Page 47

Three months later . . .

I’ve never been the kind of man to just lay around in bed. My entire life there was always been something I could be doing. A practice, a workout, a game. Even after I retired, I’d be up with the sun, for a swim or a walk on the beach before my I got my day started.

Now, though? Now I don’t mind it, not when every morning I wake up with Frankie beside me, blonde hair everywhere, spread over my chest, sometimes in my mouth, but always close, her warm curves pressed into the harder angles of my body.

It’s been months now and I’m still not used to it. I’m not sure I ever will be.

As the sky starts to brighten outside, the sun rises up over the building and promises another epic sunset over the Gulf of Mexico tonight. Just like we have every day since we made our way from Brooklyn down to Florida to prepare for the upcoming season.

This morning is a little different. Instead of giving in to the urge to start the day just like we ended the last, I slide out of bed, careful not to jostle her too much and get ready as quietly as possible, letting her sleep in while I head to the field.

My favorite day of the season was always the first day of Spring Training.

There’s nothing like it, everything is possible, no wins, no losses, a chance to start fresh.

And that’s true for both of us. Despite spending our entire adult lives in baseball, we’re taking on new challenges as the calendar marches on toward Opening Day.

I always like to get to the ballpark early, when there’s still a slight chill in the air, even in balmy Clearwater, Florida, when the dew hasn’t burned off the grass and the dirt still smells fresh, ready to be scraped under the cleats of the ballplayers who’ve been gone all winter.

Little Russell, the nickname for the Eagle’s training facility, is nearly deserted when I arrive and I’m so early that the clubhouse guy hasn’t even turned the lights on yet.

My office isn’t huge, not like the one I have back in Brooklyn, but it’ll do for the next six or seven weeks while we get ready for the long season ahead.

There’s a uniform hung neatly in the locker at the back of the room, fresh gear laid out the night before for everyone’s arrival today. But I don’t need it right now.

All I need now is to get out onto the field.

Because today is one of the most important days on the baseball calendar.

It’s unofficial start of spring, giving the people freezing their asses off in the north some hope that the end is near and that the national pastime is on its way to thaw them out after a long winter.

Pitchers and catchers report today, a week or so before the rest of the team, but a handful of them have been down here working out for a few weeks.

There was no keeping some of the boys away.

I spent most of the off season in New York, with a couple of trips back to LA , first to spend Thanksgiving with Frankie and her best friends and then again when my house finally sold.

Construction just got underway to convert the brownstone that I impulsively bought part of, given that both of us are in Florida. The contractor swears the remodel will be done by the time we get back to New York. I’m hopeful. Frankie’s skeptical.

But that’s nothing new.

We balance each other.

And it becomes more and more obvious every day.

Like right now, when I step out onto the field, and somehow she’s already waiting for me and I allow my eyes to slowly take her in, up from her toes, encased in wedged sandals to the hems of the white linen shorts, paired with a matching blazer and a muted blue cami underneath, her one nod to the Florida heat, though going entirely business casual just isn’t in her.

I have no idea how she beat me here, but I’ve long since stopped questioning when Frankie does something that amazes me.

“Happy Pitchers and Catchers,” she says, a broad smile spreading across her face as her eyes fall shut and she inhales deeply, taking it all in, just like I came here to do.

I clear my throat and keep my face serious as I hold out a phantom microphone.

“Francesca, how does it feel, your first Spring Training as General Manager of the Brooklyn Eagles? Some in the sport are already counting your team out. A rookie manager, a rookie ace just imported from Japan, a rookie catcher and centerfielder, plus another rookie starter – no team has ever had as little major league experience as the one you’re about to field. What do you say to the doubters?”

She smirks at me and steps closer, near enough for me to catch the lavender scent of her on the soft morning breeze. “People have a lot to say before there’s even been a pitch thrown. I think I’ll let our play speak for itself.”

“And a follow-up question, if you don’t mind?”

“I suppose I have time for one more.”

“What’s the goal for this season?” I ask, dropping the fake mic and reaching out for her left hand, entwining it with my own.

“A ring,” she says, as the solitaire diamond I slid onto her finger just a few weeks ago catches the sunlight, blinking starbursts onto the dirt below our feet. A promise of a future, no matter where the game takes us.

“Another?” I ask, raising that hand to my lips and pressing a kiss to the inside of her wrist.

“This one’s fine for now,” she allows, “but when October rolls around, I expect another, one for you too.”

I pull back and quirk a brow at her. “We are still talking about a World Series ring, right?”

“What other kind of ring would I be talking about?” she asks, eyes wide with pretend innocence, and then she pulls away from me, laughing, striding toward the dugout and calling over her shoulder. “C’mon, Charlie, the season starts right now and I intend to win it all.”

So do I, but, deep down, I think, I may have already won.

And as for the rest?

That’s baseball.