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Chapter Twelve

Sam

The garlic sizzled when it hit the olive oil, filling the kitchen with that familiar warmth that always reminds me of Sunday dinners growing up.

I pushed the minced cloves around the pan with a wooden spoon, watching them turn golden while the smell wrapped around me like a comfortable blanket.

I added the boneless chicken breasts to brown.

They crackled, releasing the perfect combination of rosemary, thyme, and oregano I'd rubbed in earlier.

I was reaching for the bottle of white wine when Mom wandered into the kitchen, her shoes clicking against the hardwood. She perched on one of the stools at the island, crossed her legs and watched me with that expression I knew meant she had something on her mind.

“You look nice,” I said, pouring wine into the pan. “Where are you headed tonight?”

“Dinner with the girls from book club.” She picked up a piece of the prosciutto I'd been dicing and popped it into her mouth. “This smells amazing, by the way.”

I couldn’t help but smile at that. Mom always said cooking was how you told someone you cared without saying a word. And with Hope, there was plenty I wasn’t saying, but I was definitely trying to show it.

“Thanks. It’s inspired by Nonna’s Sunday chicken recipe,” I said. “She used bone-in thighs and laid the prosciutto over the top like a blanket. I’m using boneless breasts and mixing the prosciutto in.”

“Mmm.” Mom nodded approvingly, then tilted her head slightly. “So are you going to talk to Hope tonight?”

I glanced up from where I was sprinkling prosciutto over the chicken.

“About what?”

She let out a groan so dramatic it belongs on a stage.

“The season, Sammy. Baseball. You know, the thing that’s going to swallow your life again soon?”

The water I’d set on the back burner earlier started to boil and I dropped in a pound of linguine.

“I think we’re good.”

“Men,” she muttered under her breath. “Clueless.”

“I’m not clueless ,” I said.

“If you had a clue , you’d know how much that girl values stability. Your schedule is anything but.”

“We talked about how hard the season is at Leo’s wedding. We haven’t talked about specifics, sure, but I figured we’d just…” I searched for the words. “…make it work.”

“It’s not that simple, Sammy.”

I thought back to the way the women had swapped stories about the grind of the season, and how somehow, it all worked out.

Hope had jumped into the conversation, listening intently and asking thoughtful questions.

She didn’t seem overwhelmed or uneasy, so I assumed we were on the same page. But maybe I shouldn’t assume.

The truth is, I’ve never had to think about this before. The only person I ever had to factor into my schedule was Mom, and she adapted to the rhythm of my life a long time ago.

I’ve never dated someone I actually wanted in the stands, on the road, in the day-to-day mess of it. Until Hope.

“I didn’t realize…” I started, then shook my head. “I’ll talk to her.”

Her expression softened.

“You’re a good man, Sammy.” She stood and pressed a quick kiss to my cheek. “Just don’t wait too long. You leave for spring training in a couple weeks.”

That said, she turned and walked out the front door.

I stepped back to the stove and carefully lifted the chicken out of the pan, setting it onto a warm platter.

The skillet sizzled as I poured in a healthy dose of white wine.

I stirred, scraping up all the caramelized bits stuck to the bottom, then let it reduce until the aroma filled the kitchen.

Next, I added heavy cream and a handful of parmesan, mixing it all together into a silky sauce before lowering the heat.

Just as it started to thicken, the doorbell rang.

I wiped my hands on a towel and headed to the door.

Hope stood on my doorstep looking absolutely beautiful in a soft blue sweater that made her eyes look even more incredible than usual.

“Something smells good.” She stepped inside. “What did you make?

I pulled her in for a quick kiss and shut the door behind us.

“My nonna called it Sunday chicken,” I said as we walked into the kitchen. “I hope you’re hungry.”

“Famished.”

After draining the pasta, I added it to the pan with the sauce and gave it a good toss until every noodle was coated. Then I grabbed a handful of parmesan and scattered it over the top, watching it melt into the sauce like the final layer of comfort on a dish that already felt like home.

I made up two plates, piling each high with pasta and topping it with chicken. Hope followed me into the dining room, and we settled next to each other at the table.

“This looks like something out of a restaurant.”

“Thanks. I hope you like it.”

Hope sliced into the chicken, then twirled pasta onto her fork, stacking it just right for a perfect bite. She slipped the bite into her mouth, and a low, satisfied moan followed almost instantly.

“This is so good,” she said, after swallowing.

Before I could even thank her, she was already going in for another bite, smaller this time, but just as enthusiastic. Watching her enjoy it lit something warm in my chest. My effort had landed exactly where I’d hoped it would.

As we ate, we settled into quiet conversation. But something felt different tonight. She was laughing at the right moments, asking the right questions, but there was a distance in her eyes.

“Hope,” I said. “Is everything okay?”

She looked up at me, and I saw something flicker across her face…uncertainty, maybe, or resolve. She set her own fork down, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

“There's something I want to talk to you about.”

Hope

“What's wrong?”

I took a sip of wine, buying myself a few seconds.

“I've been thinking about the season. About what happens when you leave in February.”

“Okay.”

He leaned back in his chair, waiting.

“Sam, you'll be gone for seven months, eight if you make the playoffs.” I forced myself to meet his eyes. “That's more than half the year.”

“Yeah, that's how baseball works,” he said with a lopsided grin, like he was waiting for me to catch up and tell him the real issue.

I continued before I lost my nerve.

“And I don’t live in Myrtle Beach. I can't just drive over for home games or hang out with you on off days.”

“So you'll come visit when you can.”

It seemed so obvious to him, so simple.

“When I can?" I repeated, feeling that familiar knot tightening in my chest. "Sam, I own a business and have other commitments besides that. I can’t just drop everything and fly to whatever city you're in.”

“Then we'll figure it out.” He reached across the table for my hand. “We'll make it work.”

I pulled my hand back as frustration bubbled up.

“How? How exactly are we going to make it work? Because I've been trying to figure that out for a week, and I can't.”

The easy confidence in his expression wavered.

“What are you saying?”

“I'm saying I don't know how to do this.” The words came out shakier than I intended. “I don't know how to be with someone who's gone more than they're here. I don't know how to build something real when we're living in different states for seven months out of the year.”

He was quiet for a long moment, his jaw working like he was choosing his words carefully.

“Are you asking me to choose?”

“No.” I said quickly.

The thought that he’d think I was asking him to give up his career for me had never once entered my mind.

“Because it sounds like you are.”

“I swear I'm not. I'm just trying to be realistic about what this looks like going forward.” I sat back in my chair. “You have a whole life that I can't be part of, a career that takes you away for months at a time. And I have a life here, one I can't just put on hold.”

“I never asked you to put your life on hold.”

“But that’s what it would take, isn’t it?

” I said, the words tumbling out before I could soften them.

“I keep thinking about that conversation at Leo and Anjannette’s wedding, when all your teammates’ wives talked about how hard it is.

And they live in the team’s home city, Sam.

They’re already where you are. And even then, it sounded like a logistical nightmare.

” I shook my head, the pressure building behind my ribs.

“To make this work, I’d have to be the one making all the compromises.

I’d have to rearrange my schedule and squeeze into the margins of your life and hope that’s enough. ”

He dragged his fingers through his hair.

“So what do you want to do?”

“I don't know, Sam. That's the problem. I don't know.”

“You don't know, or you don't want to try?”

The question stung.

“That's not fair.”

“Isn't it?” His voice was getting harder now. “You're sitting here telling me all the reasons this won't work instead of looking for ways it could.”

“I'm being practical.”

“Practical or scared.”

We stared at each other across his dining room table, the half-eaten dinner growing cold between us like a quiet reminder of everything we weren’t saying. I could see the hurt in his eyes, the confusion. He genuinely didn’t understand why I couldn’t just trust that we’d figure it out.

“Maybe I am scared,” I admitted. “Maybe I'm scared that I'll end up being the girl who only gets phone calls and texts for seven months. Maybe I'm scared that you'll realize it's easier to be with someone who can follow you around, someone who doesn't have their own life that conflicts with yours.”

His expression softened, and he shifted his chair closer, inch by inch, until his knees bumped gently against mine.

“Hope, I love you.”

His words hit me like a punch to the chest, not because I didn’t want to hear them, but because of the timing. Because of everything else we hadn’t figured out yet, everything still hanging in the air between us.

“I know I should have said it sooner,” he continued, his voice quieter now. “But I've never said that to anyone before, didn't think I ever would. But I love you. I'm all in with this, with us. Whatever it takes, however we have to make it work, I want to try.”

I took a shaky breath and reached for his hand.

“I love you too, Sam. I really do. I just wish we had a way to fix this, some kind of solution. Because right now, it feels like we’re just hoping it’ll work, without knowing how.”

He nodded slowly.

“I can’t say I know how to make this work, I just know I don't want to lose you.”

“I don't want to lose you either. But I also don't want to spend the next however many years wondering if what I can offer is enough for you.”

“You think you're not enough?”

The disbelief in his voice was genuine.

“I think distance is hard. I think seven months apart is really hard. And I think we're kidding ourselves if we pretend it won't change things.”

“So what are you expecting?"

The question hung in the air between us. What was I expecting? For him to magically solve this? For baseball to become less demanding? For me to suddenly be okay with seeing my boyfriend a handful of times over seven months?

“I don't know,” I whispered.

“Hope, how do we make this work?”

He sounded almost panicked.

I looked at him and saw the love, frustration, and desperation written all over his face. He'd just told me he loved me, words I'd been waiting to hear, words that should have made everything better. Instead, they made it worse, because now I knew exactly what we'd be losing.

“I don't know.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because I don't.” My voice cracked. “I've tried to figure it out, Sam. I've run through every scenario, every possibility, and I can't see how this doesn't end with one of us getting hurt.”

I didn't say the words again. But I met his eyes and let him see everything—the uncertainty that kept me awake at night, the fear that I was kidding myself, and the stubborn hope that refused to die. From the way he looked back at me, I knew he'd heard everything I hadn't said.