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“I don’t do great with yelling,” Samantha says, her voice gaining strength. “Usually I don’t outwardly react quite as strongly, but tension builds in my body when someone yells at me. I have to do some of the grounding techniques or exercises from the occupational therapist to calm my body out of alert mode.”

“No yelling—no problem,” I say, squeezing her hand.

She sighs. “And something startling me from behind. Like someone sneaking up behind me, or even sudden loud noises outside my line of vision.”

“No jumping out to scare you—got it,” I joke, and she smiles. A memory flags, and I squeeze her hand. “Wait . . . that night when we were in the empty stadium suite—”

“You mean when you pulled me into an empty room to make out? That night?” she teases.

Grateful that she’s able to make a joke right now, I grin and say, “That’s the one.” But my grin slips when I ask, “Drew banged on the door behind you. That triggered you, didn’t it?”

She gives a small nod.

“At the time, I assumed you were embarrassed or worried about Griffin finding out. But your reaction makes a lot more sense now,” I say. “I wouldn’t have rushed to leave if I’d known what was happening.”

“I’m sorry for not explaining all this sooner,” Samantha says, and I squeeze her knee to cut her off.

“Stop apologizing. Thanks for trusting me to explain now,” I tell her as I exit the highway into a rest area.

“Do you need to get gas?” Samantha asks.

Pulling into a shaded spot far from the building, I put the car in park and say, “No. I need to kiss you.”

Samantha smiles, and I press my smile to hers. After a few minutes of letting my mouth express exactly how much I love her, I also use my words. “Thanks for helping me understand. I love you, Samantha.”

“I’m never going to get tired of hearing you say that,” she sighs before kissing me again.

“What?” I ask against her lips. “I love you, or Samantha?”

“Both.” Then her hands are in my hair, mine around her waist, pulling her as close as I can get her in the confines of the truck seats.

Samantha finally breaks the kiss, but she runs her fingers down my neck, across my jaw, my goatee, my lips. “The earth turned to bring us closer. Brought you from Venezuela to Kansas City. Brought me from a dark place to your light. Finally joined us together in this dream.”

“You’re the light, Samantha,” I murmur, voice catching with emotion. “I wish my mom could have met you. Because you are my dream, cielo.”

Later that evening, we sit on the outdoor couch on my patio. My feet are stretched out, propped on the table, while Samantha nestles into my side, her head resting on my chest. Tracing my fingers up and down her arm, I momentarily close my eyes.

Heaven on earth.

Samantha convinced me to stop at the Venezuelan food truck for dinner on our way back into town, and she asked me more about my childhood. I told her lots of the happy memories I have, steering clear of anything related to my mom—a man can only take so much emotional discomfort in a day. She reciprocated and told me more of the fun stories of growing up in the West family.

But now, we sit in silence, watching the sky trade all traces of pink and purple for blue and gray.

“How has filming for the streaming series been going?” Samantha asks.

“Good, I think. At least, I’ve had a fun time with it. I’m not sure if they’re getting the footage they hoped for.”

“Oh, I’m very sure they’re getting even more than they hoped for,” she says. “They’ll probably have a hard time featuring the other players enough with all the entertainment they’re getting with you. Everyone else will seem boring by comparison.”

Chuckling, I say, “You sound a little biased.”

“I’m very biased,” she replies, lifting her head momentarily to smile at me. “But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

“I did disappoint them when they asked to see my trophy room. I think they were expecting me to have some sort of big display in my house, which I don’t,” I say.

“You do need a display somewhere! You just won the World Baseball Classic this year—surely that deserves a trophy room,” Samantha insists. “There’s empty space in your basement. It would be perfect! Let’s go down and brainstorm ideas.”

She starts to sit up, but I gently pull her back against me. “I’m happy right here for now. How about when we win the World Series, then I’ll let you dream up a trophy room,” I compromise.