Page 21 of Love Beyond the Diamond

I shrug. I don’t honestly know.

Even before I had my own multi-million-dollar contract, I grew up on my father’s NHL contract. My only job had been the same as my older brothers’, excelling at hockey in order to follow in my father’s illustrious footsteps. I did just that, hating every minute, until I finally put my foot down and switched to baseball my junior year of high school.

Dad humored me at the time, thinking it was a short-lived rebellious phase, but he never understood that I didn’t want to be like him. I know there are good men who play hockey, just none from my family. The three of them poisoned the sport for me.

It came as a complete shock to my father when I wasn’t just good at baseball; I was excellent. So much so that I was drafted to four teams right out of high school with only two years of experience.

Willow stops, blinking.

The sunlight bends through her glasses, creating little tangerine pockets over her lightly freckled cheeks. My brow furrows because, generally, I don’t notice these kinds of details about another person. I’m usually focused on bigger-picture things, like a batter’s tendency to slice one into right field.

She shakes her head, her hair bouncing around her chin. “I can’t take money from you.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not right. I didn’t earn it.”

“You can give me a ride home. I ran from my condo, and I need to get back before I’m supposed to report to the stadium this afternoon.”

Willow levels me with a Be serious glare. “That’s a twenty-dollar ride. Twenty-five with tip.”

“Maybe I’m a generous tipper.”

“You are.”

She surveys my puzzled face before saying, “You overpaid our bill the night you kidnapped me.”

Something about the word our hits me in weird places—my left shoulder, my ribs, the pit of my stomach.

I glance at my running shoes, drawing in a deep breath. “I thought we agreed that I didn’t kidnap you.”

When I lift my head, Willow is scrutinizing me. An adorable pinch forms between her dark eyebrows before her low-blood-sugar alarm goes off again.

“Should you eat something?”

“Yeah.” Her shoulders sag as she frowns at her phone screen. “I had breakfast before my shift started, but that was at five.”

I glance at the timestamp on her phone—10:45 a.m. Willow has already been up for hours, working for that bloated jackweed. A strange pressure builds in my chest until my mouth opens on its own.

“Let me take you to lunch.” When she squints up at me, I add, “It’s the least I can do after all the manhandling.”

My bad attempt at a joke causes the corner of her lips to twitch, and darned if it doesn’t feel like I just hit a grand slam.

“There’s a sandwich shop on the other side of the park. We can stop there before I take you to your condo.”

“You’re going to drive me home?” I don’t know why I sound winded.

Willow lifts one shoulder as she chews a few glucose tabs. “I could use twenty-five dollars.”

After a fifteen-minute walk, we’re standing in a thick line at a noisy sub shop.

“Look at that,” she says, showing me the normal-range number with a flat arrow on her phone screen. “I’m getting pretty good at this.”

On the way over here, Willow talked about how different this week has been because of her diagnosis. Anyone else would have been overwhelmed and maybe a little bit angry, but Willow kept framing it in a positive light, saying things like, “It’s good because now I know what I’m putting in my body” or “It’s kind of cool to understand the science behind eating.”

Normally, I’d grunt or simply nod, but I find myself saying, “It’s a lot to process. I don’t know how you’re so upbeat about it.”

Willow casually blows her bangs out of her face, stepping forward in line. “A lot of things are out of your control, but how you respond is always up to you.”