Page 123 of Lucky 22

He preens, and it’s adorable.

“What about your schedule for next week? Anything exciting?”

“You know, PT on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and Ireceived an invitation from the Pasadena Little League to come and speak at oneof their events. I have a call with them on Tuesday.”

He says it casually, so I’m not exactly sure how he feelsabout it.

Fortunately, I don’t have to ask because he’s alreadytalking.

“I think I’ve been so wrapped up in focusing on letting mybody heal that I haven’t spent a whole lot of time thinking about what my nextchapter looks like.” He pauses and then keeps talking. “Everyone expects me togo into coaching. My whole career, I was told that I would make a great coachone day. It’s the natural next step,” he continues with a sigh. “But, EllaRose, I’m burned out. I don’t want the baseball lifestyle for us anymore. Theconstant grind. As you always say, it’s the same song, different verse.”

“Oh, Christian, I completely support you, and I don’t wantto jump back into that lifestyle either. But maybe the Little League thing…” Iprompt. Luckily, he visibly relaxes.

“I think about all the incredible people who came into mylife when I was young and fell in love with baseball. Coaches, teachers, olderplayers—all of them. What if…what if I’m the guy who can make a positiveimpression on a kid who’s just learning how to play?”

His face lights up, and his eyes brighten.

“Ella Rose, if I’m being honest, I’ve lost my love for thegame a bit. After dealing with so many injuries, free agency, and contractnegotiations…I didn’t realize how much I needed a break from baseball.”

I think we both needed a break from it, but I don’t sayanything. I just let him talk.

“Whenever I see kids playing baseball, I stop and watch. Ilove watching the joy on their faces. I want to find that joy again. I have somany offers to work with major league teams. I’m getting calls constantly tocome back and play, or to coach or scout. But I need some distance.”

All I can do is nod.

“But kids? I know I can help there and make a difference.”

“Christian, by helping kids, you might just end up helpingyourself and find your love of baseball again. You should definitely go andtalk to the Little League team,” I encourage, squeezing his hand. “I also thinkyou should go up to the high school. Remember how your friend from the Wavesinvited you to come and help his local high school baseball team?”

He shrugs and gives me a knowing smile. “I guess so.”

“Yay!” Oh, this makes my heart so happy. Then I glance atthe time and realize that if I don’t finish eating and get ready, I’m going tobe late. “I hate to do this, but I need to power through the rest of mypancakes so I can shower and get dressed. Which means I’m leaving you with thedishes. Sorry.”

A deep, masculine chuckle is his only response.

“Christian…” I say around a mouthful of syrupy goodness.

“It’s not a problem, you know that. No one’s keeping scorearound here. I know you need to get to the studio, so don’t worry. I can handlethe dishes.”

“I appreciate you so much.”

“Appreciate?” he teases. “Really?”

“Love. I love you so much,” I counter. “But I appreciateyou, too. It’s a package deal.”

“I can live with that.” With a boyish grin, he gives me aquick kiss on the tip of my nose.

Spring arrives, and with it a palpable restlessness.

Christian is a little on edge. A bit unsettled. I know it’snot physical because he’s back to moving around with ease. I’ve been to everydoctor’s appointment and have sat in on some of his physical therapyappointments. I know he’s healed. Not one hundred percent, but pretty darnclose. Still, I know something’s on his mind.

It hits me as I’m bustling around our hotel room in Orlando,preparing for another three-day convention. For the first time in close to hisentire life, it’s springtime, and Christian doesn’t have anywhere he hasto be.

Every other spring, his life would already be spoken for. Flights.Physicals. Practices. Games that don’t technically count but somehow feel likethey carry the weight of the world anyway. There was always a fast, demanding,and unyielding rhythm.

But that isn’t the case anymore.

Right now, he’s standing on the balcony of our hotel room, amug in his hand, staring out over a skyline that’s familiar but doesn’t belongto any team. He’s quiet. Not heavy quiet. Just…unsettled. Like a man whosuddenly stepped off a treadmill he’s been running on his entire life, and hisbody hasn’t figured out how to stop moving.