Is it weird if I’m starting to feel more married to you than I ever felt engaged to Aldridge?
I stare at the words, my heart pounding.
It’s too much.
Too raw.
Waaaay too soon.
I breathe out, thumb trembling slightly, and hit delete, one letter at a time.
Instead, I type:
KAYLA
You’re the best, Captain. Can’t wait to see you when I see you.
I send it quickly, before I can think too hard.
Or hope too hard.
And then I tuck the phone into my pocket, pull my shoulders back, and step into the Owner’s Suite.
The game’s over, and Sean never showed up.
Mullet Ridge to Nashville is a little over seven hours away, and it’s been close to eight. I force myself not to be too disappointed, not to feel rejected. He didn’t actually say he was coming, I just hoped. He didn’t make me any promises.
He didn’t know I meant every word.
And even if he did, I don’t get to expect the same from him.
To add insult to injury, the Outlaws won in extra innings, and Aldridge is gloating so hard, I think I’m going to be sick (also from hunger).
I escape the VIP Suite with a quick goodbye to Gordon and a wave to Scottie and then make my way down the private owner’s elevator to the stadium’s field level—a corridor of brushed steel and concrete that smells like turf, sweat, and popcorn. The team is already coming from the field through the tunnel, a mix of dejection and guys trying to rally.
“So we lost,” Logan Fischer is saying. “There’s still tomorrow. We got this.”
Fletch glares at Logan like his optimism is deeply offensive. In fact, he looks like he wants to throw his hat in Logan’s face for having the nerve to be positive.
“Coach,” I say when Fletch gets close. “You got a second?”
“Sure, Owner,” he says.
My eyes widen. “Did you intend for it to come out like that?”
I don’t know if my question flustered him or if his attitude did. “No, sorry. I hate losing on errors.”
“Unlike other losses, which you adore.”
“Fine. I hate losing,” he says. He takes off his hat and runs a hand through his messy dark blond hair. Even after having kept a cap on it all day, the second it sees freedom, it reaches for it. I study his face for a minute. He’s got that controlled-tension look, all long limbs and sharp lines. There’s something about the way he stands, too. Braced. Like he’s always waiting for the next hit. And the way he wears isolation like a uniform. I bet he was thekind of guy who was always too driven for relationships—MLB or bust—and when it busted, I wonder where that left him.
Well, I know where that left him: as an interim head coach in Mullet Ridge, South Carolina.
Alone.
“What did you want to talk about?” Fletch asks.
“Fan interaction. We had a small contingent here at the game, and I was hoping you and the team could talk to them afterwards, before you get on the bus for the hotel.”
