Page 12

Chapter Twelve

Tahlia

July 2nd

J ake steps up to the plate like he owns the damn stadium.

Helmet tucked low, bat twirling in his grip, eyes locked in—focused, dangerous.

The man could be a storm and still make it look effortless.

The crowd reacts on cue, a mix of whistles, cheers, and that weird hush when someone knows they're about to see something important.

Beside me, Joi nudges my side with her elbow. “Your whole posture just changed.”

I blink. “What are you talking about?”

“You sat up straighter. Chest out, jaw tight. Don’t deny it. You go full courtroom presence every time your boy gets in the box.”

My response is nonexistent because he’s not my boyfriend. Sure, he helped me in the mailroom and bought me a coffee, and we went on a date and almost kissed, but that’s just neighborly, right?

“Oh my God. I’m right.” She cackles. “You’re not even denying it anymore. This is growth, Tahlia.”

I shake my head and try to keep my eyes forward on the game, like she’s not dead-on.

Jake adjusts his gloves. Digs in. That signature stance—loose shoulders, slight hitch, just enough to rattle the pitcher's timing.

I bite my cheek, pretending I don't notice how everything about him is dialed-in tonight.

The first pitch comes, and the ump calls ball. The crowd cheers and encourages the pitcher to throw another one. The second throw is a wide curve for ball two.

Jake smirks when he thinks he has the pitcher shook.

I see it in his stance. Feel it in my skin as it prickles with excitement.

The third pitch is inside, giving us ball three. The crowd is up on their feet because they know either Jake is going to hit it out of the park or will get a free walk.

He crowds the plate just to mess with him.

Joi stands to her feet, and I follow, clapping and wooing with the rest of them.

Then the fourth pitch comes fast. Too fast if you ask me.

Jake doesn’t even get into his stance fully.

When the ball connects, it makes a sound I’ll never forget.

Crack.

Not of a bat hitting the ball, but of a ball hitting bone.

Jake yells and jerks and drops the bat. His face twists as he clutches his side and takes two shaky steps back before his knees give out completely.

The crowd gasps collectively, then silence.

“Oh my God,” Joi whispers.

My heart lurches so hard it feels like it skips a beat or two.

“Jake!” I scream, but it doesn’t feel like my voice. Feels like someone else has taken over.

Down on the field, everything moves at once. Trainers sprint out. Players surround him. I can’t see him anymore. Just glimpses of activity—hands, jerseys, knees.

I grab my bag and shove past people in our row, ignoring Joi’s call behind me. My only thought is to get to him. To be closer. To do something .

Because this is my man.

By the time I reach the railing, my breath is tight, and my chest aches. I head straight for the tunnel, down the stairs, into the cement corridor, where players disappear when the game is no longer theirs to play.

Security stops me just outside the dugout tunnel.

“Ma’am—hold up. No access beyond this point.”

I stand there, not knowing what to say or how to explain my relationship. “I just need to know if Jake's okay," I say, my voice cracking as I step forward, determined to get through.

The guard steps in my path again. But this time, his expression shifts, and he lowers his voice. "I'm sorry. But I can't let you through unless you're on the family list. That's the policy. I wish it wasn't."

I nod, not because I agree, but because I don’t trust myself to speak without falling apart.

My emotions are building in my throat and behind my eyes, threatening to erupt any moment.

Coach Wylde is jogging through the corridor when he spots me. “Tahlia, right?”

I nod again, not strong enough to speak.

His brow is furrowed, voice calm but urgent. “They’re taking him to get X-rays at the hospital. The team doc’s already in the ambulance with him.”

“Is he—” I can’t bring myself to finish the question.

“He’s hurting, yeah. Blacked out for a second, but he came to. Breathing’s a little off—took that one square to the ribs. He’s talking, though. They’re moving fast.”

My hand presses over my chest like I can quiet my own heartbeat. “Can I… go to the hospital?”

Coach shakes his head. “They’ll likely restrict visitors. Especially being who he is. Since you’re not on the approved list… and he’s not exactly coherent enough to give the green light right now, I doubt you’ll be able to see him.”

He waits, watching me absorb it. “I’m sorry,” he adds. “But he’s in the best hands tonight.”

I nod, but it feels hollow. Like my body’s here and my heart’s ten miles away in the back of an ambulance.

He pats me gently before he heads back in to finish the game.

The sounds of the stadium bring me back to the moment as I stand there, unable to comprehend what to do.

Joi finds me standing in the corridor, clutching my phone, cross-body hanging on my shoulders, eyes unfocused.

She doesn’t ask questions. Just comes up beside me, touches my wrist.

“Give me the keys.”

It’s a direct demand, like she knows my emotional state.

“I can drive." The lawyer in me won’t allow me to concede.

“No, you can’t and don’t argue with me.”

I don’t even try to plead my case. Instead, I pass them over, and we silently walk out together.

The parking lot is fuller than when we arrived, so we search until we find my car using my key fob as the guide. Although the game is still going on inside, out here, it’s like the world slowed down.

When we reach my car, Joi opens the driver’s side, and I slip into the passenger seat without a word.

The drive to my place is short—just a few blocks—but feels longer with everything I’m holding inside. My phone is on my lap, screen lit up, with no messages, but I keep refreshing the app anyway.

We pull into the condo’s attached garage and park. The air feels heavy, as if it’s clinging to my skin.

We get out, our steps echoing against smooth concrete as we walk into the building. Neither of us says a word. The silence isn’t awkward—it’s protective.

My throat tightens when I see his assigned spot empty, knowing that the blacked-out Silverado will not be in its spot tonight. My throat tightens at the mere thought.

We enter the elevator, shrouded in the same silence that has surrounded us since I handed Joi my keys.

The ride is the same, quiet and uneventful. There aren’t any stops along the way to the fourteenth floor. When the doors slide open, I can’t help but look as we walk past his unit. I pause for half a second, eyes flicking to the door.

Joi unlocks mine without a word, and I follow her inside.

I kick off my shoes and curl into the corner of the couch, wrapping a throw blanket around me as if it might hold me together.

Joi places her bag on the counter, grabs two bottles of water from the refrigerator, then walks over and hands me one while sitting beside me.

“I could call in a favor,” I murmur. “Ask someone at the firm to find out what hospital he’s at. Maybe get me on the visitor list. Something.”

Joi leans forward, elbows resting on her knees, arms crossed at her wrists like she’s trying to hold something steady—maybe me. Her voice is gentle, but there’s worry beneath it. “You could.”

I wait for the judgment. It doesn’t come. Instead, she turns to me, getting my attention.

“But should you?”

“There’s no harm in asking.”

“Tahlia, are you sure?” she asks softly. “Because if it’s for him , that's one thing. But if it's for you… If it's just about being shut out…”

“Damn, I’m not trying to bulldoze my way in,” I snap. “I just want to know he’s okay.”

“And he will be,” she says. “And when he is able, he’ll call you himself. Just… wait. I know that’s not your thing, but wait.”

I squeeze the water bottle tighter and nod, even though every part of me wants to scream.

She scoots off the couch and kneels beside me, her brows drawn tight, voice low and steady. "You're not on the list yet. But I've seen how Jake looks at you, Tahlia. Don't pretend like this isn't something."

I exhale through my nose, barely holding it together. The second I try to respond, my phone buzzes.

I lunge for it like it might stop my heart from caving in.

A banner notification from The DEN flashes across the screen:

brEAKING: Jake Reynolds injured during today’s matchup against Arizona. Team confirms no broken bones—bruised ribs, expected to miss 2-3 weeks.

My breath catches, and I reread it to be sure. Then I turn the screen toward Joi.

She reads it once, then again, before a grin tugs at the corner of her mouth.

“See?” she says, nudging my foot. “What’d I tell you? He’s okay.”

I nod, slower this time. The panic doesn’t vanish, but it shifts..

She pushes herself off the floor with a groan. “Now that I’m not emotionally preparing to deliver your eulogy, I’m raiding your snack drawer.”

I huff out a fake laugh and lean back into the couch, staring at the screen, thumb hovering.

She disappears into the kitchen, cabinets opening and closing, the sound oddly comforting. I stay curled on the couch, eyes locked on the DEN headline still glowing on my screen. I read it a third time. Then a fourth. Maybe the words will sink deeper if I give them long enough.

Bruised ribs. Two to three weeks. Not broken. Not serious. He’s okay.

I close my eyes and press the phone to my chest.

But I still can’t shake the image—his body twisting, knees buckling, my voice cracking the silence. That sound. That silence after.

Joi returns with a snack-sized bag of trail mix and a sports drink. She hands me the drink and a bag of snacks.

“Refuel,” she says, settling into the armchair across from me and tearing open the trail mix.

I put the water down, open my sports drink, take a sip, lean back into the cushions, and let my body sink. It’s the first time since the hit that I’ve let myself soften even a little.

Still, I don’t turn off my phone.

A few hours pass, and after mindlessly watching TV, Joi grabs her purse and hugs me tight.

“Okay, love. I’m going home to get ready for work tomorrow. Call me if you hear anything. Seriously. I don’t care what time it is.”

I nod. “I will. Thanks for being here with me.”

“No, for you. I’m gonna always be there. You my girl.”

We hug one more time, and she leaves.

When the door clicks shut behind her, the silence is deafening.

I shower to pass the time. The water is too hot, but I don't adjust it. I need to feel something.

Still doesn’t work. The ache stays rooted, just under my ribs, right where his voice used to be.

I towel off, throw on cotton shorts and a tank top, tie my braids into a loose bun, grab my Bar prep binder, and sit at the kitchen island.

I stare at it for ten minutes without reading a word.

Every time I try to focus, my mind flashes back to the sound of the pitch when it struck him. The way his body crumpled or the sound of his name leaving my lips like a prayer.

How his voice teased me the night of the fundraiser, or even the way he looked at me before that almost-kiss.

I grip the edge of the counter with my stomach tied in knots.

This isn’t just worry. This is something deeper.

It's not just that I care or want him to be okay, because I do.

It’s that the idea of a world without him in it—loud and cocky and over the top—makes me feel like I can’t breathe.

Like something in me would go quiet if he disappeared.

I hate how helpless this feels. I'm used to having a plan, a strategy, and a timeline.

But this? I couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t fix it.

And that's what scares me—not just the injury but also the not knowing , the waiting.

The feeling that I’m already all in, and I didn’t see it coming.

I close the binder and push back from the island, my stool scraping against the tile.

On my way to the living room, I grab my phone from the counter where I left it earlier.

The couch calls to me like muscle memory—somewhere cozy, familiar. I drop into the corner, tug the throw blanket around my shoulders, and let my head rest against the cushion.

I scroll without seeing anything. My thumb hovers over his name in my messages.

Just a check-in. Just hey, thinking about you . Something.

But what if he’s asleep? Or drugged up? Or in too much pain to care?

I lock the screen before I can overthink it further and set the phone on my chest.

Eventually, exhaustion wins, and I doze off.

I'm not sure for how long. Maybe twenty minutes, maybe two hours. I wasn't checking the time.

A knock at the door jolts me upright.

Not a loud one, just… certain.

My phone slips from my chest and hits the rug with a soft thud as I sit up, heart pounding. I cross the room without thinking, bare feet nearly silent against the floor.

I open the door, and there he is.

Jake.

He’s moving slowly. A little hunched, still cradling his side. Dressed in a plain black T-shirt and athletic shorts, like he changed at the facility but couldn't wait one more second to come home. A trainer stands behind him, carrying his duffel and gear bag like some unspoken barrier between Jake and the weight he's not ready to carry yet.

His eyes meet mine. He doesn’t say anything right away.

Doesn’t have to.

His face is pale but open. Vulnerable in a way I’ve never seen.

And when he speaks, his voice is low and cracked?—

It lands right in my chest.

“Counselor.”