His head flies backward. "What? Why?"
I throw my thumb behind me telling him to move. We switch places, the bar now warm from where his hands once were. "Because there's more to life than the diamond," I say, trying to convince us both. I lift the weight from the pegs and steady it above me.
"Yeah, your family."
I inhale deeply before starting my set, then bang out three reps before responding. "And that's not enough?" I finally ask.
Jace scoffs. "Your kid is here all the time, Montgomery—not that it's a bad thing. But youcanhave both."
I pause, my arms straight, relishing the ache of the weight in my hands. "Yeah, from a distance. From the dugout. Between games and after practices. I think I'm ready to close that gap for a while."
I finish my next two while he thinks.
"Okay, so don't coach—scout or analyze games. You've got a face for TV," he says.
Ilaugh with him, but not at his joke. I almost forgot what it was like to be this green. To have just started living the dream, all the love for the sport still so fresh—still unshakeable.
I never wore the jewelry or the color-clashing sleeves or threw peace signs to the crowd every time I batted like he does. But at one point, I would have reacted the same way had someone told me they were ready to retire their glove completely.
"Stop flirting with me, Rook," I grunt, finishing my set, the nostalgia washing over me. I rack the bar and sit up, but when I do, I feel weaker than I should from just the exercise. "Besides… you don't want me analyzing your plays one day. Trust me."
Jace brushes me off, taking my spot. "I just think you're gonna miss it."
Tension bubbles in my gut. "It sounds like you're gonna missme," I toss back, my tone rough.
His persistence is annoying every day—Jace Holloway might be the most tenacious guy I know—but this morning, talking about this topic, my tolerance is even lower than it normally is for his conversation.
Getaway days are always packed—we squeeze the same schedule into a day where we also need to catch a flight—and it's the end of a travel weekend, so we're already beat. But doing it on half of the sleep I would normally have is only making it worse.
My mind has been reeling about Tessa since either the best—or worst—timed calf cramp happened the other night. Her sweet scent, her body in such close proximity to mine, the way she looked at me differently than she ever has—and she's… single?
I wasn't really sure what to do with that information other than wish I could unhear it. The second she said it, something released in me—broke free. As if I've been living with my chest wrapped tightly, and those three words cut right through the tape.
We broke up.
That shouldn't excite me. It shouldn't make me want to be around her more. But it does—it has. And a day and a half later, I'm still not sure what to do with that.
It doesn't help that I barely saw her yesterday. Between a full day of workouts and video, plus a late afternoon game, I knew I wouldn't. Buteven when she was invited to join me, Ruthie, and the guys for team dinner, she passed. She said she had calls to make and planned on hitting bed early, but it left me sitting with my thoughts, anxious to feel out her post-moment vibes.
"There's spring training clinics, or college camps. You could even start a podcast or something if you're into that—"
"Rook," I interrupt. "You're already taking my spot. For the love of God, will you please stop talking so you don't take my sanity too?"
Jace's jaw ticks as his cheeks grow red. "Yep," he says shortly. "My bad."
He walks toward the Smith machine, and I part my lips to call after him—to apologize—but before I can, he slips his massive headphones over his ears to drown the world out.
Or me, at least.
It's the bottom of the ninth. We're one out from ending the game and heading back to Golden City, and the Oilers are one run from pushing our flight back another inning. Jace has a runner on second eager to take off the second he gets his chance, and their next batter's at the plate.
I glance at Holloway to my left, shifting his weight back and forth, ready. J.J. on my right is set at third, eager and waiting. Our current pitcher, Javi Solano, glances back, eyeing the runner. His eyes flit to mine, and I tap my glove.
We got this.
He nods back, slowly turning away from me. A moment later, he lifts his leg, falling onto the mound and sending a curveball toward home. The crisp sound of Garcia's glove snapping shut around it causes groans from the stands, and a few whistles from the outfield.
Strike one.
