I don’t usually let women see the part of me that isn’t loud or cocky or untouchable. I don’t usually care when they leave in the morning.
But when Amelia slips out before sunrise so no one sees her car outside my building, I feel it.
I miss her before she’s even gone.
I pull my phone from my pocket and scroll through our messages.
Amelia:Did you land?
Me:Yeah. Miss you already.
Amelia:Focus on baseball, Wilder.
Me:I can do both.
That’s the thing.
She doesn’t compete with the game.
She fits beside it.
On the mound tonight, I felt her absence in a way I didn’t expect. Before my first pitch, I glanced toward the stands out of habit. She wasn’t there. Of course, she wasn’t, California’s a long way from home, but my body still looked.
I pitched well. Damn well. Eight strikeouts. One earned run. We took the win.
The guys celebrated. I went through the motions. Interviews. Handshakes. The mask in place.
But now, alone in this room, the quiet is louder than the crowd ever was.
I drop onto the bed and stare at the ceiling.
This is what full bloom feels like, I think.
Not fireworks. Not chaos.
Steady.
Intentional.
Real.
I don’t know how we’re going to keep this from Kamden forever. I don’t know how long we can walk that line without getting burned.
But I’m not sneaking around forever.
Because Amelia Bronwyn isn’t a secret.
She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
And I’m done pretending she’s anything less.
New York feels right againthe second I walk into my apartment and she’s there.
Shoes kicked off by the door. Her sweater folded over the arm of the couch. The faint scent of her shampoo clinging to the air like she belongs here.
Because she does.
We don’t rush each other when I get back from California. There’s no dramatic kiss at the door. No desperate tearing at clothes.
