“She has tetanus,” Shay rebuffs before snatching it. “It’s been years. You need to throw it away already. It literally fell off the back of Kenneth’s truck on the highway, shocked you when you tried to unplug it, and Mallory punted it after it burned her waffle.”
MalPal punted it twice, but I can’t get rid of it.
Shay rolls her eyes, but instead of tossing it into the black trash bag like she wants to, she slides it onto the counter beside her completely functional one.
It may not seem like much, but it’s damn near a declaration of love.
To be fair, everything about me moving in has seemed intentional and full of love. She stocked the pantry with my favorite snacks, replaced thebatteries in the smoke alarms because she’s giving me another chance to cook for her, and made plenty of room for my clothes in the closet.
And not once has she checked her phone.
There was a time when she would’ve spent the whole day with her phone in hand, sending emails, fielding phone calls, and doing whatever her supervisor wanted, but things are different now. She’s her own boss, running Even Odds Sports Agency in a way that makes her happy.
She’s lighter now, and it’s noticeable as she plops onto the floor in the living room. There’s still that busy nature I love, built by ambition and running on caffeine, but there’s a calm that allows her to enjoy this moment.
She’s fully present and completely mine.
The boxes surrounding us are filled with my childhood baseball memories. Mom didn’t want a single piece of memorabilia to be forgotten or lost, so she collected them and boxed them up, hiding them in her attic until I was ready to take them.
Shay pulls out twelve rusted trophies. “If these are just from first grade, I don’t think there’s going to be enough room on the mantle.”
“They can go in storage.” I laugh, opening another box that has at least ten more identical trophies. “I guess Mom was happy to get rid of all of my childhood boxes, because she gave me everything she could.”
“Or she knew you’d want to fill this space with parts of you.” She digs around and pulls out something that makes my heart squeeze. “Like your first baseball glove. This has to stay out.”
“Are you sure?” I ask. “I don’t want to overrun your house—”
“Ourhouse,” she corrects me again. “This is our home as of this morning when we left your house empty and you officially started leasing it. I know you’ve moved around a lot for baseball, and you may get traded and have to leave Clear Lake someday, but this will always be your home, Cade. Your permanent place. Somewhere you can always come back to.”
I love the sound of that.
This feels like home.
Shay feels like home.
“Plus,” she sings, “it’ll fit in with the other stuff. We’ve got your College World Series rings. And we can’t forget about your Rookie of the Year plaque. Anytime someone comes over, they’ll see your past and present in baseball.”
A month has passed since I received the award, and it still doesn’t feel real. Coming back to North Carolina changed my life in ways I’ll never forget. The way I saw myself was altered in a matter of three months, and I owe it all to the wrecking ball of an agent sitting in front of me.
Telling the world about Jon wasn’t the end of my story with him. Instead, I was approached by more of his old clients who were ready to tell their stories of how Jon pushed them past the brink and into a dangerous spiral of fear. Articles continue to be printed and shared about all the terrible things he did to his clients, like sending one into an early retirement after an injury.
After that, there was no saving his career. We celebrated with champagne when he was no longer listed as an agent on the ProPact website.
And in two semesters, I’ll be able to add my Clear Lake University diploma to the wall beside Shay’s. Offseason has been full of studying, spending my days with her, and just being.
Baseball is fun again. Life is fun again. Being me is fun again.
When she looks up from the glove, her bottom lip is trembling.
“You okay?” I ask.
She nods, then, quietly says, “It’s just real now.”
Taking her hand, I pull her up and lead her to the couch. It’s littered with boxes, blankets, and picture frames, but I find a space for us and set her onto my lap. With my chin against her collarbone and arms around her waist, she settles into me like it’s second nature.
“It was real before,” I say. “Moving in together is the next step.”
“A big and fun step.” She turns in my arms and props her legs across the rolled-up rug. It’s a housewarming gift from her mom, who’s excited to meet me next month. “Are you sure you’re ready for my middle-of-the-night pacing when a client’s having a meltdown?”
