The car pulls to a stop in front of the terminal. I tuck the baseball into my backpack and grab my luggage from the trunk, unlatching a stray baseball glove from the Velcro.
“Thanks for the ride. Appreciate it,” I say into the open window.
Ian simply smiles back. “Any time. Now go get your man.”
Booking into the same hotel as Nick’s team by chance was a long, long shot anyway, but I can’t help but be a tiny bit disappointed that I didn’t luck out.
Even if that lets me keep the element of surprise, it also means waiting for hours until I can see Nick again. Knowing he’s in the same city as I am, just a few kilometers away, is almost more frustrating than being across the country.
It’s like that saying—so close, yet so far?
Right now, I’m lying in my hotel bed, passing the time with senseless blinking at the ceiling. I ate a massive breakfast downstairs, it’s already past noon, the doors to Nick’s game open in exactly forty-three minutes, and my map app says the ballpark is a fifteen-minute driveaway?—
Okay. I can be nervous about seeing Nick without going into a loop of staring into space and checking my phone every thirty seconds. The game ticket is saved as a screenshot on my phone in case my data gives out, the baseball is tucked safely in my pocket, forming a comical bulge at the side of my thigh, and I already have my shoes on.
There might be traffic, and it’s warm outside. The world won’t end if I’m a tad early. Feeling more antsy than anything, I haul myself up, out the doors, and down to the lobby, where I call a car and shake my leg nervously for the whole drive.
The Detroit training grounds are certainly well maintained. On top of the shiny new ballpark where diehard fans are slowly trickling in, there’s a whole training center right next door, shared between the major league team and its minor league affiliates, according to Nick. With my heart in my throat, I find my seat, booked close to home plate, and get myself situated for exactly three seconds before heading for the dugout.
It’s buzzing with energy. The team’s already gotten themselves set up, milling about and doing light stretches. There are a whole lot of guys there. I can’t see Nick straight away, but a couple of his teammates are hanging out right beneath me.
I retrieve the ball from my pocket and palm it, steeling myself to press on.
“Hey,” I call out, and the guy closest to me, a young-ish guy with jet-black hair and striking eyes, jerks his head up.
“Hi.” His gaze travels to the ball in my hand. “You looking for someone to sign that?”
“Yeah.” I scan the crowd of players in crimson jerseys, trying to find— “Nick. Nick Russell.”
There he is. Even more tanned than when I last saw him, leaned out a little, probably from the training he’s been going through, and hot enough to rival the desert sun beating down on us.
My heartbeat picks up. Despite his mood from a few days ago, he’s still amazing.
The guy from before nods and turns toward Nick, tappinghim on the shoulder and pointing in my direction. Nick doesn’t look up as he walks over, instead focusing on the athletic tape wrapped around his wrist, and he sticks an arm up.
“I can sign?—”
Nick finally,finally,looks up. His gray eyes meet my gaze and widen with recognition, blinking as his jaw drops.
“Hey,” I say, putting on the most casual smirk I can muster. “I’m ahugefan of yours. Any chance you could sign this for me?”
I toss the ball down, my chest squeezing when Nick’s instincts take over to catch it. He doesn’t stop looking at me, simply standing still and blinking with his lips parted.
He’s surprised for sure. Now I just need to see if he’s gonna prove his friends right by reacting well.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
NICK
The last thing I need to do is fumble a ball before this game even starts.
One that Dean passed to me.
One that myboyfriend, whotraveled across the country, passed to my sorry ass.
All of my focus is on my left hand, willing it to keep a hold on the ball that might as well have been slicked with some kind of oil. Shaking my head, I try to conjure up some more energy, and I consider slapping myself a couple of times to confirm if I’m actually seeing this for real.
“Hey, are you good?” Dean asks, leaning against the railing above the dugout. A gentle breeze wafts through the air, ruffling his dark hair that’s glowing red in the strong sunlight. The shades he’s wearing reflect my stunned expression, and the smile I’ve missed so much? Seeing it in real life is something else, and it snaps me back to reality.
