I shook my head. “You went straight to the Indigos without any problem.”
“I went, but I had problems. I lost my mojo. Sure, I did okay, but nothing like before. I kept thinking that godlike hand-eye coordination wasn’t enough. I had to be more, but I didn’t know what that was.”
I remembered his quip so long ago, but I also recalled that he’d seemed troubled, even as he’d made the joke.
“But you played fine.” Sure they hadn’t made the playoffs, but that was because their pitcher had given up six runs.
He huffed out a breath. “I wasn’t fine. I was losing my focus, confused about who I was, and thinking nonstop about you.” Then before I could argue, he held up a hand. “Until my coach told me to choose. The girl or the career.”
“You choose the career.” Obviously.
He nodded. “But that still didn’t finish it. You’d started me thinking and I couldn’t stop. Not until I figured it out.”
I straightened. “Well? What’s the answer?”
His expression shifted. Like the sun coming out, he went from confessional to brilliant with just a slow smile that pulled out that dimple. “Patience.”
I was so enthralled with that dimple that I didn’t hear his answer at first. And then when I did, I had to replay it in my head. “What?”
“Patience. Hitting homers isn’t just about focus and athleticism.”
“There’s practice, dedication, raw swing speed—”
“Yeah, yeah.” He waved those off with a flick of his fingers. “It’s about waiting for the right pitch and for the ball to get to the right place.” His smile widened. “Patience.”
“And what if you don’t get the right pitch?”
“But I always do. Eventually.”
That didn’t make any sense. In fact, there were a whole slew of guys working really hard to make sure he didn’t get the right pitch ever.
“That’s why I screwed up today,” he said. “Because I wasn’t being patient. I was too anxious to see you after the game.”
I felt my body heat at that. I’d been crazy insane wondering if I’d get a chance to see him. How much worse would it have been for him to know we’d be able to talk to each other after all these years? Then my thoughts splintered as he reached out and stroked my cheek. A slow caress that made my breath catch and my core tighten with need.
“I had to realize that patience was my secret weapon. And that what worked in baseball would work in real life.”
“Patience?” I echoed, the word coming out more like a whisper than a question.
“Yes. It wasn’t the right time for us back then. We were in different cities, different times in our lives. You were still in college and I was in the minors, trying to figure out how to live an adult life. It wasn’t going to work and we both knew it.”
I didn’t want to admit it, but he was right. Back then, I’d been fine with a one-sided secret obsession. A real relationship would never have worked. Neither of us had the time or focus that a relationship required.
“You still could have called,” I groused.
“But I never would have stopped at a call. And it wasn’t time yet.”
I grimaced, unwilling to agree even when part of me already had. “We could have set boundaries.”
His lips curved, and this time the look was lascivious. “That never works with me.”
Or with me.
“And look,” he continued, as he stroked his thumb along my jaw. Every part of my body thrilled to that caress. Like he was dialing me up to 110 degrees. “I’m in Indianapolis, and you’re right here. It’s time, Heidi. And all I had to do was wait.”
My entire psyche rebelled at that. Who waited passively for a relationship to come around? My Asian upbringing emphasized discipline and drive. But I knew that sometimes waiting was the hardest thing to do, and even harder was trusting what was meant to be would be. But God, I hated that idea. Almost as much as I thrilled to the idea that we were fated somehow. That the universe had somehow conspired to get us together when the time was right. As in right now.
“I don’t know what to say,” I finally murmured. “I’d never expected a superathlete to be so fatalistic.”
