“I deserve to bemeat my job,” she says quietly. “The professional me, I mean. And the professional me is too hard still. I can’t lead a team if I’m afraid to connect with the players.”
“You scared?”
“Yes,” she whispers.
“Don’t be. You’ve got this.”
“I don’t. Not…not right now. But Iwantto.”
“What’s the plan? How can I help?”
“I think…I think I need to picture them all as women.”
I bark out a laugh in the darkness, then sober quickly. “Sorry. Sorry. Didn’t mean that.”
“No, it’s okay. It’s an unorthodox approach, but I think it’ll help me relax. I know where the lines are. I know where the boundaries are. I know what’s professional. I don’t worry at all when I’m volunteering with the women’s and girls’ teams around the city. So if I can picture my players as women, I can be more effective. And if it turns out thatrelaxed Addiemakes a bad batting coach, then this job isn’t for me, and the manager positionespeciallyisn’t for me.”
“It’s all you’ve ever wanted.”
“It’s what I’ve wanted toprove.” She inhales again. “Like my independence is what I’ve wanted to prove.”
“Your independence is sexy as hell.”
“It’s really, really nice when you do my dishes.”
You can hear how hard it is for her to say that out loud.
And that’s what’s making hope grow in my chest.
She’s trying.
She wouldn’t try if she didn’t want me in her life.
“I’ve done my own dishes for about fifteen years now,” I tell her. “Cooking too. I don’t grocery shop and I don’t do laundry. Spoiled myself hiring those out during one of my early seasons, and I can afford it, so I keep paying for them instead.”
“I know.”
“That doesn’t change when I’m involved with someone.”
“I wouldn’t expect it would. Not with you.”
I love the sound of her voice. It’s a soft melody tickling my ears and making me want to write poetry. An ode to Addie and her voice.
“You know the problem was always me and not you, right?” she says.
“Youare not and never were a problem. You’re a human being who’s been hurt and who’s been through things that make you wary. That’s life.Iam not a problem now, and I wasn’t a problem then either. But my refusal to acknowledge that you needed to go slower than I did was a problem. Myactionwas a problem. Not me. And you needing to go slow isn’t a problem.”
She’s quiet on the other end of the line, like she needs a minute to process.
“I spent a couple years seeing a therapist,” I say. “It…helped.”
“I should do that.”
“Highly recommend it.”
“It scares me how much I like you.”
The way I want to book tickets across the country to meet this woman at her next city so I can look her in the eye and promise her she’s safe with me is almost unbearable.
