point, I knew it was time, I had to let her go -well, for the most part. I still love her, lord knows I always will, but she deserves more than a man who ran with no explanation, who couldn't love her for the world to see but only hidden behind closed doors.

I often wonder about her, if she is still living there, or if she moved on. But I usually let those thoughts drift away on the sandy beaches of my dreams, keeping them locked inside my own head. It's probably for the best, though, to let her move on with her life, find her own happily ever after. She deserves the world, and if I can't give it to her, I hope someone else does.

Pressing the photo to my lips, I pull in a deep breath, holding it for just a moment, as if savoring the smell of her lavender skin, before letting it back out and replacing the picture to its holding place.

Shouldering my duffle, I pause at the door with my hand on the light switch, taking one final look around the empty locker room.

"You did it, Comrade, you made it," I whisper to myself, sticking the knife a little deeper in my own heart. With a flick, I switch off the light and head down to the team garage where my car is parked.

Climbing behind the wheel of my Porsche 911, I toss my hat on the dash, my bag onto the passenger seat, and press the start button, enjoying the sweet purr of my baby. The dash lights up the dark interior, black leather upholstery, like the inside of my heart, with a paint job and rims to match.

Connecting my phone, I turn on my post game playlist, a mix of eights alternative and Texas Red Dirt country. When I was growing up, trying to learn English, I listened to a lot of American music, and when I moved here, I learned to love the sound of acoustic guitars. I have tried a few times to learn to play, but I haven't quite mastered the art yet.

The drive to my house is short, only taking ten minutes to pull into the garage. Punching in the code, 0321, the alarm disarms and automatically unlocks the door. My keys hit the granite countertop, the sound echoing through the bare space, accompanied by the thud of my boots on the hardwood floors.

Opening the fridge, I pull a Shiner Light beer off the shelf, pop the top and tip the bottle back, tossing the top next to my keys. The crisp, cold, liquid slides down my throat, fucking delicious, and I let out a satisfied sigh.

Setting my beer down, I pull out my phone to check my messages. As always, Mama sent a few during the game, congratulating me every time I struck someone out and called when I closed out the ninth, sealing our victory.

Listening to her voicemail, I don't even manage a smile at the sound of her excitement, for the overwhelming guilt smothers every ounce of joy in my life. Sliding my finger over the message, I delete it, saying to myself that I will call her in the morning, but knowing deep down I won't get around to it.

As I said, it's been years since I actually spoke to anyone in my family. When I first left, I called home weekly. Weekly turned to monthly, then yearly, until I finally stopped. I send Mama a check every six months to pay the bills, but I can't bring myself to actually talk to them anymore.

Eyeing the half-empty bottle, I raise it back to my lips, finishing off the remaining contents, and grab another from the fridge, along with my bottle of Tito's Vodka in the pantry. Passing on the use of a glass, I take my drinks straight to my bedroom, since it's the only room in the house with furniture, and settle into my California King mattress, flipping the TV to Sports Center.

Belikov does it again…..

Is there anything he can't do….

The young closer is making a name for himself….

You would think to hear the commentary, I would feel proud, joyful even, for accomplishing the goals I had set for myself all those years ago. I came from nothing, a broken family, living in a run-down home in a town no bigger than a dime. My father was a drunk, abusive and cruel toward my mother, and my mother worked endless nights at the hospital as a nurse to take care of four kids -five when my cousin moved in with us after his father kicked him out.

I can remember the countless times we only had bread to eat for dinner, or the many years of school wearing the same tattered clothes because we couldn't afford to get new ones. I used to go from house to house on our street fixing minor problems for people just to make a few Rubles to help Mama.

Now, I have made millions, drive a Porsche, and own a five million dollar house in Dallas. I have traveled the country, seen and done things that back home would never have been possible.

Yet, even with all of the material things, I have nothing to show for myself.

All of the money in the world can't eradicate the feeling of guilt suppressing my heart. I've tried, believe me, I have tried my damnedest to forget, to move past the person I was back then, and that only dug my grave deeper. Because, no amount of money, women, or alcohol will erase the thoughts of everything, and everyone, I left behind to make this dream a reality.

Tossing the remote beside me, I twist the cap on the Tito's and take three large gulps.

Always three -the first burns, the second soothes and the third washes away every fuck I have to give, allowing me to slip into the black abyss.

Author's Note:

This is the fastest turn around on stories I have ever done, but I simply couldn't wait!

Now that Bases Loaded is here, I am excited to do the giveaway on Facebook to go with it. There is no better way to celebrate this second chance romance, than by giving away 'That Second Chance' by Meghan Quinn. It is the BEST second chance romance I have read.

(and I am TOTALLY not being biased here)

To enter:

Fav/Follow Bases Loaded.

Follow me on Facebook and comment on the release post for Bases Loaded.

(Be sure to include your screen name so I can announce the winner here as well.)

And review Chapter One.

Simple as that.

(Note: I will only be able to ship the giveaway box inside the US, but if you are outside of the US you are still welcome to follow on Facebook for all updates/sneak peeks/and random shenanigans.)

Suit up, Y'all, it's game time.

All My Love,

Dream