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Eliza stopped spinning. “Every day. But she was in a lot of pain—cancer—before she passed, so I like to think she’s comfortable now. Plus, Grandpa had passed a couple years earlier, so I know he’s with her too.”

Jesus.

I know they can’t live forever, but losing Nana or Granddad would be hard enough. I couldn’t imagine, didn’t want to imagine, losing them both. Someone would have to pull me out of the hole I would dig for myself in their cornfield.

“My dad’s been having a harder time with it than I thought,” she whispered, almost too softly for me to hear.

“Have you tried talking to him about it?” I crossed the stage toward her.

“Yeah. It, uh, didn’t go over too well.”

“I get that. Dads close themselves off a lot.” If I tried to talk to Dad about his feelings, it’d probably go the same way.

Why was that? Why was it that older men felt like they had to keep all that shit bottled up inside?

Would I be the same way someday?

I hoped not.

The rain to fell more heavily now, and although the thunder quieted, heat lightning flashed in the sky over us. Fireflies started blinking in the clearing.

Eliza sat down and leaned against one of the wooden poles closest to her. “I don’t want to move.”

“Who said anything about moving?” I didn’t plan on moving from this spot any time soon, unless a hurricane blew through. My knee touched hers, and I tried not to think about how charged I felt from it—like jumper cables hooked up to a battery.

She let her head fall back against the wood. “If we lose the stadium, Dad said we’ll probably go somewhere else to manage another team. Leave Fairfield.”

“Leave Fairfield? Like literally move?”

“Yep.”

Shit. I didn’t even know that was on the table. Sure, her family drove Granddad to throwing darts at a door and sneaking a beer every so often, but no Crowleys in Fairfield?

So if I led our team all the way to the championship and if we won, I was not only responsible for taking the stadium back but also taking away her home?

Guilt slid down my throat like sour syrup.

I brought my knees up. “I’m sorry. I…I didn’t know you’d be moving.”

“You don’t have to be sorry.” She placed her hand on mine. “It’s my dad who decided all of this without talking to any of us about it.”

Still.

“Lauryn said moving can be a good thing,” she added. “That I can reinvent myself.”

“That’s true.” I squeezed her hand. “Take it from someone who’s moved around a few times. There are some perks.” A lot of negatives too. But I didn’t need to tell her about those.

“I’m not like you though, Reed.” She dropped her head and lightning flashed across the dark purple and blue sky above us. “You walk into a room the way you take the mound. Like you own it. Like nothing can stop you—”

“It’s an act.” I laced my fingers through hers. “Most of the time I’m scared shitless. I’ve just learned how to channel it. All you have to remember is FAFI.”

“Faa-fee?”

“F. A. F. I. The fine art of faking it.” I grinned. “I use it all the time.”

Except with you.

“I like that.” She ran her thumb over the back of my hand. “I wish I didn’t care so much about how other people saw me. I want to be more like my grandmother—leap first, think later. Or say what I believe instead of worrying about what other people think first.” Her foot waved back and forth.