Page 29

CHARLIE

Resting back against the leather headboard in Javy’s guest room, her voice is clear and warm through the phone. The way she talks about baseball, the way she sells it, it has me ready to suit up and get back behind the plate, even with just one working knee.

And when she finally takes a breath, it’s accompanied with a soft self-deprecating laugh. “That’s the idea anyway.”

“It’s a great pitch.”

“But will it be enough?” she asks, and I glance down at the space beside me, empty, the sheets and blankets still smooth the way Javy’s housekeeper left them before I arrived.

I can imagine her there, next to me. She’d be sitting up, those glasses perched on her nose to help with the glare of the laptop while I do my best to distract her from whatever numbers are flashing on the screen.

I’d close the laptop and place it aside gently before pulling her into my lap, her long legs winding around me and holding tight before she flips us over, letting me press her into the mattress and lift up my t-shirt, which she routinely wears to bed.

“Charlie?”

Her voice draws me back and I wonder about that t-shirt. I never did get it back from her and I’m definitely not going to ask for it.

“Yeah, Sullivan?”

“Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For offering to kick his ass.”

“I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

And she’s right. I would have gone down there and, well, maybe not have kicked her ex’s ass, but made it crystal clear that his camera should never, ever be pointed in her direction.

That’s what finally gets me, what makes it absolutely crystal clear that I need to hang up the phone right now, go to LA , like I originally planned, sell my house and get away before there’s no going back for me.

If I don’t get some distance now, I’ll be too far gone on her to ever get over it.

“I’m gonna let you go,” I say, and she hums agreement with a mumbled good night, and when the call goes dead instead of hurling my phone across the room, I use it to book a flight back out to LA tomorrow morning.

In the short time I was in New York, I’ve half fallen in love with the city, but waking up in my own bed after living out of a suitcase for the better part of three weeks felt good.

I took in the familiar ocean views spanning the floor-to-ceiling windows in my bedroom and remembered exactly what I loved about living here for the better part of twenty years.

I probably should have sold this house a long time ago. After the divorce, I needed a place to live and a couple of teammates insisted that, if I was going to be a single professional athlete in LA , I needed to live somewhere that matched that persona.

Which is how I ended up with a beach house up in Malibu with a panorama of the Pacific and a commute way longer than it could have been if I’d bought in Burbank or the Valley.

Except I never actually lived that life. No late-night parties. No groupies. Just a couple of relationships that went nowhere. My focus solely on the game, never able to really stop long enough to find someone willing to put up with that kind of single-mindedness.

Still, it’s a gorgeous place, Spanish style and set into the cliff side, which made it a pain in the ass for my lawyers to insure, but money wasn’t really a concern back then.

It’s not really a concern now, though I’m keenly aware that my biggest paydays are behind me.

The amount of money we’re talking about throwing at Nakamura soon is probably going to be double what I earned in my entire career, which is why this house has to go before I buy something in New York, probably near Javy, which is only so I can live near my best friend and pitching coach and be able to walk to the ballpark and has nothing to do with who else lives in that neighborhood.

Shit.

Three thousand miles and she’s still the only thing on my mind.

She’s like the game, in my blood, maybe woven into my soul now.

And just like the game, I don’t want to let her go.

At least I have the real estate agent to distract me. Gregory made an appointment for one to come and look at the house and, when there’s a buzz from the gate, I don’t hesitate to just let the car through, pulling on t-shirt and basketball shorts, before heading straight for the door.

At first, it feels like maybe I’m hallucinating, that early morning cross-country flight catching up with me, but no, there she is, full armor – skirt suit, hair in an updo, dark red lipstick and aviator sunglasses the only nod to it still feeling like summer here in mid-November.

“They posted Nakamura,” she says, walking right by me into the house. “He’s taking meetings in LA . Why didn’t you pick up your phone? Also, there’s some woman right behind me and she didn’t look like a stalker, so I let her follow me through the gate.”

I want to ask what a stalker looks like and what she would have done if she thought one was trying to get to me, but she’s silent now and staring.

“Holy shit,” she mumbles under her breath, then she turns looking at me, almost accusatory. “Sometimes I forget you’re rich.”

“The percentage in a private jet didn’t give it away?”

“That felt less . . . tangible,” she says, shaking her head.

“Soon it won’t be. I’m selling.”

“Glad to hear that,” a new voice joins us. The real estate agent is an older woman with her silver hair pinned back, sensible slacks and a blouse, sedate and professional, but all clearly expensive.

“I’ll get out of your way,” Frankie says. “We’re going to get a block of suites to set up shop.”

“And you came to me first because . . .” I stop myself and cringe when she flinches.

“I don’t . . . I don’t know why I . . . sorry, I can go . . . I can’t check into the hotel for a couple of hours and I figured I’d pick you up first. I’ll go.”

“No!” And now it’s my turn to flinch at the absolute maniac I sound like, shouting like that. “I mean, it’s great . . . good that you’re here.”

“Yeah?” she asks, and there’s something in her voice, a little bit fragile, that has me stepping closer, just barely stopping myself for reaching out for her.

“If this isn’t a good time, I can come back?” the realtor asks from the doorway.

We both freeze and turn back to her. Her eyes are flicking between us with a tiny smirk.

“No, no, it’s fine,” I say, beckoning the woman further into the house. “I can show you around and then,” I turn back to Frankie, “lunch?”

All traces of uneasiness are gone from her face. “Lunch is good.”

“Not breakfast?” The realtor suggests, checking her watch.

“She’s on New York time.”

“I’m on New York time.”

Our words jumble together and the realtor’s smirk becomes a smile. “Okay, let’s get started so you two can go get your lunch.”

Frankie settles down in the living room while I take the realtor, Greta, around the property.

The tour doesn’t take long, as the house was always more about the location than sheer size: three bedrooms, three baths, along with the mostly open concept main living area, whitewashed walls lined with wooden beams across the ceiling, a pool out back, and the view, obviously, which Greta dutifully documents with her phone.

“We have an office in New York and a colleague of mine will be in touch when you’re ready to return to Brooklyn. There are several options we’ve already curated for you that fit within your budget.”

How exactly she got my budget when even I’m not sure what I want to spend, I have no idea, though Gregory’s sheer efficiency isn’t exactly a surprise.

“Appreciate you taking the time.”

“It was my pleasure, Mr. Avery. We’ll get back to you with more information and a suggested range based on the current comps by the end of the day and, with your permission, we’ll do some preview showings in the next week or so to drum up interest before we go to market.”

“Sounds good. Thanks for coming out.”

I walk her to the door and turn to see Frankie curled up in a corner of my couch, her laptop open, her fingers still on the keys, but her head lolling against the back cushions.

I don’t know what time she got the news about Nakamura’s posting, but the odds are that she hasn’t slept since.

Her breathing is deep and steady, her face totally relaxed, peaceful.

But, shit, that position can’t be comfortable and if she’s sleeping that way, it’s because she’s bone tired.

Yeah, there’s no way she slept at all.

And now I’ve got a problem. Do I leave her there, neck at an awkward angle, one foot still in those heels she insists on wearing or . . . do I get her somewhere she can actually sleep?

Easy enough. I’ll ask her.

Crouching down, using the overstuffed arm of the couch to keep my balance and take some of the weight off my knees, I whisper, “Sullivan, you want to sleep here or in a bed?”

She sighs a little bit, shifting against the cushions and my reflexes are still good enough to catch her computer before it slides off her lap and crashes to the floor.

Carefully, I make sure to not touch any keys, or I’d probably inadvertently send an email to trade half the roster in the process. I slide it onto the coffee table and then shift my weight again, trying to stay in that crouch.

“Here or bed?” I ask again, just a little louder, and that seems to break through to her subconscious.

“Bed,” she finally mumbles.

Yeah, that’s good enough for me. Pushing up off the couch, I lean in and slide an arm under her knees and guide her arms around my neck.

And the way she responds to my touch, just a brush of my fingers against the skin inside her elbow is enough to guide her into place with a soft groan as she settles against my chest.