My eyes widen at the mention of my all-time favourite player.
“I wanted to call you so badly. I wanted to take a picture or get his autograph. But I couldn’t. You weren’t in my life anymore. I didn’t even know if you were still playing baseball. That’s probably the most memorable time when it hit me just how much I lost in deciding to stay and find myself.”
She falls silent, and we stay where we are. Holding each other as eight years of painful feelings wash over us. It hurts to think about it again, but on the heels of the pain is a sense of release. Like the ghost of our past can finally be at rest.
Eventually, she steps back and clears her throat. “I realize I probably have no right to ask this. But do you think we could try to put it behind us?” she asks quietly, her eyes trained on me.
I don’t answer right away. I don’t know how to do that. Can I move on from the heartbreak I’ve held on to for eight years? I’d like to thinkyes I can, that having some closure with Iz will make that possible. But what would that even look like?
Seizing the moment of silence, Isabelle keeps going. “I’m only here for a few months. But I’ll be back to visit Mom and Tony. And if you’re here, too, well, I’d really rather it wasn’t awkward between us.” Her gaze drops down for a beat before lifting back up to meet mine. “And you were such an important part of mylife. Something that’s been missing for so long. I know I’m being selfish again, but I have to ask. I’d really like my friend back. If that’s at all possible.”
Friends. My heart pangs with longing for what we had when we first met. Before we fell in love, we were friends. Bonded as the only two Canadians in our year, we would share care packages of ketchup chips and Coffee Crisp chocolate bars. We’d celebrate Canadian Thanksgiving in October and hit the campus bar on American Thanksgiving when all of our other friends were with their families.
It was such an easy transition from friends to so much more. I don’t think I even knew it was happening until one day I was kissing her, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world to do.
Loving herfelt natural.
I thought I’d love her forever.
“Friends,” I finally croak out. “We could try that.”
Her smile of relief cuts me so deeply, I think if the couch wasn’t behind me I’d stagger back. “Thank you.” She drags in a slow breath and exhales, and I watch at least some of the tension bleed out of her. “So how was the game today?”
I wince, grabbing the back of my neck. “We lost.”
Her gaze lands on the spot where I dumped my gear when I got home. “Is that the hat you were wearing?”
The hat in question is a brand new one, given to me today by the equipment manager when I claimed I forgot my hat at home. I didn’t forget. I left it on purpose.
“Yeah, why?”
The look she gives me floors me. No fucking way. She remembers?
Sure enough, she picks it up and examines the inner brim before putting it back down.
“It doesn’t have my initials. That’s why you lost.” She arches her brow, and I can see the smirk fighting to break free. But I play it cool, pretending I’m not affected by the fact that she remembers, or that she caught me.
I cross my arms over my chest and shake my head. “Yeah, because a hat makes or breaks a game,” I say, injecting sarcasm into my tone.
“You’re right, it doesn’t work if I don’t sign it.”
I watch as she strides to my kitchen counter and snatches up a pen before returning to where I stand and scribbling her initials on the inside of the brim.
“There. Now you can wear it. Got anymore I need to sign?”
I debate with myself. Do I let her in close enough to show her? Can I trust her with knowing just how much of a role she’s played in my career all this time?
I don’t know how I reach the decision, but eventually, I turn and walk to my bedroom, straight over to the walk-in closet where I’ve got a shelf full of hats. Most of them from teams I played on in the past, but several of my Tridents ones are there too. I stand to the side and let her examine every single one.
Each time she picks one up, turns it over, and sees the I.M. written on the inside, she sets it down without a word or even a glance my way. Until she goes through every single one.
“All my hats at the stadium have it written on them too.”
She finally turns to face me, a cautious yet hopeful smile on her face. “I’m glad to see you didn’t throw your good luck away. And now that we’re friends again, I can make sure all future hats are prepared correctly. After all, the luck is stronger if I write my initials myself.”
My own smile finally breaks free. “Yeah. Good thing.”
And I guess it really is good. Isabelle is back in my life, and while going back to being friends with her is not something Iwould have ever expected to happen, I’m surprisingly okay with it.
