his eyes intent on mine. “Will you though?”
Shit, there’s that lump again. Damn you. “What are we doing?”
“What do you mean?”
“This. Us. What is this? You wanted a place to live, then sex, now a date…. What’s next?”
Reaching across the table, he takes my hand and squeezes it. “It was never about the sex or the room for rent.”
You know what I think?
Cason and me, our existence in each other’s lives came at a time when we debated our own. A gleam of hope that not everyone in this world has reason or motive to fuck you over. In those days following Collin’s death, before the catastrophe of events that followed, I had anger and hurt deeply. My heart ached for my family, my child, and the future we no longer had.
I have no idea where my life is heading, but I’ve never felt so certain that it has purpose.
For me.
For Tatum.
And for the one across from me.
It’s as if fate knew my pain and his and said here, you can have this one.
I don’t know what will happen after his last game. Regionals and the draft. And my heart hasn’t prepared herself for the idea of this guy who’s worked his way into our lives, one pitch at a time, is going to leave us. I’ve only been on one date with him, but it feels like a lifetime with him.
“Cason?” His eyes lift to mine, waiting. “Are you going to take me home tonight, or what?”
The intensity of his eyes smolders. I know, such a weird word, but I’m telling you now they fucking smolder. “Depends.”
I finish the remainder of my wine and arch a playful eyebrow. “On what?”
His jaw ticks and he swallows before saying, “If I get home-field advantage.”
I start laughing. “I won’t kick you out in the middle of the night.” I wonder if he catches onto the meaning or what I’m implying. For the past month, I’ve made him go back to his room so Tatum doesn’t know.
His eyes narrow on mine, hope and confusion in them. He stares at me, surveying my face as his expression falls serious, his voice dropping. “She might see me.” His tone portrays his emotion more than his words do. And the look in his eyes is unlike anything I’ve seen before.
But you want to know what made the night epic?
Waking up next to him in the morning and Tatum crawling into bed with us.
“Boy,” she says, curling into his arms and laying her head on his chest. “Mama, it’s our boy.”
Our boy is right. The one that showed us love still exists.
Another term for a fastball. “This pitcher is throwing gas.”
CASON
1 MONTH LATER
Blood rushes through my veins, adrenaline pumping with the pounding of my heart. I stare at the ball in my hand and drown out the noise in the stadium. Thousands of people cheering, music blaring, but I hear none of it.
A no-hitter.
That’s what I’m up against. Bottom of the sixth. No hits. A few have got a piece of a couple, and my heart drops when they do, but they foul off the fence post and save my ass.
After the sixth inning, nobody talks to me. Won’t even sit next to me in the dugout. That’s when it begins to sink in. A no-no. Something that doesn’t happen often once you get into the upper levels of baseball.
In the eighth inning, I notice my dad in the stands for the first time. He’s been there the entire time, sitting right next to Sydney and Tatum, yet until now, I haven’t noticed anyone. I’m so far inside my own head, I can’t tell you anything aside from how many fastballs I’ve thrown and that my changeup gets the right fielder every time.
I look to Tatum, who’s wearing all Sun Devils gear, sitting on my dad’s lap, cotton candy in hand, smiling.
Ninth inning, two strikeouts, 0-2 count. I can essentially throw what I want here. Maybe draw the batter to swing, but if he gets a hit, it’s over.
I lift my eyes to Sydney. Seated above the dugout, nervousness on her face, her hands pulled up near her mouth.
I want to laugh. She’s nervous? Ha. I can barely stand up here and toe the rubber without wanting to cry. I haven’t pitched a no-hitter since my sophomore year of high school.
Close the deal. That’s all I need to do. Nodding to Ez’s pitch selection, I grip the ball in my hand. Curveball. I need it to paint