That’s what I vow to do tomorrow. Tonight is my one last time with the man I’m falling in love with.
Tonight, we end.
Tomorrow, I reignite my love affair with baseball.
“Grant,” he says, his tone thoughtful. “Is there anything else going on?”
A breath shudders out of me. I pinch the bridge of my nose. Emotion clogs my throat. And the truth comes pouring out. “I met this guy. He’s kind of amazing. But nothing will happen, so I just need to end it.”
End it.
It’s like a knife serrating my heart.
My grandpa sighs, a supportive, loving sound. “That’s hard. Love is hard when it comes at the wrong time.”
I close my eyes, the desert sun beating down on me as I sink onto the bus stop bench. “Yeah, it is.”
“You want to talk about it?”
I shake my head. “No. I just need to do what I have to do.”
“I’m here if you need me,” he says.
“I know. I love you.”
“Love you too” he says, and when I end the call, I let my head fall back against the concrete of the bus shelter.
Banging it once. Twice. Three times. Then the squeal of brakes makes me look up.
A bus has stopped.
I’m the only one here.
I wave it off.
It feels like my life passing me by.
On the walk back to the hotel, I put my finger in the fire and do something I rarely do.
I google myself.
Wincing, I find a sports blog covering spring training. The subtitle of It Ain’t Over Till It’s Over reads: Who’ll be behind the dish for the Cougars? It’s a toss-up.
The report mentions the Scoundrels game where the pitcher and I disagreed on the calls, then the hitless Sharks game, then today’s passed ball.
Embarrassment churns through me.
I close it and call Haven. She answers right away. “Talk to me. What’s on your mind?”
I tell her what happened at the game.
“It’s spring training. It’s one game,” she says, reassuring me.
“No. My game the other day was terrible. The one before wasn’t great.” My stomach twists with nerves. “Can you please try to get some info on where I stand? My role with the team?”
“You know they’re not likely to tell me who’s going to be their starting catcher. Do I think it’s going to be you? Yes. Do all signs point to it being you? Yes. But teams make their own decisions.”
“Can you try?” I ask, wracked with desperation. “Make some calls? Don’t you have sources or something?”
She takes a beat. “I’ll make some calls. I’ll see what people are saying. I’m heading to Arizona, anyway, for some meetings. But I can’t promise I’ll have any information.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it.”
When I return to the hotel, the game is over. I run into Sullivan and he motions for me to come to his room.
I bet he wants to dish on his date last night. I know I need to be a better friend, so I should listen.
Inside his room I sit on the edge of the couch. “What’s up, man? Did you have a good night with that research scientist?”
“I did, but that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.” He parks himself in the desk chair, pulling it closer to me.
I sit up straight. “This sounds serious.”
“I want to ask you something because we’re friends, and I know you. And this might be awkward. I know you and Declan went to the game together, and I could be wrong, but . . .” Inside my head, the sirens wail like when the hero in the thriller breaches security in the government building, and all the guards come charging after him. Sullivan goes on in the same even tone. “But if he’s the reason you’re not playing well the last couple games, I just want you to know I’m here to talk to you about anything.”
A secret agent would escape by any means, avoid the guards by rappelling down a telephone wire with his own belt.
I heave a sigh, shoot him a sharp look, and twist my gut with my own lie. “Are you really going there, man? Assuming something’s happening between the two of us?”
Everything is happening. Everything is ending.
He raises his hands in surrender. “No. Just seems like there’s a connection between the two of you, that’s all. I’m not telling you what to do or not to do.” He holds my gaze, nothing but support in his eyes. “I’m telling you that I’m your friend, no matter what.”
Half of me appreciates the sentiment.
The other half says I need to man the hell up and fix this mess I’m making. “Thanks. But I’ve got this. I would never get involved with a teammate. I’m not stupid.”
“I didn’t think so, but I had to put it out there,” he says, and my feet touch ground, a secret agent escaping by the hair of my neck. Now, all I have to do is walk away. “I want you to be catching for me for a long time. And I know relationship stuff can mess you up. Hell, any relationship your rookie year can be difficult. That’s why my date was only a date. I’m avoiding entanglements like the plague, and you should too.”