“Well, that scout came, and he called Johnson up,” my manager says on the plane the next day.
“Oh. Really?”
“Yeah. Sorry about that, Logan. Thought it’d be you.”
“Oh. Yeah.”
“You’re not disappointed to be staying here? Instead of playing with the big boys in L.A.?”
“Guess it wasn’t in the cards.”
“Oh. You’re taking this better than I expected. Thought you might be pissed.”
I shrug. The truth is that moving to L.A.—and playing in the MLB—is the end goal, yes.
But for once, I’m actually enjoying my life outside of baseball. And I don’t feel like I’m in a rush to move anywhere or do anything.
“It’ll happen when it’s meant to happen,” I say.
He studies me for a second, like he doesn’t quite buy it, then nods and leans back.
I turn toward the window, watching the clouds drift by.
This is supposed to be everything I’ve worked for.
But all I can think about is her—half-asleep, curled into me like she belonged there.
Just then, my phone pings with a message.
Cassie:Hey. Whatcha doin?
Logan:I’m on the plane. Heading to Seattle.
Cassie:Oh. Well don’t let me interrupt.
Logan:Not interrupting. I have a whole row to myself. What are you doing today?
Cassie:Just got back from the coffee shop. June is CRUSHING it today.
Logan:Thanks to you.
Cassie:No. Thanks to you.
Logan:Hey, the guys all like coffee. And not like they have anything better to do. Probably kept them out of trouble that morning.
Cassie:Well…I just wanted to say thank you. That’s all.
Logan:Yeah? That’s it?
Cassie:I also…went on a little shopping spree today.
Logan:Oh.
Cassie:Don’t make it weird.
I smirk, thumbs hovering over the screen.
Logan:Too late for that.
