The crowd surged and groaned around me—beer sloshing, someone yelling advice that would never be followed. I smiled faintly at that, then leaned forward again, elbows on my knees. Different arena. Grass instead of ice. Same edge. I wondered if Cam felt it too.
Bottom of the ninth, and the place was on its feet. Chicago had runners on, two outs, and the count full. Cam took his time on the mound, rubbing the ball between his fingers, eyes flicking once to first, then back to the plate. He shook off the catcher. Once. Twice. On the third sign, he nodded. He went with the changeup.
Not the obvious call—not with that count, not with that hitter—but he sold it perfectly. Same arm speed as the fastball, same release point, the pitch dropping out of the zone at the last second. The batter committed, swung through empty air, and the sound of it—the miss, the umpire’s call, the collective intake of breath before the roar—hit a half-second later.
Strike three.
The dugout exploded. The crowd did too, a wall of noise crashing down as Cam walked off the mound as if he’d known all along how it would end. I was on my feet with the rest of them before I realized it, heart pounding, adrenaline buzzing under my skin.
And he saw me.
Or at least he was staring in my direction, and I got stuck there, caught in his gaze. He lifted a hand and waved, and it took me a beat too long to respond. What if the gesture wasn’t meant for me? I fought the urge to turn around and check, then waved back anyway, probably not subtle at all, heat flooding my face.
Did anyone else see me do that? Christ.
I dropped back into my seat and waited while the people around me filtered out, suddenly very interested in my phone. I clicked my watch strap open and shut, open and shut, until the spike of embarrassment dulled enough for me to breathe through.
My phone vibrated with a message, which flashed up in my notifications. Unknown.
Unknown: Coffee? I’ll be done in an hour. There’s a quiet place on Ashbury—Low Tide Coffee, the back room is usually empty. Or, if you didn’t drive, meet me at the player parking lot. I’ll tell security to let you through.
Unknown: Was the hotdog good?
Unknown: This is Cam, BTW, sorry
Unknown: Got your number from the charity paperwork, not a stalker, promise.
I stared at the messages longer than I meant to, added his name to the number, and saved it to my contacts.
I hadn’t driven. I didn’t have a car here yet, or a real place of my own. Everything I owned fit into two suitcases and a stick bag, with anything else in whatever storage locker I could find, and I’d never bothered fixing that. Temporary was safer. Temporary meant I couldn’t lose anything for a fourth time.
On my salary, permanence wasn’t even realistic. Not yet. Maybe never.
My thumb hovered over the screen. Coffee felt loaded. Player parking felt worse. Private. Intentional. The kind of thing you didn’t agree to unless you were ready to follow through.
I wasn’t sure I was.
I could ignore it. Pretend I hadn’t seen it. Let the moment pass the way everything else always did.
But I was tired of shrinking. Tired of hiding in hotel rooms and pretending emptiness was the same thing as peace. Maybe Cam saw something in me and wanted to be a friend, and perhaps I should let him. Someone who didn’t know much about my dad, someone who could learn about me without all the baggage I carried.
I exhaled slowly, squared my shoulders, and typed before I could overthink it.
Jari: Yes.
Jari: I’ll meet you in the parking lot.
Jari: Thank you
He sent me a thumbs-up, and I killed some more time where I was, then finally made my way to the first of many security doors, hoping that with my Railers ID and his putting my name on some random security list, I could get through.
It was easy, and all too soon I was standing in player parking, leaning against the wall, back in the shadows, cap down, hands in my pockets.
He wasn't the first person out, but when he and his catcher, Yanni Kallias, stepped into the parking space, he was glancing around searching for me, and when he saw me…
Fuck.
He smiled.
