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“You’re kidding me, right?” Noah paced back and forth on the empty dance floor where just a short while ago people had been bouncing and flailing their arms to that Otis Day and the Knights song “Shout.”

Well, right now Dusty was making Noah want to shout. “A little over a month ago you told me I was too old and worn out to keep going. Now you’re telling me I’m your last hope for winning the World Series?”

Dusty sighed and sank into a chair. Propping his elbow on the table, he lifted his ball cap enough to start massaging his forehead like he was the one too old and worn out to keep going. “Listen. I get that you’re ticked.”

“I’m not ticked.” Maybe he had been a month ago, but not these past few weeks—as long as he didn’t think about it. And he’d been doing a pretty stellar job of not thinking about it until Dusty showed up here with Rooster, Noah’s former teammate and catcher, who had apparently scrounged up some of the wedding cake because he was diving into his second piece now.

Other than the three of them, the barn had cleared out.

“Look, guys, I’m sorry to tell you this, but you’re wasting your time. I’m not—”

“You want me to beg?” Dusty interrupted. “Is that it? Fine. I’ll beg.”

“I don’t want you to beg.” Not entirely. Maybe a little bit. “I just want you to understand that—”

“Aw, c’mon, Noah. Stop playing so hard to get,” Rooster mumbled around a mouthful of cake. “It’s the World Series, for crying out loud.”

Noah stopped pacing. “Exactly. The World Series. So why on earth are you guys coming to me?”

Dusty held up a hand. “Hear me out. We’ve had more extra-inning games this postseason than any other postseason in history. I’ve used and abused our bullpen to the point that their arms are darn near falling off. These guys aren’t going to make it another seven games if that’s what it comes to. We need a fresh arm to get us through a few innings at the very least. We don’t need a perfect pitcher. We just need a little relief. Some experience. We need you.”

Rooster grunted in agreement, digging into another bite. “Got that right.”

“Dusty, I haven’t been following the postseason at all. My arm might have gotten some rest, but my head—”

“Will be back in the game as soon as you step on the mound. You’ve been a pitcher longer than anybody I know. You don’t forget that kind of experience.”

Dusty tugged his ball cap back into place. “Look, I never should have dropped you out of the rotation. It was the wrong move. These young guys are struggling. They need a steady presence to keep them calm. You’ve always had a great way with keeping the nerves in the clubhouse down. It’s the World Series, Noah. The World Series. Come back. Who knows? Pitch a few innings and you might even get that record. Maybe this will even open some doors for a management position. I don’t think it’s a secret that this is probably my last season.”

Noah looked back and forth between Rooster and Dusty. Five strikeouts was going to take more than a few innings for him. It was going to take a miracle.

Is that what this was? His chance at another miracle?

He had to admit, even if they didn’t win the World Series, it would be awful nice to end his career with a record under his belt instead of the absolute nothing he had from his baseball career as of right now.

Noah rubbed his thumb over his fingertips. He couldn’t deny the itch to rub them over the seams of a baseball again. To stand on the mound one more time.

But those days were gone. Baseball was his past. Gracie was his future.

Hopefully. He still hadn’t convinced her.

What if he never convinced her?

Then what would he do with the rest of his life? What if baseball was the only future he had left? What if he could spend the next several years managing a team in the majors?

But Gracie...

“I’m sorry. Thing is—”

“Come on, man,” Rooster said, licking frosting off his thumb. “You know this may be the only shot at a World Series some of us players ever see. Plus, think what a great story it’ll be.” Rooster waved across the air like it held an invisible headline. “Old fogy pitcher comes back and saves the day.” He smacked Noah on the arm with a grin as he walked past to toss his plate in a trash can.

“He’s going to be there, you know.” Dusty stood and adjusted his cap. “The boy. The one from your perfect game. He’s been in remission for over five years. They’re saying it’s a miracle he survived. When he wrote a letter to the team, our PR person got ahold of it and made some calls. He and his dad have seats to all the games. I know it’d mean the world to them to see you on the mound again. It’d mean the world to all of us.”

Man, Dusty wasn’t pulling any punches, was he?

“Can I think about it?”

“Think fast. First game is in St. Louis tomorrow.”

“I don’t even have everything I need. I’d need to go back to Seattle first.” Was he actually considering this?

Rooster tapped his fist against Noah’s shoulder. “We already got your glove and your uniform. What else do you need? Lucky socks?”

Noah patted his chest. No, but there was definitely something else he never pitched without. And he could kick himself for not following his gut instinct to bring it along with him. Especially since the whole reason he came back was to win another chance with Gracie. “I’m going to have to fly back to Seattle.” He was really considering this, wasn’t he?

Which meant he needed to find Gracie. Now. Give her a chance to talk him out of it. Convince him to stay. Tell him the one reason he should throw the biggest career opportunity of his life away.

One word. That’s all he needed from her. One word and he’d stay.

“Let me make some calls and get the flights arranged, so you’re back in time for tomorrow’s game.” Dusty walked away with his phone already out.

“Make it two tickets,” Rooster called after him. “That way I can make sure this guy doesn’t get any cold feet. Not that you will,” he said, slinging his arm around Noah’s shoulders and guiding him toward the exit. “You’ve always managed to do the right thing when it counts. Besides, what do you have keeping you here?”

When Noah stepped outside the barn, he found Gracie waiting for him with her arms clutched around her middle. Before he could say anything, she lifted her chin and said, “You need to do it. You need to go. It’s the only way for us to finish this memoir with the right ending—which is you back on the mound with your ball and your glove. We both know baseball is where you’ve always belonged.”

What did he have keeping him here?

Sounded like the answer was the same one he’d been hearing the past five years.

Nothing.