“Yeah?” he pulls back to look into my eyes, and I nod. “I’d like that.”
“So would I,” I agree and nuzzle into his body.
He tucks my leg over his hip, his hand tracing slow, aimless paths along my thigh. His phone buzzes on the nightstand, and we both freeze. He glances over. “It’s not Cal,” he confirms before pulling me tighter to his body, almost possessive. One hand squeezes my calf in a rhythm that feels more instinct than thought, and he presses a kiss into my hair. I could stay here all day, maybe never leave this bed, these arms, ever.
His phone buzzes again.
“Fuck me,” he mutters and snakes a hand out to grab it. I try to shift away, give him space, but he holds me tight against him. “Yeah,” he says into the phone, his other hand trailing up the ridges of my spine.
“Jackson, wait—start over,” he says, sitting up and pulling me with him until I’m nearly in his lap. I glance up at his face, trying to read his dazed expression. Is it good news? Bad?
“It’s July fucking 30th. You’ve got to be kidding me,” he mutters, before easing me onto the bed and striding to the window in his underwear. I tuck the sheet around my nearly naked body and wait, an uneasy lump rising in my throat.
“Yeah, yeah, of course,” he says, nodding his head, then scrubs his hand through his hair. His eyes flick to mine for a moment, then he looks away, like he can’t hold my gaze. “No, of course…this is great. Yeah, I’ll be there.”
He drops his hand and turns to look at me. His mouth opens like he’s about to say something, but nothing comes out. He paces in a tight circle, rubbing the back of his neck. For a second, he just stands there, staring at the floor, then he lifts his head.
“I got a roster spot,” he says, still sounding dazed. “Sophie—it’s the Cubs’ Triple-A team. In Iowa. My agent said they need someone with utility experience and a solid bat. I report tomorrow.”
My throat goes dry.
I should be happy for him, thrilled, but instead the last seven weeks play like a bad highlight reel through my mind. He was never done with baseball. Of course, he wasn’t. He’d kept up his brutal training routine, his disciplined diet, still breaking down swing analytics over our morning lattes.
While I was staring at a blank canvas and a dwindling bank account.
I’d never ask him to give up his dream, but all I can think of is how cruel the timing feels. We just found each other—really found each other. For the first time in years, something in my life felt right. And now he’s leaving.
This summer—just like he said—was a break. A pause on the path to the dream he never gave up on.
The one that takes him away from me just when I thought we had a future.
“You’re leaving?” I ask, and I hate how small my voice sounds.
“It’s the Iowa Cubs,” he says. “Their starting utility guy pulled a hamstring—he was batting .312. If I can show I’ve still got my swing, it’s my best shot.”
“But you’re leaving…tomorrow?”
He exhales, and his shoulders slump. “I have to go, Soph. I mean…this was always the goal.”
He won’t even look at me when he says it.
Of course it was.
I was just a detour.
Just sex. No strings. Just like we’d said.
Then why did it hurt so much?
I watch his back. The ridges of muscles shift as he breathes, looking out the bedroom window to the street below. I thought we’d become friends this summer. I thought we’d become more.
He turns around to look at me, his eyes searching mine, panicked and desperate. A true friend would push down the hurt, the petty jealousy in my gut, and celebrate the one thing he’s wanted his entire life.
But I can’t.
I gather my things, and before I slip out of the room, I whisper, “We were supposed to be broken together.”
Chapter 25
