“…You okay, Logan?”
I heave a deep sigh, and do my best to force something that resembles gratitude.
“Yeah,” I say. “No. Yeah. This is—this is great.”
My voice sounds off, like it belongs to someone else.
“Thanks.”
He nods, satisfied.
“Good. You earned it. Hate to see you guys go. But that’s what the game is all about, right?”
A beat passes. “Yeah. That’s what it’s about.”
“Don’t worry about tonight. Contract’s already moved. You’re off the hook.”
I swallow. “So I?—”
“Plane leaves tomorrow morning,” he says. “They’ll send you the details.”
Another grin from the man.
“Congrats again.”
“Thanks, Coach Riley.”
“And Logan?”
“Yeah?”
“Welcome to the big leagues. Give ‘em hell.”
I nod, turn, and walk out.
The noise of the clubhouse hits me again.
Louder now, or maybe it’s just me.
“Yo!” someone calls. “You good, Wade?”
I don’t answer, just keep walking past my locker and past the guys out into the hallway.
I pull my phone out and stare at Cassie’s number.
My thumb hovers over her name.
I should call her and tell her.
Right now.
Instead I lock the screen, slide it back into my pocket, and stand there.
This seems like an “in person” type of discussion.
I get a tin of sunflower seeds for the ride home and throw on the same radio station Cassie and I had on during our drive the other day.
“That was George Strait. Playing one of the classics. Now, one of my favorite new ones. Love this cover. Had a request for it the other day, and, well, I do love it.”
