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Right now I'm not in Jace Holloway's city.

I'm in a park. It's as easy as that.

And there's always been something about running here that I love. It's not like a treadmill or the loop of a track.

And yet, you can still run for miles without ever really going anywhere.

So I start toward the path without overthinking it.

It's just a run. Just a park. Just a city.

And so what if all I can think about is where he might be now.

3

Jace

"You sure about this?"

I look at my little sister. She tilts her head, one brow cocked, then flicks her pinky past her collarbone.

"Hey, I'm just making sure," I say, grabbing the ball from her hand and spinning it once in my palm. "Your big brother's got an arm."

She rolls her eyes and pushes the baseball back into my chest.

"Just throw it," she says, already turning and heading toward the other side of the field.

We do this sometimes—have a catch instead of doing laps around the playground. It works for me—my broad, six-foot frame doesn't exactly fit inside the plastic tunnels she makes me crawl through when she decides we're playing tag. But I still give her a hard time about tossing a ball around with the best shortstop in the league.

She never lets it get to her head, though.

Never lets it get to mine either.

I love coming here. Especially with her. I've been doing it on my own for years now, so whenever my family used to visit—and now that they're here for good—it only makes sense to bring her too.

Liam Montgomery—a retired Gator and my former mentor, now friend—once gave me the best advice. He told me to find a place I can go to get away from everything.

The game. The noise. The weight of it all.

At first, I fought it—the idea that a park could still be my safe place with all the memories tied to it. But time after time, I kept ending up here anyway—just walking around, sitting with my headphones in, staring at it through the window of my place across the grass. Watching the path like it might give me answers if I stared long enough.

So, eventually, I just leaned in. I started forcing myself here after tough games instead of hiding in my highrise. I built time into my schedule—early mornings on an off day or after a series when I needed to reset. I started tossing a ball to myself at night again to burn off the heaviness I used to let linger on my shoulders.

And now, I bring V sometimes after pickup.

I started letting the park carry some of that weight too—the guilt of not doing it sooner.

A loud clap catches my attention, and my head snaps up from the red laces I've been staring at to find Vienna waving her arms in the air, trying to get my attention.

I shake my head, huffing a quiet laugh as I catch myself imagining what things might be like if we follow through with what we talked about today with Mom.

Worry, excitement, anxiety, anticipation—all of it comes rushing through me. But before I let myself feel too much of anything, I pull my arm back and lob the ball to her, praying like I always do that she doesn't jam a finger catching it barehanded.

She opens her arms up to receive it—too wide, which I can see from here. The ball slips right between them, just grazing her shirt before falling to the ground.

I shoot her a thumbs up as she grabs it, then lifts her elbow, stepping into her throw. I'm not even a little surprised when I only have to step a few feet closer to snag it—I taught the girl everything she knows.

I toss it again, and she catches it this time, immediately jumping up and down. She throws it to me—a little less accurately thanks to her excitement—then takes three steps backwards.