Page 81 of Off Limits: The Firsts

“You know what’s even more fucked up? You know what I thought about as I sat in the bar across the street?”

“What?” I ask gently.

“I love this game, Scout. I told you the other day that I played because of my dad, and fuck yes, I do . . . but I also play because I love this game. Baseball is so much more than just a game to me. It’s sights and sounds and smells—the roar of the crowd when you crank a home run, the tack of the pine tar on your bat, the smell of the popcorn in the air, the pop a glove makes on a screaming fastball, the sting of a broken bat vibrating through your fingers and up your forearm, the awe on the little boy’s face standing above the dugout when you toss him the game ball as you jog off the field . . . Shit, Scout. I could go on forever, but that is the soundtrack, the movie, the everything of my life. It is my life. How stupid was I that it took Santiago showing up to reaffirm the love I have for something that’s been a part of me before I was even born?”

There are tears in my eyes that I don’t even bother to blink away. The reverence in his voice speaks louder than all the things he just said, and they were pretty damn loud.

I lean forward, bringing my hands to frame his cheeks, and press a tender kiss to his lips before resting my forehead against his.

“I promise you that we’ll have you back in top form. You’re already there—we just need to work your arm up to playing a full game.”

He nods, his breath hot against my lips, and the scrape of his stubble rough against my fingertips.

“Santiago being on the team means nothing. Maybe there was an old trade that linked to this one. The ‘a player to be named later’ kind. Maybe they brought him on to spur your ass into gear.”

“Or maybe Cory’s an asshole and just wanted to fuck me over.”

I know that’s the alcohol talking, but he still has a point. “I get why you feel that way, but at the end of the day, you’re Easton Wylder. The Aces’ franchise player. You’re not going anywhere, so why cause trouble just to add strife. There has to be a valid reason.”

“And I’m sure if I listen to my thirty messages, there will be, but right now I don’t care. Right now, I just want to feel sorry for myself, have another drink, sit here with you, and figure out how exactly I’m going to see that fucker every goddamn day and not break his nose.”

I chuckle and press my lips to his before shifting and nuzzling my forehead against the side of his neck. “Ignore him.”

“Easier said than done.”

“True, but the best way to get back at him is to come back and blow him out of the water. The assumption is that you’re injured and won’t be one hundred percent. Won’t it be the ultimate ‘fuck you’ to be just the opposite?”

“The mother fucker deserves it.”

“He does.”

“Do you really think I can get there?”

The cautious hope in his voice digs its claws into my heart and doesn’t let go. “I know you can.”

“There are no guarantees.”

“You’re right, there are no guarantees,” I repeat his words back to him, “but it’s the possibility that should keep you going.”

When the guys call him after the game and ask him to meet up for drinks, I encourage him to go. He needs their camaraderie right now. He needs their reassurance that they have his back.

And I need time to myself.

To think.

To process.

To reread the email that Sally forwarded, explaining how they’ve pulled my dad’s name from the transplant list.

It’s not like I didn’t expect this. A new heart was out of the question. His body is too frail, his immune system too weak to accept a foreign organ.

But while his name was on the donor list, there was a false sense of hope.

And now there’s not.

My heart just needs more time to accept what my mind already knows.

But there will never be enough time to accept this.