East keeps hitting the side button on his phone, the screen lighting up and showing no notifications. It’s makingmejumpy. It’ll ring when a scout calls. There’s no way any of us will miss it.
I’m about to snatch it away from him when it lights up all on its own, his ringtone blaring through the living room.
The world stops. Oh my God.
All right. This is it. Most likely. I swear to the Great Bambino, if his mom is calling right now, I will have a very stern talking-to with her when she gets home later. Respectful, of course, but stern. My gaze drops to the phone, and the caller ID definitely doesn’t say ‘Mom’.
Game time.
I hurry over and mute the TV. Easton is staring at his phone, eyes bugging out, like it’s some foreign object he’s never seen before. I glance up at Shelby. Her eyes are wide, panic reflecting back at me.
“Do something,” she mouths.
I drop between East’s knees and gently pick up his phone. “I’m going to press the answer button, East. Then you’re going to talk.” I squeeze his knee with my free hand, and his gaze pings to mine. “You’re going to say, ‘hello, this is Easton Winters.’ Can you do that?”
His blue eyes steel over with determination, like they do when he takes the field. He nods. There he is. My East. I press answer and hand him the phone.
“Hello, this is Eason Winters.”
My heart smiles. Atta boy.
Then reality slams into me, and my pulse skyrockets. Suddenly I’m in the bottom of the ninth, tie game, two outs, the go-ahead runner on second. East steps up to the plate. One hit—that’s all he needs to do to bring that runner home.
Easton laughs a little self-consciously, a blush coloring his cheeks, and he runs his hand through his hair, the way he always does when he’s flustered. “Uh, good. And you?”
My eyes are glued to him. He’s nodding and murmuring sounds of assent, but it gives nothing away. Who’s on the other side of that call? What team? Why didn’t we put the phone on speaker? I don’t know what way’s up or down. I’m a fucking Abbott-and-Costello routine right now.
Damn, my boy just went fifth round in the MLB draft! Fifth fucking round! My body is a cacophony of emotions. Impatience. Excitement. Pride. And underneath it all, heartbreak. Knowing how close we are to goodbye.
Easton stops breathing. His eyes are so wide, I actually fear that they’re going to get stuck that way. He chokes out awow. Damn it. This is killing me.
He swallows hard, then says, “I will. Thank you so much.”
He ends the call and stares silently at his phone.
“Oh my God, E!” Shelby shouts. “I’m going to die from anticipation. Details, babe!”
He lets out a slow breath and meets my eyes. His blue irises are swimming, and I pray to all the baseball gods that it’s a good emotion overflowing there. “I know minor leaguers are traded like baseball cards,” he says shakily. “And I still need to speak with my advisor to go over the contract, but…”
My heart stutters. Is he saying what I think he’s saying?
He nods slowly, because he can read me just like I can read him.
I jump up and let out a roar. “Fuck yes!”
Easton vaults off the couch and is in front of me in the next second. Just like when we win a game, his hands latch onto my upper arms, forehead pressed to mine, as we jump up and down, and howl. We’re nothing but overflowing adrenaline and happiness too big for our bodies to contain. Pure. Fucking. Elation.
Shelby is swearing at us in the background because we’re not letting her in on the secret: My boy just got drafted to the Bridgeport Jetties!
Our. Fucking. Team.
That’s the dream of every little leaguer out there, getting drafted by your home team, the team you grew up rooting for.
We calm down from our over-the-top jock display, and Easton turns to Shelby. He wraps her in a hug, burying his head in her dark-brown hair. “I’m going to be a Jetty.” His muffled words drift into the room.
She squeezes him tightly, and I recognize the look in her bright eyes. It’s hope.
“So, that means you’ll be close by?” Her voice lilts up.
