Page 100 of The Run Back Home

Not on the batter.

On me.

Just long enough for me to notice. For the corners of his mouth to twitch as if he's fighting a smile.

Then the ball leaves Carson's hand, and Jace drops back into position.

The bat cracks against it, the sound following it through the air as it floats above Carson, hanging just behind the dirt.

Jace moves before I even realize it. Springing forward.

One step. Then another.

And just when I think he won't make it—as the ball sinks fast toward the ground—he dives, skidding through the grass. Arm out. Glove open.

And the ball lands perfectly inside.

The ump throws his fist up again, and the whole field erupts.

The players, the coaches, everyone in the stands—they all rush toward Jace.

But I don't.

I sit back, taking it all in. Watching this moment unfold for him like it's a preview of our future together.

Then, suddenly, that unwelcomed doubt creeps back in—the quiet voice asking if the escape I think I want is really the life I need.

This is the last game I'll watch Jace play here. Next year he'll be at CMU, and the year after that… I will be too. But why does that scare me so much?

Probably because Mage might be small, but the world outside feels so freaking big.

As the crowd starts to disperse—players finding their families and coaches lifting their young kids onto their shoulders—Jace appears.

He walks toward the opening in the fence, his eyes already searching the stands like he knows exactly where I'll be. And despite everything spinning through my head, I jump up to meet him.

"You did it," I say, sliding through the gap. I throw my arms around his neck. "I was so nervous."

Jace settles his hands on my hips, his breath still heavy, his face beaded with sweat. "Yeah," he huffs out, grinning. "I saw."

I fight back a smile. "You did, didn't you?"

He lifts one brow, pulling me closer. And instantly, all that doubt, all the panic about the future—the MLB, whatever acronym I will or won't fit—feels like it never existed.

His lips brush mine, just for a second, and I know we'll be okay.

At least for now.

19

Jace

"Istill can't believe it."

Lenny mutters under her breath so quietly I almost miss it, as she leans back in the stadium seat she settled into.

"Believe what?" I ask, actively trying not to drop the arm I have draped behind her over her shoulders.

"This." She gestures toward the field in front of her—the dugout, the plates, the thousands of empty seats. "This is your life."