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It was the skill that stunned me more than anything. There was never not a gaggle of female fans hanging out in every ballpark and hotel bar, ready to shoot their shot, in the time I’d known him, and that was toward the end. It was probably even worse at the beginning of his career.

So, the fact that, despite not having to work for the attention, he took the time to be really, really good at kissing . . . it said something about him, something unquantifiable and, therefore, incredibly confusing.

I don’t like things that don’t add up.

I’m circling past the dog beach, the little alcove where dogs roam on the rocks near the smaller of the park’s two lakes.

Turning around, I grin, knowing that on my right will be the Long Meadow Ballfields, seven baseball and softball diamonds nestled into the park, empty aside for a few retired men’s slow-pitch softball games, the only thing that can be scheduled for the middle of a weekday afternoon in the fall.

The men on the field closest to me look to be in their late sixties, or even older, strapped up with braces on their knees and ankles, some looking more likely to fall over than stay upright.

But there they are, in their sixth or seventh decade of life still out there, still playing the game they’ve loved their entire lives.

The same game I’ve loved since I was a little girl, nestled in my dad’s lap to watch Mike Piazza and the Dodgers power their way to a division title, hooking me for life.

Okay, that’s enough sentimentality.

I’m barely two or three strides into the jog home when my eyes catch two men waving from the field.

I don’t get recognized often, but I live just a few blocks from the ballpark and there are some fans dialed in enough to know who I am and what I do. New Yorkers, even the ones who can pick me out of a lineup, mostly leave me alone, though there are moments when they want to chat.

Normally, I don’t mind, but right now I really need to get back.

The two men aren’t wearing uniforms, aren’t geared up for a game, but my eyes aren’t strong enough to make out anything other than their business casual clothes and their general frames.

Large, athletic, one fair skinned, one darker and, as I squint in their direction, I’m able to focus just enough to make out Charlie Avery’s grimace and the broad grin plastered across Javy Vasquez’s face.

I should have known.

Those two were inseparable during their playing days. Why would it be any different now?

Javy lives around here somewhere. His wife’s business is in New York – fashion design, if I’m remembering correctly. I’ve run into them on occasion. He does some spots on MLB Network and he was at the ballpark for a few games last season with his kids.

As they draw closer and I take a few steps in their direction, a realization passes over me and I know without even having to ask exactly why they’re wandering the baseball fields of Prospect Park.

If Avery’s agreed to be our manager, there’s no one else he’d want to be his pitching coach.

“Vasquez,” I say, acknowledging him with a nod and a grin.

We always got along back in LA , though I’m pretty sure any objections he had to my analysis were just filtered through Charlie.

Regardless, he almost always stuck to the gameplan I devised.

Not that it ever really changed. Some players are an analyst’s dream because they’re so consistently good that what they perceive as their own strengths and what the numbers bear out are virtually identical.

“Frankie, it’s good to see you,” he says, and that’s when I finally notice the glove on his left hand. Charlie has one too, with a ball nestled into the webbing. Despite myself, it makes me smile. Still just two little boys playing catch.

“You too. Welcome to the Eagles,” I say, holding a hand out to him.

Vasquez grins broadly and shakes it firmly. “You always were one step ahead of the rest of us.”

“I assume you’re going to need a suite for Maria and the kids this season?”

“Nah, this one won’t be using his, so we’ll just mooch off of his ass.”

“Who says I won’t be using it?” Charlie cuts in, mock offended.

“Dude, you didn’t use the one in LA and you won’t be using the one here.”

“So, what did he say to talk you into getting back into the game? Last I checked you were a hard no to every single feeler every team has put out.”

Javy shrugs. “When your best friend calls and asks you to coach with him, you say yes.”

“And you decided to play a celebratory game of catch?”

“Obviously,” Charlie says, and slides his mouth into that megawatt grin that had paparazzi constantly clamoring for him outside of every nightclub and hot spot in LA .

“How’s your arm feel?”

Javy laughs. “Right now, great, but ask me tomorrow. I haven’t actually thrown a baseball in more than a year. Shoulder might fall off in my sleep.”

“You’re sure? We could use another arm,” I say, only half joking. Nakamura’s the goal, but not a guarantee, and you can never have too much pitching.

He winks at me and shakes his head. His career is over, was over when the final doctor shook his head and agreed with what all the other doctors before him had said.

Just like what the doctors said about Charlie’s knee.

I glance over their shoulders to the old men still roaming the fields, moving with aching slowness to run the bases and chase down a weakly hit foul ball.

Guys like Charlie and Javy won’t do that, they can’t, their pride won’t allow it, not after playing at the highest levels, competing against the best in the world, day in and day out, but the gleam in their eyes is the same: the brightness, the joy, it radiates off of them, even after a simple game of catch.

So, they’ll do whatever they have to do to keep baseball in their lives, even if it means seven months of the year crisscrossing the country in cramped airplane seats and watching other, younger men do what they once did, if not quite as well.

“How much do you know about Kai Nakamura and what do you think it’ll take to teach him your sinker?”

The guys laugh and I join them, but then my phone buzzes in the pocket of my leggings and a voice in my earbuds tells me it’s a call from Stew.

“Hey, boss, what’s up?” I ask and mouth Stew to Charlie’s mouthed who?

“I just got a call from Daniel Wilson,” Stew says, without even saying hello.

“Ugh,” I groan. Wilson is the most powerful sports agent in the game and the most notorious, particularly for demanding way more money than his clients are worth. “And what did that sleazeball want?”

“To give us the heads up. Tomorrow morning Ethan Quicke will be opting out of his contract.”

“What? But the last time we talked with him, he said he had no intention of leaving.”

“Seems that Quicke was watching the Japan Series last night and caught sight of a familiar face in the stands. Since he thinks we’ll be offering a substantial contract to Nakamura, he wants to ensure his compensation as our current number-one starter is .

. . how did Wilson put it? Commensurate with his past and future contributions to the organization. ”

It’s going to cost the team extra millions to sign Quicke if they have competition from other organizations.

Extra millions that were supposed to go to Nakamura.

Damn it.

This is my fault and I need to figure out a way to fix it.