A pang of regret hits my temples, paired nicely with the dull ache in my chest. The yellow legal pad in Shay’s hands turned on both fight and flight mode last night. I couldn’t read her tiny script, but I already know she documented every mistake and slip up, just like Jon.
At least once a week, I swear I’ll get rid of Jon’s notes, but I hide them under my bed instead.
I didn’t want to snap at her. I tried to imagine our first postgame meeting could be like our BYOB nights from college. Shay managed tomake picking apart baseball games fun. Even my mistakes. She was a breath of fresh air in a suffocating room.
But it’s different now. Her only job is to make sure I’m at my best.
My fingers itch, and I know I shouldn’t, but I swipe my phone from the coffee table and press the familiar name before I can stop myself. After one ring, a deep sigh fills my ear.
“Wow.” I laugh, slipping off my glasses. “Is that how you answer the phone for all your clients?”
“Nope. Only you.” Shay yawns. “Is everything okay?”
Not really. Last night’s dinner sits untouched on the kitchen table. An explosion of clothes went off in front of the laundry room, scattered around my partially packed suitcase. The living room looks as if a tornado destroyed an office building.
My brain is as much of a mess as my house.
“Yeah.” I cough. “I’m fine.”
The disbelieving hum she releases hits me hard. Probably because I spouted off the same lie every time she tried to check in after I left for California.
“It’s fine.”
“Everything is fine.”
“I’m fine, Shay baby. Tell me about your day.”
Cade Owens. Caretaker and peacekeeper, even at my own expense.
“You’re up early,” I say, desperate to fill the silence.
“So are you. What time are you meeting the team at the private terminal?”
I almost forgot about the game. “Nine.”
“Is there a reason you’re calling me at six in the morning?”
Because I needed to hear your voice, I think.
Papers crunch beneath me as I sit on the leather couch. “I wanted to see if you had any feedback for me before this series.”
A beat passes. “You want my advice?”
It’s physically painful to nod, but I do. “Yes.”
Another pause. “Well, my best advice is that even if you strike out, run to first base and act confident. Everyone will be too confused to stop you.”
A surprised laugh slips from me as I lie down and prop my head up against the armrest. With her voice in my ear, my body relaxes for the first time in hours. “I might give that a shot.”
“Don’t blame me if you do,” she says. “But in all seriousness, I don’t think you need any words of wisdom from me. You’re the best shortstop in the league—”
“Aw.” I press my lips together. “You think I’m the best?”
“I was going to sayaccording to multiple articles, but whatever.” Although she doesn’t laugh, her cadence is light. “Actually, I made a note last night that I did want to talk about.” Every fuzzy feeling dissipates at the sound of rustling paper. “Here it is. Your height is a real advantage, and you use it well. Buck, Orlando’s pitcher, is on the shorter side, so remember that when it comes to his release point.”
“Oh.” That wasn’t what I expected. Instead of berating me, her words are insightful and helpful. But it’s not just that. It’s the way she says it. Non-judgmental and constructive.
“Oh?” Shay repeats. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to overstep—”
