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“Seriously?”
I shrug at a gaping August.
“Seriously?”
Tomorrow is The Day. Game Day. The All Star Game. My return to baseball—my debut with the Devils. The first game I’ll play with them, and maybe the last, but maybe not. I haven’t decided, despite having spent the last month agonizing over my choices.
To play or not to play on paper, but in real life, it’s a lot more complex. It’s play or give up what I’ve been working towards my entire life, decades worth of effort, blood, sweat, tears, and sacrifice. It’s not play or give up Sunday and the kids, my family. It’s win-win yet lose-lose. Either way, I’m forfeiting some part of me.
Either way, I fear I won’t be happy.
Suddenly unsettled, I slip off my seat, muttering that I’ll be right back—not that August hears or cares; he and Rory are very busy discussing how to blow my fortune. Unfolding myself from the tiny seat, I shuffle a couple row’s back to where Amelia and Sunday are sharing a row—apparently, choosing between sitting with their partner or that sweet, sweet extra legroom was a no brainer.
“Hey.” Crouching beside Sunday, I tug out one of her earphones. “Miss me?”
If her snort isn’t answer enough, her pointed glance at the empty space her legs are stretched out in does.
“Tell me again how the two shortest people got the free seat.”
“They got pregnant,” Amelia answers, all smug. “And they have partners who love them.”
I don’t think my sister hears Sunday choke on a breath, but I do. A good choke or a bad choke, I’m not sure, and maybe I’m pushing my luck, but I find myself rising slightly to nuzzle her neck, press a kiss there, murmur, “Aren’t you lucky I love you?”
She jolts with a nervous titter, tensing with an unsettling amount of panic, and I do the only thing I can think of to ease it; I flirt. “Wanna join the mile high club?”
Works like a charm; sage eyes narrow to slit, one brow arching. “You think both of us could fit in a tiny airplane bathroom?”
Gliding a hand up her arm, I cup her neck, toying with the baby hairs at her nape. “I think I’m a very determined man. I’d make us fit.”
“How romantic,” she croons teasingly, but I don’t miss how she shrugs me off slightly and leans away, creating a sliver of distance. She’s been doing that a lot over the last month, I’ve noticed. More some days than others, sometimes almost unconsciously, other times definitely on purpose.
I don’t know what to make of it. Nothing has actually, outright changed; she still sleeps in my bed, stills lives in my house, still, more often than not, ends the day with my fingers or my tongue between her legs. Sometimes, I’m convinced it’s in my head but others . . . I don’t know. Something’s different. I don’t know if I’ve done something—and believe me, I’ve been racking my brain trying to figure it out. In the end, I always just chalk it down to her being seven months pregnant and uncomfortable as hell and prone to the occasional mood swing.
“I thought we could go out tonight. Just us.”
Her smile is strained, apologetic. “I’m kinda tired. And tomorrow’s gonna be a long day, y’know.”
“Yeah.” I try not to let my disappointment show, but I’m not sure I do a very good job; I’m pretty sure it’s pity that has her allowing me to bring her hand to my mouth, brush a kiss against her knuckles. “Room service?”
“It’s a date.”
* * *
The thing about the All Star Game is I know exactly how it plays out; I have, after all, played in thirteen of them. I knew I was going to get up this morning, go to the stadium, meet my new teammates, and get on that field.
Yet still, when I enter the locker room and Sal Rodés is the first thing I see, I’m a little caught off-guard.
Objectively, he’s a good-looking guy; I remember thinking that the first time we met, before he opened his mouth. He’s tall—a couple of inches shorter than me—and tan—a sun-baked light brown—and handsome—definitely nowhere near as handsome as me, though—with long, dark hair he likes to wear in pigtails, ridiculous for a thirty-two-year-old man, but I guess it matches the man-child aspect of his personality. Like most players in the league, his body is a fine-tuned machine, as he so clearly loves to flaunt. However, no amount of beauty or brawn can save a man with such a smarmy, snarky smile.
“Well, well, well.” Flashing that fucking grin, Sal claps slowly as I walk towards him. “If it isn’t Cass Morgan.”
Gritting my teeth, I lie through them. “Nice to see you, Sal.”
“I’m sure it is.” My new teammate’s chuckle is nothing short of mocking. “How’s the shoulder?”
Aching, suddenly. “Great.”
“Good. Gotta have you in top shape, right?”
