Ripley asked me to run point, and it makes sense. I’m reliable, I’m respected in the locker room, and I won’t embarrass the organization. He could have asked Hayes, but Hayes has enough on his plate as honorary captain.
He asked me.
In a contract year where the front office isn’t sure I’m worth keeping, that means something. Ripley just handed me a reason to be visible in a way that has nothing to do with my fielding percentage. I should be thinking about that. Not thinking about her.
But he made his daughter the event coordinator.
He knows our history. Why would he want to throw us together?
And he mentioned it like an afterthought. Except Ripley doesn’t forget details. He manages a roster of forty different personalities through a hundred-sixty-two game season without losing his grip on a single man. He called me by my full name when he stopped me at the door. He’s only done that one other time. The year I won my first Gold Glove. He pulled me aside and told me not to let it go to my head. He only uses my full name when he wants to make sure he has my complete attention.
Were his words deliberate? A warning to keep my distance?
Is he nudging us together or just filling a job?
I genuinely don’t know.
At some point in the next few days, Penelope or I will send a message that says something like “hey, coordinating the first event, let me know what you need from my end, and it’s going to be completely normal and professional and fine.”
It’s just work.
I look at the folder in my hand.
Right.
Just work.
I reach the locker room and tell myself to believe my delusions, and I almost do. Then I remember the look on her face when she stepped out of her dad’s office. How desperate she was to get away from me.
She couldn’t pretend either.
I don’t know what to do with that. So I do what I always do. I file Penelope Ripley somewhere she can’t do any damage. I’ve done nothing about it for three years, and I’ll keep doing nothing about it for however long it takes to get her out of my system. Out of my head. Out of my heart.
Chapter
Fourteen
Dr. Nora Bell
* * *
Most sessions, I can tell how they’ll go before the patients even sit down. I read it in the shoulders, the way they hold the door, whether they make eye contact coming in. It’s pattern recognition after fifteen years of watching people decide how much they’re willing to give.
Today, it’s Foster who has his walls up. He’s already got that look—jaw set, distant eyes.
And that’s fine, because today, I don’t plan to focus on him directly. I wanted them both to understand their lives during the time they were apart. Now I’ll focus on Decker. He’s the kind of patient who gives you everything you ask for and nothing you don’t. He’s cooperative, but genuinely guarded.
I wait until they’ve settled on the couch—opposite ends, as always, though they don’t look like they want to crawl over the arm of the couch anymore. They’re more relaxed in each other’s presence.
I rest my hands over my knee, legs crossed.
“We’ve touched on Foster’s path to where he is today,” I begin. “The move south. The development years. How baseball became the thing your father handed him, and he ran with.” I shift my attention to Decker. “Now, I’d like to hear yours.”
Decker’s chin raises slightly, and he glances at Foster, as if he’s worried to share. “Mine?”
“How you got here. To the majors.” I pause. “If you were left behind, being raised by your mom, how did you become talented enough to make it to the bigs?”
“Bigs?” Foster and Decker say in unison, glancing at one another as they laugh like teenage boys in their first sex ed class.
