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Eventually, we make it to the stadium and are directed to an overflow lot just across the street. We get inside, and Kyle springs for beers and hot dogs for us both, and we head to our seats.

Of course, he chose seats close to the Thunder’s dugout, just a few rows back from the front. There will be no missing Denver and Griffin, and no chance they won’t see me.

I’ve never been to a professional baseball game, so I have zero expectations for the next few hours. The stadium is packed with fans, all smiling and exuding excitement. The lineup for parking makes sense now. But it’s more than just loud in here. It’s alive with an energy that is palpable. The voices of the crowd rise and fall like waves, punctuated by the music playing through hidden speakers.

Isla is clearly a marketing genius because everywhere I look, it’s a sea of royal blue and Thunder jerseys. Then, the announcer’s voice booms overhead, and the crowd surges to their feet.

Kyle stands, nudging me with his toe when I don’t follow. “Come on. You don’t sit for this part.”

I scramble up with everyone else, my heart already beating faster for reasons I’d rather not think about.

The players start running out, and the noise doubles.

And suddenly, there they are. Leading the lineup of players, looking far more attractive than they have any right to.

The two men I haven’t been able to stop thinking about.

I thought I was prepared to see them again. But in their uniforms, wearing those tight white pants and blue jerseys that hug their biceps?

There’s no way I could have been ready for that.

Denver jogs out toward the mound, his cap low and his glove tucked under an arm, like he belongs exactly where he’s at. He looks different. Gone is the easygoing, charming guy I know him to be. He’s sharper. Honed in and focused, ready to dominate.

I’ve seen that focus before. When it was pointed at me.

I shiver.

“Show-off,” Kyle mutters, but there’s pride under his words.

Griffin follows a second later, mask in hand, already scanning the field like he’s mapping it out. He doesn’t look at the crowd. Doesn’t play to it.

He just…is. He follows Denver out to the mound, putting his hand on his shoulder and talking to him briefly. They tap their foreheads together once, then Griffin jogs back to home plate while Denver rolls his shoulders.

In the back of my mind, I register that the announcer is still talking and the crowd is still roaring with cheers for the rest of the team, who are making their way to different spots on the field and starting to warm up. But my gaze is locked on the two men in the center of everything.

“They’ve been playing together forever,” Kyle says, following my gaze. “It’s like they become one person. Hell, a fucking machine.” He settles back down in his chair, and I drop into mine, still transfixed by the men.

Denver winds up.

The pitch is fast, and the sound cracks through the air when it hits Griffin’s glove, sharp and final, even above the noise of the crowd.

Griffin tosses the ball back, without hesitation. Denver catches it like it’s nothing, already resetting.

“Okay, what’s all that about?” Kyle asks, waving a hand toward my face.

“All what?” I blurt out, turning slightly away to drink my beer, hoping the cold beverage cools the heat I can feel building in my cheeks.

“I dunno. That’s why I’m asking. It just seems like maybe you’re seeing something different from what I’m seeing.”

I swallow down another sip of beer. “You’re imagining things. I’m just watching baseball.”

“Am I?” my brother says cryptically, and I chance a quick look his way.

Shit. He’s studying me closely, and I curse the fact that I’ve never been good at hiding my emotions. Thank god I’m saved from any further interrogation by the singing of the national anthem, and then the game begins.

“I don’t know why anyone would ever call baseball boring,” I say as I slump back in my chair after the fifth inning. “This is insane!”

Kyle chuckles. “Right? I mean, it helps that these teams are really good. If you’re watching a lower level team, it can get pretty boring. When it’s just walk after walk, and nobody hits or makes good plays.”