I went intothe oceanyesterday.
My mind still can’t believe it.
I’ll admit, I’d rented the crappy apartment on the south end of the Virginia Beach boardwalk because as much as I’d never planned on getting in the waterever again, I still feel tethered to the sea. Mags used to joke that salt water flows through my veins. From my tiny balcony, I can see the surfers paddling out at the 1st Street Jetty. It’s become my morning ritual to drink my coffee while watching the wet-suit clad figures ride to shore.
Amelia would beirritatingly accuratein pointing out that by renting an apartment within walking distance of one of the most popular surf spots in the area, my subconscious might be trying to tell me something. I just hadn’t realized how much I wanted to get back into the water until I’d blindly followed Tenny yesterday.
At the time, I hadn’t considered my longstanding fear. All I’d thought about was the defeated hunch of Tenny’s shoulders and how Ineededto make sure he was okay. Only when I’d been thigh-deep did panic squeeze the air from my lungs.
Afterward, when Tenny unceremoniously dropped me at my car, I drove the short distance to my complex in a state of numbness that I’ve been in ever since. Getting through airport security and my flight earlier today, I was essentially a zombie. Even now, as I enter the Stallions’ ballpark, I’m in a fog.
That’s why, instead of scouting the field and taking notes as the players move through batting practice and warm-ups, I stumble into the clubhouse. I just need one minute to snap out of it. Hopefully, there’s an unused office or equipment closet that I can use to give myself a mental kick in the pants.
When I see a slightly ajar door to what looks like an abandoned office, my shoulders drop in relief. But as I get closer, the voice slipping through the crack sounds familiar. I pause beside the door frame, leaning against it.
“I told you to go see the sports psychologist that Trevor recommended,” she says.
The masculine groan makes my heart pause midbeat.
Is that…
“Lots of athletes have superstitions.”
Yup. That’s definitely Tenny’s voice. As much as the reporter in me really,reallywants to hear this conversation, the right thing would be to continue down the hall.
“Do they have six?” Arizona challenges.
I take a step back only to be yanked to a stop. A loose nail on the door frame has caught the sleeve of my blouse.
“Probably more,” Tenny challenges before sighing. “Fine, I need to work on it. I’ve been thinking about it for a while, actually.”
I grimace, silently trying to free the fabric. This gauzy garment seemed like a good idea with my linen trousers because it’s considerably warmer here than in Virginia, but now the delicate fabric is seconds from ripping.
“And who’s always right?”
“Never you.”
Arizona scoffs. “Which superstition can’t you complete today? The Sour Patch one or the sunflower seed one?”
“No, um. There’s a new one.”
“Tennessee.”
Meanwhile, my shirt has decided that it can’t be parted with its new soulmate—the door. I fiddle with the delicate fabric, mentally trying to cover my ears.
“The new reporter, Alex…”
When he says my name like it hurts, my brows furrow, and my fingers still.
“Friedrich and I like how she always gives you a hard time. What about her?”
“I…” Tenny clears his throat. “I need to tap her knuckles before a game, but I don’t think that will happen today.”
“Is she not there?”
My heartbeat is suddenly deafening in my ears.
“She should be. It’s just…”
