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Chapter Eleven

Sam

The indoor bullpen at the Fayetteville Waves training facility is a mix of old-school grit and cutting-edge tech. The artificial turf underfoot is pristine, the kind that practically dared you to mess it up. To my right, a row of high-speed cameras blinked awake as I stepped onto the mound.

Ray stood a few feet away with his arms crossed, trying hard to look casual, but he wasn’t fooling me.

Lenny Gill, the Waves’ pitching coach, stood hunched over a clipboard with Max Rigsbee, the team trainer, their voices low and serious.

Kenny Hanover, the owner’s son, hovered nearby talking on his phone.

Elmer Jarvis, our manager, watched it all with his usual unreadable expression that he wore like a uniform.

And then there were the doctors. A whole line of orthopedic specialists lined up at the back like a panel of judges. It was the most lab coats I’d seen outside of a hospital.

Since high school, I’ve pitched in front of scouts, coaches, and stadiums filled with fans.

But this was different. This felt like a final exam with my whole career hanging in the balance.

One solid bullpen wouldn’t erase the past year.

But a shaky one could undo months of rehab, hours of doubt, and every damn step it took to get back on this mound.

Rubbing the ball between my palms, I exhaled slowly, and stepped onto the rubber.

I gave a small nod to Jorge, my catcher for today. He plays for the Baby Waves as the Triple A team is called and happens to be a local.

“Alright, Sam,” Lenny said, “Let’s start easy. Eight warm-up fastballs, just to get loose.”

I nodded, took a deep breath, then threw the first of eight four-seamers, easing my arm in, feeling the ball spin right out of my hand.

Jorge caught it clean, gave a short grunt of approval, and fired it back.

I settled back on the rubber, took a breath, and let the second pitch fly, this one sharper, snapping into Jorge’s glove with a clean, solid pop.

By pitch eight, I was settling into a rhythm.

“Alright,” Lenny said. “Let’s mix ten, fastballs and changeups. Show me both sides of the plate.”

I worked through the set, focusing on command. A couple fastballs hit the glove exactly where he set up. The changeups came out smooth, tailing off late.

“Nice arm speed on the change,” he said, still not smiling, but more engaged now. “Let’s go slider next. Give me eight.”

I adjusted my grip and got after it. The first one sailed a little. I tightened up the next throw and it had a sharp, late break.

Lenny didn’t interrupt, he just tracked velocity and location, checking boxes on the clipboard. When I finished the set, he finally spoke up.

“Give me ten heaters. Show me what you’ve got.”

I fired ten fastballs at Jorge, each one popping his mitt with a solid thwack. They sounded like the right velocity, but Lenny stayed quiet behind the radar gun, and I wasn’t about to lose focus just to chase a number.

“Last ten. Mix ’em. Add a couple curveballs. Throw what feels right.”

So I did. Fastball. Slider. Changeup. A curveball that arced in low and froze Jorge just long enough for a reaction.

He stood, lifted his mask, and tossed the ball back to me.

“That one was dirty.”

I smiled in response as he got back into position.

I threw the rest of the sequence with focus and fire, each pitch landing just where I wanted.

By the end of the session, sweat dripped down my back, but I didn’t feel drained. I felt electric. Like someone had plugged me back into who I used to be.

After the last pitch, I dropped the ball into Jorge’s glove and gave him a nod.

“Thanks for catching.”

He peeled off his gear.

“Good working with you, man. You’re sharp.”

I wiped the sweat from my neck and nodded.

“I appreciate it.”

He gathered his things and gave me a nod before heading out.

I walked over to where Ray was having a conversation with my manager and coaches.

Lenny gave me a satisfied smile.

“That was impressive. Your arm looks healthy, and your mechanics are clean. The velocity and movement? Exactly where we need you. You topped off at 99 and the rest of your fastballs were between 95 and 97.”

Elmer gave me a quick, approving nod.

“Welcome back. We’re counting on you this season.”

Kenny Hanover clapped me on the shoulder, his enthusiasm barely contained.

“Can’t wait to see you back on the mound.”

After wrapping things up, I headed to the locker room for a quick shower.

I toweled off, threw on fresh sweats and a Waves hoodie, and laced up my sneakers, the hum of adrenaline still buzzing beneath my skin.

The bullpen session had gone even better than I expected.

The velocity was there, my command felt locked in, and every pitch came out of my hand like it knew exactly where to go.

When I stepped out of the locker room, Ray was waiting by the doors, phone in one hand.

He raised a brow when he saw me.

“Feel good?”

I grinned and nodded.

“Yeah, I feel like me again.”

We pushed through the double doors and stepped into the crisp Fayetteville afternoon. The sky was blue, the sun sharp but not punishing, and the air carried that strange mix of pine and potential.

“You looked sharp out there. It’s exactly what they wanted to see.”

We walked to his car in companionable silence, the kind that only comes after something big has settled in your chest. The kind that says yeah, you did it, but also, it’s only just beginning.

As we pulled out of the parking lot, I glanced back at the facility in the rearview mirror. It felt good to leave it on a high note.

“Think they’ll put me in the rotation right away?” I asked.

Ray smirked.

“After that? They’d be insane not to.”

I leaned my head against the seat, a slow grin tugging at my mouth.

Yeah. I’m back.

Hope

The last beginner class of the day was absolutely chaotic, and that was putting it mildly.

January always brought in the resolution crowd, but this year felt different, like every single person in town had decided that this would be the year they’d finally get their act together.

Bodies were packed into every corner of the studio standing on wall-to-wall yoga mats, all slightly askew like drunken dominos.

I weaved between sweaty beginners, adjusting postures and offering modifications.

“Remember to breathe,” I whispered to Janet Mills as she attempted warrior two like she was wrestling with an invisible opponent. “The pose should serve you, not the other way around.”

By the time we reached savasana, I think I was more exhausted than half the students. Ava usually leads this class solo, but with the overflow crowd, I'd jumped in to help.

As students rolled up their mats and filtered out with promises to “definitely come back next week,” I walked into my office and spotted my phone on the desk, screen glowing with a missed text from Sam.

Just finished. Heading home now

How did it go?

Better than expected. Velocity was solid, command felt good.

That's amazing!

Thanks. Still processing everything.

My last class just ended and I’m heading to The Tavern with Ava. I’ll call you when I get home?

Perfect.

Drive safe

Ray is at the wheel. I’m just a passenger princess.

I slipped the phone into my leggings just as Ava walked through the door.

“Ready?" she asked, as she grabbed her tote bag.

“God, yes. I’m starving.”

The chilly air felt good after the heat of the studio as we walked the three blocks to The Starlight Tavern.

Early Saturday evenings here were predictable in the best way—locals unwinding from the week, college kids home for the weekend, and the comforting hum of conversation mixing with whatever game played on the mounted TVs.

We slid into our usual booth and within minutes, our server appeared with raised eyebrows.

“Let me guess,” she said. “Two burgers, medium, extra pickles for Hope, sub sweet potato fries for Ava, and a pitcher?”

“Perfect,” I said.

“You know us too well, Sarah,” Ava laughed.

We do order different things during the week, but for some reason, that’s our usual Saturday order.

Sarah stepped away to put our orders in and returned a minute later with our pitcher. Ava filled our mugs and once we each took a healthy sip, she leaned back and fixed me with a look that I knew meant business.

“Alright,” she said, setting her glass down with purpose. “Spill it.”

“Spill what?”

“Don't even try that with me. Something's been eating at you since you got back from that wedding with Sam, and I'm tired of pretending I don't notice. Clearly you’re not going to spill unless I drag it out of you, so consider this me dragging.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” I tried weakly, but even I could hear how unconvincing it sounded.

“You’ve got that little crease between your eyebrows that only shows up when you're overthinking something. Come on. What happened?”

Our food arrived, giving me a moment to gather my thoughts, but Ava wasn't letting me off the hook. She waited, patient but determined, until I finally caved.

“Sam’s friends and their partners were warm, funny, and totally welcoming. They really made me feel welcome, like I was part of the group.”

“That’s great, but I’m sure it’s not what’s been on your mind.”

I took a bite of my burger and chewed, collecting my thoughts.

“At one point, they started talking about how hard it is during the season. And I started thinking about what that would actually look like for Sam and me.” The words tumbled out faster.

“He’ll be gone between February to September, possibly October.

” I picked up a fry and gestured with it.

“And they all live in Myrtle Beach so they see their guys during home games and off days. I’m a state away, so I’d literally have to travel if I wanted to see him during the season. ”

“And you don’t know how you’ll make it work?”

“I don’t know if I can make it work. I’m not twenty-two with no roots. I can’t just up and follow him around the country. I have the studio and all my other commitments.”

Ava nodded slowly then took another sip of beer as she studied me.

“What else?”

“What do you mean, what else? Isn’t that enough?”

“Hope, what you just talked about is logistics. Schedule conflicts. But I’m guessing there's something deeper.”

I met her eyes across the table, seeing the gentle challenge there. This is why I need Ava in my life. She pushes me to be honest, especially with myself.

“I don’t not trust him . It’s the situation.

I keep thinking about all those stories you hear about professional athletes on the road.

The temptation, the opportunities.” I swallowed a sip of beer.

It tasted sharp and bitter. “And we’re new.

We haven’t even defined what we are yet.

If I only get scraps of him, if we’re in different places more than half the time, how can we build something real?

What if I’m just someone who filled the off-season? ”

Ava didn’t speak right away. She studied me with those thoughtful eyes of hers, completely unfazed by the emotional dump truck I’d just backed up and unloaded.

“You love him?” she finally asked.

I nodded, the answer loud in my heart even if my mouth couldn’t form the word.

She reached across the table and squeezed my hand.

“Those are valid concerns, Hope. Anyone in your position would be thinking the same things.”

“Do you really think so?”

“I do.” She took in a breath and let it out. “But the real question is, do you trust him?”

“Yeah.”

“Then trust him with this conversation. Trust him enough to tell him what you're worried about instead of building up these fears in your head.”

I stared down at the scarred table, its jagged lines echoing the ones forming in my chest. Ava’s right—I know it—but the thought of that conversation feels like walking into a storm I’ve been pretending isn’t on the radar.

Saying it out loud to her cracks the surface.

Saying it to Sam? That’s when the dam breaks.

“I know that look," Ava said. "You're catastrophizing again.”

“I'm not?—”

“You are. You're sitting there imagining every way the conversation could go wrong instead of considering that it might actually help.” She leaned forward, her voice gentle but firm. “Hope, you have to talk to him. You can't build a relationship on assumptions and fears.”

The tavern noise faded around us as her words sank in.

She’s right, of course. I’d been carrying this weight for weeks, letting it grow heavier with each day I didn't address it. The truth of it hit hard, loosening something that’d been knotted up inside me, but also stirring up a fresh wave of doubt.

“Is it ridiculous that I’m even this worked up? I mean, we haven’t been together that long. Maybe I’m being crazy.”

“Hope. Stop.” She gave me a look that cut through all my second-guessing.

“It doesn’t matter if it’s been two months or two years, you’re in it.

You fell, he fell, and it was mutual and fast and real.

Time doesn’t determine whether your feelings count.

You do.” She reached over and squeezed my hand.

“You’re not being ridiculous,” she added gently.

“You’re being brave enough to care. That’s never a bad thing. ”

I blinked at her, the lump in my throat catching me off guard.

“What if he thinks I don't believe in us?”

The words tumbled out before I could second-guess them.

“What if he thinks you don't believe in you ?” she countered. "Hope, you're not some helpless girlfriend who has to just accept whatever comes. You're a partner. You get a say in how this works."

I took a long drink of beer, letting the cold liquid calm my nerves.

“When did you get so wise?”

“I've always been this wise. You just haven't been listening.” She grinned, but then her expression grew serious again. “Promise me you'll talk to him. Soon.”

The weight of her expectation settled over me, but for the first time in weeks, it didn't feel crushing. It felt like possibility.

“Okay,” I said. “I promise.”

Ava raised her glass.

“To difficult conversations and the people brave enough to have them.”

As I clinked my glass against hers, I caught sight of my reflection in the tavern window. For a split second, I looked like someone who was ready for whatever came next. The question is, will I still feel that way when I’m having this conversation with Sam?