Page 3 of The Fall Classic

Georgiana.

The girl with the book.

She was carrying a beat-up copy of The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe when we met at a Spring Training fan event, and we talked for thirty minutes about all things Narnia before I let her walk away without asking for her number.

I’ve been looking for her since March, and now she’s here? It doesn’t seem possible, but I’ve thought about her so much, I recognize her immediately.

This game can’t end fast enough.

I grip—fingernails in, knuckles out.

Wind up and release.

Strike one.

Grip, wind up, release for strike two.

Again for strike three.

Out.

A fire has been lit under me, and I’m moving as fast as the batter lets me, my catcher scrambling to keep up. I’m more aware of Georgiana in the stands, with her hands high over her head as she claps and cheers next to her niece, than I am of my own body.

The next batter is barely in the box before I throw again. Rojas adjusts fast—best catcher ever—reads me, and the batter barely has time to get comfortable.

Thwap.

Thwap.

Thwap.

He’s out.

The dugout erupts, but the excitement passes by me like a breeze. I’m tracking the third row, scanning for honey-blonde hair in the chaos of fans streaming toward the exits while teammates swarm me, grabbing my shoulders and my arms, someone getting me in a headlock that I have to physically remove myself from while trying to keep eyes on the stands line.

I know she’s gone before I’ve even extricated myself from the chaos.

Of course she is. This is exactly what happened in March, when I saw her for a second time.

But it’s not going to end the same way.

Fletch finds me before I can get off the field. He puts an arm around my shoulders and steers me toward the media cluster with the grip of an ex-player who can sense a distracted current player when he sees one.

“What happened out there?” the reporter asks, shoving the mic toward me.

“I stopped worrying so much,” I tell her. “Focused on the team.” I’m looking past the reporter’s left ear at the first base concourse.

“How does it feel watching your brother play at the Firebirds level while you’re still⁠—”

“Awesome,” I say. “I love watching him dominate.” I’m now looking above her head, my eyes searching⁠—

Fletch’s hand finds my shoulder and pinches. A hard reminder that I am a professional athlete in front of a camera. I answer two more questions like I’m supposed to and thank the reporter.

When she leaves, I spin on Fletch. “Please, man. There’s somewhere else I’ve gotta be.”

He looks at me like he’s seeing past something. Fletch is early thirties, young for a manager, and he went through his own version of finding what I’m looking for recently enough that when he finally nods, I’m already gone.

I don’t search the concourse for her, though.