“Doc,” he says, slow and appreciative. “You look…damn.”
I roll my eyes, even as heat creeps up my neck. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”
He grins, opening the passenger door for me. “Careful. You keep talking like that and I might get the wrong idea.”
We’re flirting. Openly. Boldly. And it feels dangerously good.
The drive is quiet at first, the city thinning as we get closer to the stadium. I can feel him working through something beside me. His tight jaw and grip firm on the wheel.
“You okay?” I ask softly.
He exhales. “Yeah. Just thinking.”
“You don’t have to do this tonight,” I remind him. “We can turn around.”
He shakes his head. “No. I need this. I just—” He swallows. “I don’t want to lose it once I’m out there.”
“You won’t,” I say, reaching over without thinking.
My hand lands on his forearm.
He stills.
Then he covers my hand with his own, squeezing gently. “Thank you.”
The simple touch sends a rush through me I have no business feeling.
We park far from the main entrance and slip out quietly, moving through shadows and side gates like kids sneaking out aftercurfew. When we finally step onto the field, he lets out a breath that sounds like it’s been trapped in his chest for years.
“This place…” he murmurs.
I smile softly. “I’ll give you a minute.”
I start to step back, but his hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around mine.
“Stay,” he says. Not commanding. Not pleading. Just honest.
I stay.
We walk together toward the pitcher’s mound, the grass cool beneath our feet. He stops, shoulders squaring, eyes glossy under the stadium lights.
“He was a son of a bitch,” Wilder says suddenly. “Drank too much. Didn’t give a shit about me. He mourned my mother instead of living with me.” His jaw tightens. “Everything good I am is despite him.”
I squeeze his hand, my chest aching.
“He taught me how to play ball,” he continues. “It was the only time he spent with me, and I fucking reveled in it. I always wanted more. I hated him.” His voice breaks. “But I love that because of him, I’m doing what I love.”
Tears blur my vision.
“I hope he’s at peace with my mom,” he finishes. “And I hope he knows I loved him, even when he treated me like shit.”
I wipe at my cheeks, then lace my fingers tighter with his. “He knows, Wilder. He might not have been able to say it but he knew.”
He nods once, stepping forward, letting go of my hand only long enough to open the container. The ashes scatter gently over the mound, carried by a quiet breeze.
When he turns back to me, there’s relief in his eyes and something else. Something deep. Intimate.
He steps close, close enough that I can feel his warmth, his breath.
