He turns back to me, one eyebrow cocked.
I look at Mack, who tilts his head, impressed. "Better," I say.
"Yeah?" Jace tosses me his usual cocky grin.
I shake my head, resisting the pull at the corners of my mouth. "I said better, not good."
"From you these past few weeks? I'll take that."
I suck my teeth, feeling every bit of the sting he didn't mean to send, knowing full well that he's right. Once it settles, I nod toward Mack to run the drill again. We repeat the motions, and Jace nails it each time.After a few more, I call it, holding my glove up for him to toss me the next one.
Mack moves back toward the dugout, and Jace uses the time to drop his glove and stretch out his neck and shoulders. "So, what's your plan for next year?" he asks as I roll the ball between my fingers.
The weight that I just got rid of—the one I can normally avoid when I'm on the field—settles again. Fourteen years I've spent dragging my cleats across this dirt. Baseball is what I know—hell… it's almostallI know. I've been with the Gators since I finished school. Besides my brother—these coaches, my team, the fans—they're the longest relationships I've ever had.
Thinking about life without baseball seems unimaginable. Not because I didn't think it'd ever happen—we all know the game doesn't last forever—but because I feel incapable of picturing who I am besides a dad and shortstop. It's as if half of me will fade away at the end of this season, and no matter how amazing my other role is, the hole it leaves behind seems impossible to fill.
"Not sure yet," I admit. "Just looking forward to having time again." It's not a lie—I would kill for days spent with Ruthie without my crazy schedule.
But it's fucking terrifying all the same.
I stare at the red thread running around the ball in my hand as if it might lead me to answers—tell me my future. When it doesn't, my gaze lifts to Jace again. "And not putting up with little shitheads like you."
We both smirk as he pulls his throwing arm once more across his chest before dropping it again. "You know, you should probably make a plan," he says, reaching for his glove.
The advice hits me right in the gut. "Oh, should I?" I throw the ball his way before he's ready, a little harder than necessary.
He snaps back up, catching it barehanded, his eyes connecting with mine like he knows he struck a nerve. He whips it back at me, and it hits my glove with a crack. "Yeah, I saw this TikTok about Joe Manson. You know, that retired pitcher from—"
"I know whoManson is."
His jaw clenches as his cheeks turn the slightest shade of pink. "Right," he says. "Well, apparently, he retired thinking his fame would carry him through the rest of his life—brand deals and guest appearances, shit like that." He holds his glove up, asking for the ball, but I keep it, waiting for him to finish. "Next thing you know, he's living out of his car and begging for dip at a gas station."
"Stop, that's not true." I toss one to him, admittedly wide.
"It is," he argues, stretching for it. "I saw the video."
I roll my eyes, but I can't help but notice the faint unease in my stomach. "I think I'll be just fine."
He shrugs as the ball snaps into my glove. "I'm just saying—having a plan might not be a bad start."
I press my lips together and nod toward him. "Thanks for caring, Rook. But how about you work on your plan to fix that back foot and let me worry about my future."
Jace groans, his gaze dropping to his cleat. His head snaps back to me, and he blows out a breath and nods. "Yes, sir."
"So, where's Ruthie?"
I tear the white athletic tape with my teeth and peer up at Brooke as I secure the end to my wrist. "She's up there with my brother," I answer, nodding toward their usual seats in the stands.
"Uh huh," she says, seeming completely uninterested. "And what was wrong with Tess?"
I squeeze the roll of tape in my hand at the sound of her name, then sigh. "Brooke, can we not do this right now?"
"What are you guys talking about?" Mack chimes in. He turns to Brooke and taps her arm. "You got another question?"
I look between the two of them, confused, yet grateful he somehow managed to change the subject that quickly.
"When you were over there finishing up with Holloway, Brooke here asked the coaching staff a question for her little social medias. If we were a can on a shelf, what kind would we be?"
