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Noah’s ears still rang from the rock music that had blared earlier in the clubhouse. Hey, whatever pumped up his teammates. He propped his foot on the bench next to his locker and tied his cleats, glad for the silence. The solitude.

The nice thing about being the starting pitcher for game seven of the World Series is when you tell everyone to leave you alone and not talk to you, especially reporters, they listen. Well, everyone but your catcher.

“How you feeling?” Rooster straddled the bench next to his foot.

Noah shrugged. “Good. I think.”

“Head’s in the game?”

Noah shrugged again. Not really. But hopefully Dusty was right. Hopefully once he stepped on the mound, it would be. Past nine days he felt like he’d been walking around in a fog.

Rooster smacked Noah in the leg with his glove. “You’ve had a lot going on lately. Wouldn’t blame you if you needed a little time to adjust. Just remember you don’t have any time to adjust. This is it.”

Noah dropped his foot and grabbed his glove. “The only thing I’m worried about adjusting is my slider against Marshall. That guy’s been on fire.”

“I say we bean him first thing. Right on the butt.”

Noah smiled. “You want to start a brawl the very first inning and get both of us kicked out?”

“Might be worth it just to know he won’t be able to sit on anything but an icepack the next few days.”

Noah smacked his glove on Rooster’s shoulder. “Let’s save it for the fifth inning. I’ll be ready to be pulled out of the game by then—if I even make it that far.”

“You will. I can always tell by the look in your eye whether you’re in the zone or not. You’re in the zone. I see it.”

He hadn’t even thrown a single warm-up pitch, but okay. He was in the zone. He nodded at Rooster. “Let’s do this.” After a few steps, Noah patted his chest and stopped. “Shoot. I’m missing something. Go on without me.”

“What is it? I can wait.”

“Nah, I’ll find it. Go on. I’ll catch up with you in a minute.”

Rooster tapped his shoulder with his glove. “Win big.”

“Win big.” The click-clack of Rooster’s cleats disappeared toward the dugout as Noah turned back for his locker.

Call him superstitious but he never pitched without wearing his wedding ring on a chain beneath his jersey. That was the whole reason he’d had to fly back to Seattle last week. He’d worn it throughout all his time in the minor league, whenever he pitched in the majors, including the night of his perfect game, and every game that followed even after they’d divorced. He wasn’t going without it tonight. He never should have gone without it at all.

He dug into his bag, his fingers grazing his phone as he unzipped the side pouch where he kept the ring and the chain. He paused, tempted to call Gracie. It was the same temptation he’d been battling every hour every day since he stood in the airport about to board his flight to Seattle. If Rooster hadn’t grabbed him and shoved him past the boarding gate all the way to his seat, Noah might never have found the strength to walk away from the crazy hope that she’d come running toward him any second like they were filming the final scene of some cheesy romance movie.

“Noah, you coming?” Rooster’s voice echoed off the walls of the clubhouse.

Noah shook off the memory and pulled out the chain with his wedding ring. “Be right there,” he called, sliding the chain over his neck, then patting the ring beneath his jersey.

Okay. He had what he needed. Time to play ball.

He stood there another full minute.

“Noah!” Rooster shouted.

“One second,” Noah shouted back. He crouched down and dug out his phone. Started to pull up Gracie’s contact, then dropped the phone back in his bag. What was he doing? He had a game to pitch. He should be focusing on that, not—

His phone started ringing and Gracie’s name flashed on the screen. “Hello?”

“You answered.”

Noah’s knees buckled with so much relief at the sound of her voice, he slid down his locker all the way to the floor. “You called.”

“I didn’t think you would answer.”

Noah held up his index finger when Rooster stomped back toward him with a what the heck’s going on expression.

“Bro,” Rooster said in a no-nonsense voice with his hands propped on his waist. “You are the starting pitcher. You cannot be sitting on the floor right now.”

“Everything okay, Gracie?”

She was so quiet on the other end that for a moment he thought they’d lost their connection. Then she whispered, “Dad’s not doing well.” He heard her sniff. “He took a turn for the worse. I don’t think he’s got much time left.” A shuddery breath. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have called. I don’t know why I called. You need to pitch. Sorry. I shouldn’t have—I’m okay. Don’t worry about us. Just...” Her voice grew stronger. “Focus on the game. Everybody’s already so proud of you, Noah. You were right all along. Baseball is who you are. You’re right where you need to be. I know you’ll do great. The memoir’s going to be great. Whatever happens, I just want you to know I...”

“You what, Gracie?”

“I wish you the best.” She ended the call.

And before Noah knew what was happening, Rooster was lifting him off the floor and hustling him from the silence of the clubhouse—and the memory of Gracie’s voice on a similar phone call five years ago—to the sound of forty thousand fans who were all waiting to see if Noah was ready to be a hero or not.