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He holds up a placating hand. Reaching through the open backdoor window, he grabs something and tosses it at me. When I unfold the dark gray fabric and hold it up, my eyes roll. “Aw, c’mon.” I flip the jersey so the embroidered number six and letters spellingMorganare facing the man with that very last name. “I’m already carrying your child. This is just unnecessary.”
He waves off my protest. “Change. Quickly, please, before my eyes start bleeding.”
“You’re ridiculous,” I tell him but I do what he requests, stripping down to my sports bra and pulling on my brand new jersey. Discarding the Rodés one in the back seat—and noticing my son wearing a bright grin and shiny, new jersey too—I replace it with Cass’. Holding my arms out, I spin for his approval. “Happy?”
Smugis probably a better word for it. “Very.”
Hm. I bet. “Would you like to piss in a circle around me too?”
“Mama, that’s disgusting.”
“Yeah,mama.” Opening the passenger door, Cass all but lifts and tosses me inside, lips grazing my cheek as he straps me in. “I’m not an animal.”
“Just territorial.”
“Protective.”
“Possessive.”
Cass hums as he draws back, his hand a heavy weight on my stomach, the baby inside and the organ in my chest flipping in unison. “Who can blame me?”
Oh, how I freakingswoon.
As we pull away from the curb outside my apartment building, Cass gestures to the glove compartment. “Got some snacks if you’re hungry.”
I snort.If. He knows damn well that me and his spawn are in a constant state of starvation lately, and even if the drive to San Diego is less than an hour, the array of snacks filling the glovebox to the brim is a welcome sight.
“So,” I pop a peanut-butter stuffed pretzel in my mouth. “Do we need, like, a game plan?”
Cass side-eyes me questioningly.
Swallowing, I wave a hand in the air and elaborate, “Are we avoiding anyone? Mad at anyone? Praying on any downfalls?”
He laughs but it’s a resigned noise. “No, we’re not.”
Liar, I silently accuse but I let him off the hook. “Is Ryan gonna be there?”
“Not if we’re lucky.”
Here, here.
August’s head appears in the space between us, his seatbelt straining against his chest. “Do we get to meet the team?”
“Obviously.” Cass flashes him a quick smile. “They’re excited to meet you.”
My boy’s eyes go wide. “Really?”
Cass hums a yes. “Think Coach might try to recruit you.”
August snorts, muttering “as if” under his breath as he leans back but when I check in the rearview mirror, he’s grinning like a dork. God, he’s so excited. He has been all week, even if he was half-convinced Cass would cancel at the last minute—my boy is used to big promises, not so much to the follow-through. He’s been parked by the window all morning, peering at the busy road outside like Pickle likes to do. When Cass pulled up, he was out the door in seconds, practically skipping down the stairs to meet him.
I thought, at first, that Cass looked equally as excited. He sure did when he greeted August—right before I killed his spirits with my inappropriate jersey. But now, he seems… strained. Long fingers tap a nervous rhythm against the steering wheel, and I find myself reaching for the nearest ones, folding both of my hands around one of his, moving the tangle of digits to my laps. Softly asking, “Are you nervous?”
Not a yes or a no but a mysterious third in-between answer, a long look as he pulls up to a red light. Something unsure and hesitant and intensely vulnerable in a way that makes me sad. I don’t think about it much, Cass’ injury and career, whether that be because he seldom brings it up or because if I think about it, I remember how finite his unlimited presence is. The expiration date on this timeline. I don’t wanna think about him leaving because, as much as I promise I won’t, I’m scared I’ll resent him for it. I’ll be hormonal and frustrated and lonely and I’ll take it out on him.
But as he looks at me the way he’s looking at me now, I worry a little less. I recognize his desperation and I understand it. He loves baseball the way I love August; in an unconditional, unbreakable, downright unhealthy kind of way. August is the great love of my life; baseball is Cass’. He would never resent me for my love, so how could I ever resent him for his?
Cass has exactly four freckles on his right hand, and as I trace the invisible lines connecting them, I ask, “Are we in special VIP seats?”
