“Not really.”
“Verydifferent.”
“Failing to see how here.”
“Your relationship with Lila didn’t affect how the team plays.”
“You having a relationship with a hockey player wouldn’t affect how my baseball team plays.”
I bite the inside of my cheek.
“Makes for great promo spots for community outreach programs though,” he muses.
The clinic door swings open, and a string of hockey players exit.
Paisley’s right behind them.
She gives us a small finger wave, then follows the men, who are all cheerfully talking.
Either Duncan’s having a prostate exam, or he’s been cleared to get dressed and go home.
Tripp’s phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, and even if I hadn’t seen Lila’s name, I’d know who was calling based on the smile on his face. “Can you make sure Duncan gets safely to his car?” he says to me. “I don’t want another medical incident if he trips on his shoelaces.”
“Can I turn him over to security instead?”
“If that makes you happier.”
“Thanks. Tell Lila to tell the guys to kick ass at the game.”
“Will do. Let me know ifyouneed anything after today.” He slips back into the stairwell while he answers the phone.
Do I want to see Duncan?
Yes.
Yes, I do.
Entirely too much right now, in fact.
So I catch a security guy and ask him to be available if the clinic needs to hand Duncan off to get him to his car, and then I head to one of my favorite places.
The stands.
The clinic is on the third-base side, so that’s where I emerge to stare out at the ball field and just breathe. It’s approaching noon, but I find a shady seat high in the lower bowl and let myself hunch over, breathing through the need to cry while my eyes wander over the green grass, the dirt mound, the empty stands, the blank scoreboard, and the dozens and dozens of ads.
The pennants the Fireballs have won the past five seasons wave lazily in a light breeze, but the normal sense of pride in my team is overshadowed by the questionwhat the hell do I do about Duncan?
I’m not surprised when the man himself steps into my row of seats. He looks less like a ghost and more like a normal white man, and if he knows my pulse has just shot into the stratosphere at the sight of him, he doesn’t give any indication.
I swallow the lumps that keep threatening to make me cry and force myself to channel my inner badass baseball coach. “Feeling better?”
“Yes and no.”
My brows lift.No?
“Can I join you?” he adds.
“Of course.”
