Quiet takes over as a rush of calm flows through me, but not for long. Muffled shouts send me to my feet, followed by impatient pounding on the front door. I go to check the doorbell camera, but my phone is still off. This maniac is going to wake up the entire neighborhood.
“Someone’s at the door, Ma. I’ll call you back.”
“At this hour?” Worry laces her voice. “Let them be.”
“Can’t. The neighbors will riot, but thank you for talking to me.”
“Anytime, golden boy.”
The nickname doesn’t hurt this time as she hangs up. I slip the yellow piece of paper into my pocket and pull myself off the ground, ignoring my throbbing hip. I hobble out of the living room and through the foyer, hoping I don’t look as tired as I feel. By the time I peer through the peephole, the person on the other side has given up, taking the porch steps slowly.
Then I spot pink fluffy slippers.
I swing the door open. “Shay?”
She trips, barely catching herself before spinning to face me. “What the hell, Cade? I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for over an hour! I called like thirty times!”
Holding up my phone, I point at it. “It’s off. What’s going on?”
Without waiting for an answer, she marches past me and enters my home, headed straight for the living room. For someone who was so nervous about me being at her house last week, she looks comfortable—and stunning—storming into mine.
I chase after her and thank my lucky stars I stuffed Jon’s notes back into the box, but it’s sitting on the couch right beside her.
Taking a seat on the opposite side of the leather couch, I grab the box and slide it under the coffee table. “Is there a reason you almost beat my door down at midnight?”
“Yes. I have great news.” Her nose wrinkles. “Well, bad, depending on who you ask. Carlos Medina got injured tonight. Something about a wrist injury. I didn’t get specifics, but people in the crowd said they could hear the snap of bone.”
Rambling Shay is my favorite. Her mouth moves so quickly that she stumbles over words, struggling to string them together without having to restart each sentence. The only thing I’m struggling with is trying not to look at her lips, full and glossed. Every few seconds, her tongue darts across them and I find myself even more distracted.
“So, he can’t start anymore, which is why I’m here.”
After a beat, my eyes lift to meet hers. “Who can’t start?”
She cocks her head at me. “Did you hear anything I said?”
With a sheepish smile, I shake my head. “Kind of zoned out.” I omit the reason being that she’s in my house, looking like this, and I can’t touch her without breaking a rule.
“Cade.” She crosses her legs beneath her. “Carlos Medina isn’t starting at the All-Star Game anymore.”
My brain short-circuits, but I remember something she said. “Yeah. Neck injury.”
“Wrist,” she corrects. “Do you know what that means?”
I freeze. Now I understand her ferocity.
“I’m starting.”
She nods. “You’re the starting shortstop at the All-Star Game.”
There’s a familiar thickness in her voice. It’s the same tremble I heard when CLU won the College World Series and when I was drafted to the California Hornets. The same voice that congratulated me over the phone after my first home run in the minors.
God, I’ve missed her so much.
My head falls into my hands as the confusion from earlier comes back in a rush. If I was with anyone else, I’d hide it with a smile. But Shay has already made it clear that she doesn’t expect that of me.
She only wants Cade.
“What are the odds you’ll tell me something honest right now?”
