Susan leans back, watching me.
“You seem lighter,” she says slowly. “Happier.”
My gaze flicks to Amelia before I can stop it.
I grin. “Sometimes things happen that are out of your control, and you just need to roll with it.”
Susan’s brow dips. “What do you mean?”
I shrug. “You’ve told me how many times over the years that maybe something besides baseball could make me happy?” I stand, feeling bold, reckless, alive. “I think I might be on the verge of finding something that makes me as happy as baseball does.”
Susan smiles, genuinely pleased. “Wow, Wilder. That’s amazing. What is it?”
I wink and grab my jacket.
Amelia looks panicked now. Her eyes wide, cheeks flushed, breath caught.
“Oh,” I say lightly as I head for the door. “That’s not something I’m going to talk about.”
I pause, glancing back at her, letting my gaze linger just long enough to make the message clear.
“Not yet, anyway.”
Then I walk out, heart pounding, already counting down the hours until tonight.
Practice should clear my head.
It usually does.
The crack of the bat. The smell of dirt and grass. The rhythm of warm-ups and drills has always been enough to quiet everything else. Today, though, Amelia is everywhere. In my head. In my chest. In the way, my body still feels tuned to her like a frequency I can’t turn off.
Every pitch I throw, I’m thinking about her smile this morning. The way she pretended nothing happened while her cheeks betrayed her. The way she looked at me like she already knew my tells.
I miss her.
That realization hits harder than it should.
“Yo, Wild.”
Kamden’s voice cuts through my thoughts, and for half a second, dread coils low in my gut.
Does he know?
Can he see it?
I turn, forcing my usual easy grin into place. “What’s up, bro?”
He tosses me a towel, plopping down on the bench beside me. “You hungry tonight?”
“Always,” I say.
He nods, like he’s already decided something. “Come over. Grab some beers, order food. Feels like it’s been forever since we just hung out.”
My mind races.
Tonight was supposed to be Amelia and me. Private. Controlled. As controlled as anything between us can be, anyway.
“Uh,” I start, rubbing the back of my neck. “I might?—”
