Swing (Landry Family 2)

“I’m retiring.”

“You can’t,” I say, shaking my head. “You’re not thinking. You can’t retire.”

“I can do whatever the hell I want.”

His long strides make it around the table and to me in about three steps. We stand inches apart, our breathing heavy as we look at each other. He’s as nervous as I am. I can tell by the rigidity of his shoulders and the way his lips are pressed together. My fingers itch to touch him, my body desperate to hold his, but I don’t. I need to hear what he has to say.

“I’m retiring,” he says. There’s no question in his tone, no uncertainty. He could be telling me it’s fifty degrees outside with a thirty percent chance of rain.

“Why? And don’t say because of me or that I won’t go with you because I can’t have that on my conscience.”

He smiles faintly. “It has nothing, yet everything, to do with you.”

“Landry . . .”

“I’ve told you that a baseball player is who I am. It’s my niche. I’m the guy that the rest of the team depends on and the one fans come out to see. It’s exhilarating, Dani. There’s nothing like it.”

“Which is why—”

“Seriously,” he laughs. “Just. Let. Me. Talk. You’ll get your chance. I promise.” He shakes his head before continuing. “I only have a few years left of this.”

“Which is why you have to play!”

“Cut me off again and I’ll figure out a way to occupy your mouth,” he promises, his eyes shining. I try to glare at him, but can’t, and end up laughing. Even still, my knees are a little weak and I pull out a chair and sit down. He does the same. “As I was saying,” he emphasizes, “I only have a few years, but what do those years consist of? Traveling? Hotels? Maybe a championship and maybe a few batting titles, but I have both of those already. When I think about that, the trade-off, what it takes to get there, it’s just doesn’t have the appeal it used to.”

He reaches across the table and takes my hand in his. “My dad told me he got out of politics, which was his passion, because my mom had enough of living as a politician’s wife. He told me she’d never have asked him to quit, but he knew in his gut she wasn’t happy and he’d rather have her and his family than another term. When you told me last night to go, it made me remember that.”

“I—” I begin, but he squeezes my hand and I stop.

“My career came to a halt last year because of an injury. It could end this year if I re-injure. Hell, I could die in a fucking plane crash on the way there.”

“Don’t say that!”

“I could. And you know what I think about when I think about either of those things?”

I shake my head.

“Not a missed title or game or locker room. I think about you. Dani, I love baseball. I love it. But me playing was a pursuit of happiness. It’s what made me feel whole. Important. Needed.”

My vision is blurred as I listen to his words because I know what’s coming and I’m not prepared. I squeeze his hand and try not to anticipate what’s next because if I’m wrong, I’m done.

“It’s like meeting you started a new season of my life, Dani. It’s a new field with new rules and new challenges, and that appeals to me so much more than another nine innings on the field. My happiness is now with you. I think yours is with me too.”

I’m in his arms before I realize I’ve even moved, my head buried in the crook of his neck.

“I ran this by Graham this morning,” he laughs, “because if anyone can tell you you’re fucking stupid with no reservation, it’s him. He gave it his stamp of approval.”

It’s like every piece of the puzzle has been snapped back into place. I’m crying, but out of a mixture of disbelief and elation instead of fear and sadness. The one-eighty has my head spinning and I half expect to wake up and find out this is a dream.

His hands lock around my waist. “I really hope you’re okay with this because, if not, I just gave up my spot on the roster,” he laughs nervously.

I cup his cheeks, his skin smooth under my touch. “Are you sure? Absolutely one hundred and fifty million percent sure? Because I can’t live thinking you gave up your dream because of me. What if this doesn’t work out?”

“If it doesn’t work out, I’ll regret this one hundred and . . . how much? Fifty million?” he laughs. “Times less than I would regret playing baseball and wondering if we could’ve worked out. And,” he says, moving his head side to side as he smirks, “G would’ve been pissed when he had to bail me out of jail for beating the shit out of your dad.”

Laughing, I kiss his lips. “Are you sure? Like, completely sure.”

He tongue darts across his bottom lip. “I’m completely sure you’ve been eating chocolate donuts,” he chuckles.