Quit Your Pitchin' (There's No Crying in Baseball 2)

Then she was gone, leaving me speechless in her wake.

I couldn’t have said it better myself.

But, with all that had happened today with Micah, I wouldn’t be bringing up anything just yet.

Maybe in a few weeks, once all of this was behind us, I would.

But until then, I’d be her rock. I’d support her. And I’d thank God every single freakin’ day that he’d protected my son when I couldn’t.

***

Micah’s eyes blinked open. One second, he was asleep, and the next he had such a wide smile on his face that it hurt my heart to see.

“Hey, buddy,” I said, leaning over.

I told myself I wasn’t going to cry. Not again. Not in front of him.

But I was a weak bastard.

The moment I saw those eyes so much like my own, I couldn’t help it. The tears just leaked out.

It took an act of God to make me cry. And seeing my baby’s eyes open and alert was enough to make that happen.

I hadn’t cried when my mother died. I hadn’t cried when my father died in prison. I hadn’t cried when Wrigley had left me—even though there were times that I wanted to—but seeing my son’s smile? Yeah, I was a goner.

“Daddy hurt?” came Micah’s beautiful voice.

My poor little man tried to reach up to put his hand on my cheek, but along with the wires and tubes, his little arms wouldn’t be moving very effectively for a while thanks to the casts he was in.

I smiled sadly. “No, baby. I’m not hurt. Just happy. Do you hurt?”

He shook his head. “No.”

I nodded, bringing my hand up to cup his head. My hand spanned from his chin to curl around the back of his head. His hair felt soft and silky against my fingers.

It was also one of the only things on his entire body that wasn’t bandaged or bruised.

Thank God.

Everything else was going to be okay. He’d be in a cast of some sort for the next three months, but his beautiful head would not be among the things he had to heal.

“You want something to drink, Micah?”

“Chocwate milk.”

I looked over at Wrigley, who was silently crying her eyes out and raised my brow.

She shrugged. “I don’t know if he’s allowed to have it.”

Micah, having heard his mother, turned his head and shouted, “Momma, Daddy!”

Then he pointed at me.

I grinned.

Micah always announced when I was near. And secretly, I loved it. I was sure that Wrigley didn’t care that I was near.

At least, that’d been what I thought. As of lately, I wasn’t so sure.

Especially after today. If two people had needed each other more than we did that day, I’d be surprised.

Wrigley hadn’t let go of my hand since I’d arrived.

Even now she was clutching onto it like she needed it to hold herself together.

“I’ll go ask,” Wrigley murmured, standing.

She went to let go of my hand, and I winked at her.

She took a deep breath and then nodded once in thanks. Then she turned and walked out of the room. The moment she was out of sight, I turned back to Micah to find him staring at me.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

Micah’s eyelids drooped.

“You tired?” I asked, rubbing my fingers over his head.

“No.” He blinked, eyelids falling even lower this time.

“Are you sure?” I smirked.

“Yes.”

I nodded, then tucked some of his hair behind his ear. “I love you, Micah.”

Then his eyes finally closed, only this time because he was sleepy, not because he was hurt.Chapter 17Have you ever tried to change a two-year-old that didn’t want you to change him? It should be an Olympic sport.

-Text from Wrigley to George

George

Two weeks later

“I guess I’m just glad he’s still in diapers,” Wrigley murmured as I carried Micah into his bedroom. “I’m not sure how the heck I would’ve been able to do this otherwise.”

I agreed with a nod.

My belly hurt, and I didn’t want to leave.

But, since Micah had been released from the hospital today, I wouldn’t be able to stay with him and Wrigley like I had for the last two weeks.

I’d missed the last three playoff games, and would be returning to the game tomorrow night for the fourth game of this particular series. The Lumberjacks were losing three to one, and they were hoping with my return that we’d pick it back up.

We wouldn’t. But that wasn’t their fault. It was mine.

I was fucking scared to leave them. I didn’t want to go. And in fact, I honestly was thinking about spending the night in my truck in the parking garage rather than driving home.

What if they needed me?

What if I was twenty minutes across town and she called, and I needed to get here, and couldn’t?

Those thoughts went round and round in my head until I was nearly dizzy with the urge to stay.

I just couldn’t think of a way to ask her without feeling like I was trying to force myself into her home.