Page 120 of Lucky 22

This isn’t personal for her.

But it is for me.

And I chose right.

My manager, Alison, calls me an hour after my callwith Tracy and also severs ties with me.

For the same reason. I’m useless to her if I’m not workingon anything.

If this is rock bottom, I never want to be here again.

I don’t tell Christian about my conversations with Tracy andAlison until we sit down to dinner after the game. I expect him to pepper mewith questions, but he doesn’t. Instead, he gets quiet. We finish our meal inutter silence.

Christian isn’t a loud person to begin with, but whensomething’s weighing on him, he gets…still. Thoughtful. It’s the kind ofsilence that hums—both unsettling and comforting at the same time.

I stand and look around, unsure what to do. The Phoenix citylights stretch out before me through the window, and it reminds me of thenights we ate dinner at the rooftop restaurant in Tempe. I remember swaying tothe music, admiring the scenery, and just feeling like my world was perfect.

I’d give anything for Christian to walk over to me now so wecan sway to invisible music and just push the world away for a while.

Instead, he stretches out on the couch, staring ahead as ifhe’s watching something I can’t see.

Unable to stand the silence any longer, I sit down besidehim and gently nudge him with my knee. “You’ve been in your head for the lasthour. Talk to me. Please.”

He doesn’t answer right away. His jaw works as if he’srehearsing what he wants to say. Or maybe fighting it.

“Do you ever feel like,” he finally says, his voice low,“like you ended up being more of a…support system than a wife?”

It hits hard, sharp. “What?”

He rubs his hands over his face in frustration. But not withme. With himself. “I mean…everything. Moving. Packing. Adjusting. Waiting.Holding your life in your hands, ready to set it down whenever I needsomething.” He exhales slowly. “Like I’m living my dream, and you’re…orbitingit.”

My instinct is to deny it. To tell him he’s beingridiculous. But he’s not asking for reassurance. He’s confessing.

So, I wait.

He swallows. “When we first started this, I promised myselfI’d do right by you. That I would always put you first and do everything Icould to set you up for success. I vowed to never ask you to carry the weightof my career. But I look back and…” He lets out a long breath. “So much of ourlife revolves around whether I’m playing, whether I’m hurt, whether I’m traded.Whether I’m okay.”

His voice cracks on that last word, and my heart aches.

“You’ve changed cities, changed routines, changed entire plansfor me, over and over,” he continues, softer now. “And you’ve done it without apause. Like it’s natural. Like you owe it to me. And I don’t know when Istopped questioning that. I don’t know when I stopped asking if you were okay.When I stopped making sure that you didn’t feel like second place to the game.”

“You haven’t—” I start.

He shakes his head gently. “Let me finish?”

I go quiet.

“I grew up believing baseball was everything,” he says. “Andfor a long time, it was. It was my identity. My anchor. My future. And then youcame into my life and, suddenly, it wasn’t the center anymore. You were.” Hebreathes out, long and shaky, both hands raking through his hair, making itspiky. “And somehow, I still kept acting like the game had to come first. Likeit was a force I couldn’t push back against, even for you.”

There’s grief in his voice, and it’s raw and honest.

He looks at me then—really looks—and his eyes are tired, yetso impossibly full of love.

“You’ve been a good teammate,” he whispers. “You’ve bentwhen life needed bending. You’ve sacrificed without calling it a sacrifice.You’ve stood by me, even when it meant standing alone. I hate thinking abouthow lonely you’ve been.” His throat works. “And I haven’t been able to do thesame for you.”

Emotion burns behind my eyes, and I will the unshed tearsnot to fall.

“Christian…” I breathe softly, reaching for his hand.