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“ Y ou know I didn’t miss your big game on purpose, right, Dylan?”

Dylan Prosser shifted his phone from one ear to the other as he took a bite of his grinder, the wax paper crackling beneath his elbow where it pressed against the picnic table.

The tang of mustard hit his tongue at the same time a low, almost apologetic whine came from the woods beyond the clearing. He froze mid-chew, glancing up.

There she was again.

The same scrappy gray-and-white dog that had been haunting the tree line for the past few days. She stood just inside the shadows, ribs showing beneath her matted coat, muzzle scarred, her cautious eyes locked on him with aching intensity. She looked ready to bolt—until she saw the food.

He sighed.

People really needed to leash their pets.

And feed them. And not dump them in the woods like yesterday’s trash.

If he kept seeing her around, he’d call animal control.

Let them deal with it. He didn’t have time or space for broken things.

Even if her eyes made him feel like the worst kind of monster just for existing.

“Dylan? You believe me, right?” His sister’s voice dragged him back to the phone, high and breathless in that way she used when she wanted something—or wanted to be forgiven.

Lindsey. Once the baby sister who used to follow him around like a duckling in pigtails. Now the star of a Netflix teen drama, making headlines for all the wrong reasons.

“So the rumors about your DUI and a night in jail had nothing to do with you missing the Home Run Derby?” he asked, dry.

Silence.

He chewed the rest of the bite slowly. “Lindsey, I’m worried about you.”

“Back off, Dylan.” Her tone hardened, all Hollywood polish now. “The charges were dropped. I wasn’t even drunk. Just had a few drinks. Mom wasn’t answering—she was with that yoga-instructor-boyfriend or something.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I was in town. You could’ve called me. Or Dad.”

She gave a sharp laugh. “You were busy hitting bombs in the derby. And Dad? Please. He was probably three bourbons in and sulking because the spotlight wasn’t on him for once. I didn’t need him showing up and getting tossed in the next holding cell.”

Dylan stared at the clearing again. The dog had moved closer. Belly low to the ground, she crept forward with cautious desperation, every muscle taut like a violin string. Maybe ten yards now. She licked her lips, eyes locked on the half-eaten sandwich in his hand.

“What’s that noise?” Lindsey asked. “Did you get a dog? Oh my God, you got a dog!”

Her squeal nearly blew out his eardrum. He yanked the phone away just in time. Even the dog flinched, but didn’t run.

“What kind of dog? What’s her name? Send me a picture!”

“Calm down,” he muttered, thumbing through his camera app. “It’s not my dog. Just a stray. She’s been hanging around. I was about to call animal control when you rang.”

“Send. Me. A. Picture.”

He snapped a quick shot and sent it. The reply came back fast.

“Oh my God, she’s so sad-looking. You are feeding her, right? She looks like Sadie. Remember Sadie? The rescue mutt you found when Dad was playing in Seattle? She followed you everywhere.”

His grip on the phone tightened. Of course he remembered Sadie.

She’d been his shadow. Until Dad was traded mid-season and declared the family had to leave immediately—playoffs be damned, promises shattered. The dog? Dumped at animal control without warning. He’d come home from school and she was just... gone. Like none of it had ever mattered.

Just another casualty in the long list of things sacrificed to his father’s ego.

Funny how “we’re a team” only ever seemed to mean “everyone do what I say.”

That was the same year he stopped trusting promises.

The same year he stopped thinking baseball could be anything but business.

By the time Dylan was drafted, his parents had split. Lindsey had gone full L.A., and Dad had attached himself to Dylan’s career like a barnacle, waiting for the spotlight to come back around. Always there when cameras flashed. Always missing when it counted.

Thinking about that night at the Derby—the slurred speeches, the attention-seeking—made Dylan’s stomach twist. He set the sandwich down, appetite gone.

“What do I think happened to Sadie?” he said quietly. “Same thing that always happens when Dad’s priorities come first.”

There was a beat of silence. “Dylan… I didn’t know it still hit you like that.”

“I’ve got to get to the stadium.” He stood slowly, watching as the dog crept another yard forward. “But Lindsey… I am worried about you.”

Her laugh was brittle, all hollow deflection. “What do you mean? Everything’s great!”

“DUIs. Tabloid sightings. A carousel of parties. You’re not exactly winning the wholesome teen idol award these days.”

“You really think I care about that?” she snapped. “Just because you’re Mister Clean doesn’t mean the rest of us want to sit home with protein shakes and Netflix every night. I’m just letting off steam. I’m fine.”

He didn’t believe that. Not even a little.

But he let it go.

“If you need me, I’m here. You know that, right?”

Her voice dropped. “I know. And… think about keeping the dog. You need someone, too.”

He almost laughed. The last thing he needed was a creature relying on him. He wasn’t about to become his father—dragging something along just to feel important. He traveled too much. Slept in too many hotels. Life was easier when no one expected anything.

But the dog… was still watching him.

She stood now just a few feet away, ears pricked, ribs rising with shallow breaths. Her muzzle, gray with age and dirt, trembled as she stared at the half-eaten sandwich like it was salvation.

His watch buzzed: time to go.

He looked at the sandwich. Then the dog. He tossed it to her.

She caught it mid-air and devoured it in two bites.

“Now go home,” he muttered.

He turned back toward the house, snagging his keys from the hook inside. Backed his truck out of the garage. Rain clouds rolled in from the horizon like a slow-coming storm.

Out of habit, he stopped the garage door before it shut completely, leaving a two-foot gap at the bottom. Sure, he might get a raccoon or possum sniffing around, but…

He’d left some old blankets in the corner. If it stormed, maybe she’d use them.

He’d deal with her tomorrow.

If she was still there.

T he first game back after the All-Star break was always a mixed bag.

Some of the guys came in practically vibrating from a few days of downtime—amped up on rest, energy drinks, and too many TikTok rabbit holes.

Others dragged themselves into the clubhouse like they were still hungover from sleeping in.

Too much rest could dull the edge just as easily as too little.

Then there were the All-Stars.

Sure, it was an honor to get the nod. Prestige.

National coverage. The whole nine yards.

But the reality was the All-Star break wasn’t a break at all.

It was a three-day marathon of banquets, sponsor events, media junkets, and long hours in itchy suits.

The Home Run Derby was the closest thing to actual baseball—and even that was more performance art than sport.

As a catcher, Dylan Prosser had looked forward to the break like a lifeline.

His knees were wrecked, his back needed a week in a hot tub, and his brain was still trying to unplug.

But instead, he’d spent the past few days smiling for cameras, shaking hands, and pretending like it didn’t all make him want to crawl out of his skin.

So when his headlights swept across the winding new road that led to his house at the edge of a mostly-empty development outside Savannah, relief spread through him like a muscle unclenching.

Home.

He hadn’t even walked through the model before putting in an offer.

The builder had barely broken ground before the economy stalled the whole neighborhood’s progress, and that suited him just fine.

Few neighbors. No nosy HOA. Woods at his back.

Open lots on either side. After being surrounded by people all day—teammates, reporters, fans—this was his sanctuary.

Out here, he could breathe.

He pulled into the driveway, the gravel crunching under his tires, headlights sweeping across the wet concrete.

Rain had washed the sky clean earlier—fat drops that canceled the evening game and sent everyone home early.

Puddles shimmered under the exterior lights that still hummed softly on the side of the house. He exhaled. Power was still on. A win.

He clicked the garage door opener and waited as the door began to rise. Slowly, the shadows shifted—until two small, glowing eyes appeared in the darkness, reflecting back the headlights like a scene from a horror movie.

He froze.

Then the rest of her came into view.

The little dog from the woods.

Curled in the nest of blankets he’d thrown in the garage corner days ago “just in case,” her body was a tight coil of fur, bones, and exhaustion. Rain had darkened her coat, and one paw was tucked beneath her chin, eyes blinking slowly as she watched him from her makeshift den.

Not a raccoon. Not a skunk. No snarling wildlife. Just her.

Dylan eased the truck into park and sat there a moment, fingers wrapped around the wheel.

“Well, damn,” he muttered.

Outside, the rain began again—soft now, tapping on the windshield, delicate as a confession.

He leaned back in the seat, eyes still locked on the dog. “I guess you took me up on the offer. Came in from the night terrors.”

The silence settled between them. She didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just watched.

His throat tightened with something he didn’t want to name. Too familiar. Too much like recognition.

He sighed again, rubbing a hand over his jaw, his fingers catching in the short scruff he hadn’t bothered to shave since the break started. “Now what the hell am I supposed to do with you?”

The dog blinked.

The rain fell.

And for the first time in a long while, Dylan Prosser didn’t mind the idea of someone waiting for him when he came home. Even if she had four legs and a haunted stare.