Night! Be sure to double lock your doors.
I smile, but I force it to stay there, at the surface.
There’s safety in not wanting anything. There’s security in accepting you’ll never have more.
Hope is for fools.
And I may be a lot of things, but I’m no fool.
Will Fletch ever meet the woman of his dreams? And will he make it home for his brother’s Christmas wedding? Find out inPlanes, Reins, and Automobiles, coming soon!
Books in the Catching Feelings series can be read in any order, so if you’d rather save this book for the holiday season, read on for Scottie and Lucas’s bonus epilogue.
BONUS EPILOGUE TWO
SCOTTIE
There’s no convenient time for morning sickness, and apparently, there’s no convenient time for intense baseball games either.
Not that I’m the one with morning sickness—Kayla is. She’s been a queasy mess since the second inning, even though she’s trying to hide it from everyone. It’s like watching someone try to keep a volcano from erupting by putting a cute bow on top.
Me? I’m fine.
Mostly.
Lucas Fischer is eight innings and ninety-something pitches into an almost flawless game so far, and the whole stadium is holding its breath. The Mudflaps fans are on their feet, and we’re all dancing around the term “no-hitter” like we’re not sure if it’s a prayer or a curse.
Them, I mean. They’re not sure.
It’s silly how baseball fans treat games like they’re life or death. I grew up in Philly with Jake Rodgers—you know, the big third baseman the Firebirds acquired just before the tradedeadline. He was tight with my older brother (and no, this isn’t some ”brother’s best friend” romcom situation).
His superstition around every game bordered on hokey mysticism. Not changing his socks when his team was on a winning streak, and only eating crunchy taco supremes from Taco Bell before baseball games.
Dumb, right?
Yet watching Lucas on that mound with his easy grin and golden-boy glow, I can’t help noticing that I’ve been standing with my hands in the pockets of my cigarette pants this entire inning, and no batter has made contact.
So I keep my hands in my pockets.
Not because I care about Lucas, but because I work for the Mudflaps, and I owe it to my boss to help the team.
I keep myself from pacing as I watch the inning unfold. Kayla’s white-knuckling Sean’s hand, Bruce Fischer—Lucas’s MLB umpire dad—looks like he’s ready to jump in and call the pitches himself. And Lucas’s sister, Liesel, is explaining pitching mechanics to Cooper Freaking Kellogg, as if he’s not the best hitter in MLB. (Also hot. Sorry, not sorry, Liesel, but I had the biggest crush on your boyfriend when I was a teen.)
Meanwhile, Lucas looks calm as a summer’s morning, like he’s not about to throw his hundredth pitch. He even winks at the catcher between batters. Who does that?
“He’s incredible,” I hear myself whisper.
I clamp my lips shut immediately. Great. Now I’m part of the Lucas Fischer fan club.
Kayla glances back at me, grinning like she knows. “I told you,” she mouths.
I roll my eyes and pretend not to care, pretend not to notice the weird flutter in my chest.
The first batter strikes out swinging. Lucas bounces back up from throwing a hundred mile an hour fast ball like it’s his firstof the day, but, then, he started the day throwing one-oh-four. He’s on the extended roster for the Firebirds and he could get called up at any second, so they’re being ultra strict about pitch counts. A hundred pitches. That’s all he’s going to get.
But he’s barely slowing down. He looks fresh and like he wants to finish it.
I bring my hand up to my mouth and put my thumbnail between two teeth, and a batter smacks the first pitch high to right field. My stomach flips. I moved my hands! I was supposed to keep them in my pockets! Did I just jinx him?
