Page 40

One week from today I turn thirty-three and I’m feeling all sorts of ways about that.

The life I imagined for myself at thirty-three is nothing like the life I’m living.

I thought I’d be in my tenth year playing ball, for one thing. I figured I’d be cresting toward the end of my career, deciding what comes next…not getting back into the game after a three-year hiatus and feeling like a freshman all over again. But I won’t have the chance to act like a freshman since I’ve been tapped to lead this team. Fake it ‘til I make it, I guess.

I thought I’d be married by now. Instead, I’m grieving the loss of something that might have been the most powerful thing I’ve ever come across.

I thought I’d have two or three kids, and I’d be torn between wanting to be on that ballfield and wanting to be home with my family. Family would be edging out the game because you only get one life. None of that matters now since I made a three-year commitment.

My dad was forty-one when he died. Us Noah men, we don’t get long lives to spend with our kids, and the longer I put off having them, the shorter that window gets. I’ve always felt the ticking of the clock, but lately it’s started to sound more like a timer for a bomb that’s getting ready to detonate.

I realize I already did a run this morning and I’m supposed to be slowly moving out of active rest into pre-season training, but I’m restless. I need to move.

I grab my keys and head toward the stadium. Troy worked out my credentials yesterday, so I breeze past security and head toward the weight room.

Nick’s in there, and so are a few other players—including Danny and Rush, and two other guys as well.

“Rush Ross,” I say, and I always thought he was a cool dude. Plus, it’s fun to say his name since it sounds like one word.

He’s younger than me—in his mid-twenties, and I wonder if Troy would be receptive to a younger player dating his daughter as opposed to someone like me.

I hate myself for the thought.

“Noah!” he says genially, and he claps me on the back. “How’s the elbow?”

It’s amazing to me what a community this game is. Everyone knows Cooper Noah retired early from an elbow injury. Everyone knows Rush Ross came close to breaking Randy Johnson’s thirteen strikeout record last season when he had eleven in a single game. Everyone knows that Danny Brewer is a triple threat since he can run, field, and hit.

And now the three of us are in the same room together.

“Cooper Noah,” one of the men across the room says. He looks vaguely familiar, and as he approaches, I place him. He was an assistant coach for the Rockies a few years ago. “Joe Buchanan, the third base coach.”

“Great to see you, man,” I say, slapping him on the back. I glance over at the other coach standing near him. “And Chris Jarrett.” I reach out a hand to shake his. “Former first baseman for the Astros and now…”

“First base coach,” he announces proudly.

“Great to have you here,” I say.

“Likewise.” He nods, and I get another excited feeling that Troy and the brass upstairs have assembled a kickass team here.

Nick saunters up behind us. “The big three,” he says to Danny, Rush, and me, and he nods toward the treadmills. “You want me to put you through it today?”

“I already went for a run this morning,” I admit. I glance at Danny and Rush, who are looking at me with challenge in their eyes. I’m not one to back down from a challenge. “But I’m in for a second one.”

And then Nick hands us our asses.

Danny emerges the victor, Rush comes in second, and my slow ass learns real quick what it’s going to mean to get back into season shape. More black coffee, less nachos. And my hip hurts…not because I’m old as fuck, but because I was literally kicked out of someone’s bed this morning.

“Anyone want to head out to the field and toss some balls?” I ask.

“I need to shower and head to a meeting,” Rush says, wiping his face with a towel.

“I’m in,” Danny says with a nod. “Does this foursome work for poker?” he asks, nodding around to the three of us. He’s met with three enthusiastic confirmations. I know Danny fairly well already, but I’m interested in getting to know both Rush and Nick moving forward.

I need a brotherhood. I need the bond. I need the distraction from the constant ache in my chest knowing that Gabby is so close yet so far. Knowing that she’s meeting that jackass for coffee today. Knowing that I can’t have her.

I blow out a breath.

Focus, Noah, I tell myself.

It’s not like I can unload my woes on any of these guys. They’re too close to the picture—too close to Troy.

But at least I’ve got a group of guys I can play poker with. That’s something, anyway.

“Are you all free tonight around eight?” Danny asks before Rush leaves.

“I can’t,” Rush says. “Sorry. Next weekend maybe.”

“I can’t, either,” Nick says.

“I guess I’m the only loser without plans,” I admit to Danny, who laughs.

“Then let’s fuck up this town together. Or let it fuck us up.” He shrugs, and I nod with a laugh, glad to have plans for the night to distract me from Gabby and her new friend .

Nick tosses me a glove since I don’t have mine here, and it’ll do. Danny grabs a bag of balls, and we head out to the infield.

I draw in a deep breath as I walk over toward third base. There’s no bag here, just the dirt, but it still feels like home.

Danny moves into position at first, and it feels like a long fucking way away considering I haven’t done this in three years.

We both do a few warm-ups to get the muscles moving, but I’m still pretty warm from what Nick just did to us in the weight room.

I pull a ball out of the bag, and I grip it in my palm for a beat as I stare down at the cowhide stitched together by the red laces.

How many thousands of baseballs have I held in my hands over the years?

And how have I gone this long without holding one?

God, I love this game.

“You gonna make out with it or are you gonna toss it?” Danny yells from first, and I brush off the feeling as I pull my arm into position and launch it toward first base.

It falls right into Danny’s glove.

Like riding a fucking bike, and goddamn does it feel good.

We play catch for maybe a half hour before we call it good, and I know my arm will be sore tomorrow, but my elbow feels fine—good, even, and I have plenty of recovery time to build the muscles back up to where they need to be.

It felt right being back out on the field, and I shower and spend a little time fucking around at the stadium before I leave with a renewed sense of hope.

I stop to pick up an early dinner, and I call my mom on the way home.

“Hey, it’s my favorite baseball player,” she answers, her voice filling my truck.

I chuckle. “Hello Mother.”

“What are you up to? Feeling any better?”

“It’s only been like a day, and no, I’m not. But I did go to the stadium twice now, and I worked out. I picked up a baseball, Mom.”

“You did? How’d it feel?”

“Like I had my purpose back,” I admit.

“I’m so happy for you, honey. The diamond always seemed to be the place where you felt most at home.”

“It always was, and I’m glad to be back on it. Have you looked anything up on the Heat?” I ask.

“Nope. I wanted to hear it all from the source,” she says.

“Rush Ross and Danny Brewer are the first two I’ve met. I guess Duke Owens is joining us, too. Danny and I tossed a ball around and he invited me to be part of their poker group.” I stop at a red light.

“That’s great! Building that team atmosphere already. I’m happy you’re finding people. I worry about you, you know.”

“I know you do. But you don’t have to. I’ve got this,” I lie. I don’t got this at all, and my heart starts to hammer loudly in my chest as I turn into Troy’s subdivision.

Her truck is in the circular drive. A Jeep is parked behind her truck, and it’s got one of those bumper stickers with Calvin peeing on the Ford logo.

Fuck this kid.

Is he purposely doing this shit just to piss me off?

I park as close as I can to his bumper so he’ll have a hell of a time getting out of his spot. A little dent in my bumper is worth it if it comes to that.

The house is quiet when I let myself in, but I know they’re around here somewhere.

I head to the kitchen, where I set my food on the table and start eating. I hear some loud laughter as it carries through the house, and my chest tightens a little at the sound. She’s having a good time with another guy.

Good. She should. She should move on from me and laugh and smile since those are things I can no longer give her.

But not with a douchebag like that kid.

I hear footsteps and voices approaching as I finish the meal that meets Nick’s calorie guidelines, and I think about running out of the room, but intimidation tactics might be more fun.

They’re laughing again when they turn the corner, and Gabby freezes when she spots me sitting at the table.

Her eyes connect with mine, and I swear I spot some guilt there before she glances away. “Oh, didn’t know you were here,” she mutters.

“Feeling better after that epic hangover?” I ask.

She offers a glare at me, and the douche is silent beside her. He’s wearing a hat today, and it’s backwards, and it just makes him look like he’s trying too hard. Guys like me, we can wear our ballcaps backwards because we actually play the game. This skinny bitch looks like he’s never even picked up a baseball, let alone learned how to throw one.

But whatever. To each his own.

“I feel fine,” she says.

“I’m sure the afternoon coffee helped,” I say, a little more suggestiveness in my voice than I’d planned for.

She clears her throat and moves toward the fridge, where she grabs a couple cans of soda, and then she turns to her little friend.

“You ready for a ping pong tournament?” she asks him, her tone taunting. “I’m gonna kick your ass.”

Some mocking sound escapes my chest, and she shoots me a dirty look before he puts his hand on the small of her back.

All the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention when he touches her.

I nearly leap out of my seat to physically pull him off her when I realize…it’s not my right to.

He can touch her if he wants.

I’ve chosen not to. Instead, I’ve chosen to mock her hangover when she walks into the room like an immature child.

They walk out of the room together without a backwards glance, and I toss the plastic fork down into my salad, suddenly not very hungry.

What the fuck am I doing?

I don’t want it to be like this. I don’t want to fight with her, or to nitpick or argue every time we see each other. I don’t want it to be awkward.

But if I can’t have her, I don’t know how else to be around her.