Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Nate
“Why buy good luggage? You only use it when you travel.”
Yogi Berra
The executive floor of the stadium felt more like a luxury hotel than a place where baseball decisions got made—carpet too plush, air too quiet, walls too clean. Everything about it made me feel measured the second I stepped off the elevator.
J.O.’s assistant nodded toward the double doors. “He’s expecting you, Mr. O’Brien.”
Inside, sunlight spilled through floor-to-ceiling glass, the field gleaming beyond. The office was sleek—walnut trim, leather chairs, silver accents, not a trace of clutter. The man didn’t just run the team; he ran it like a Fortune 500.
J.O. stood near the window, tall and lean, fit in that controlled way of people who never lost discipline. He’d inherited the Monsters a decade ago after his father’s sudden death and built them into a powerhouse. Some called him cold. I called him calculated.
“Sir,” I said, my voice rougher than I meant.
He turned with a small smile. “Nate. Come in. Sit down.”
I took the seat across from his desk, pulse steady only on the surface. He lowered himself into the leather chair—white shirt, cufflinks, eyes sharp enough to read everything I wasn’t saying.
“You’ve been with us a long time,” he began. “You’ve given this team your prime and never asked for more than what was fair. That hasn’t gone unnoticed.”
“Thank you,” I said, palms damp.
“You’re thirty-six,” he continued. “Your season’s been solid—better than expected. You’ve stayed healthy, consistent. You still have value to us.”
I nodded, throat tight. “Trying to prove I’ve got more in me.”
“I believe you do,” he said. “But we’re a business, preparing for the next five years, not the next five months.”
It landed like a fastball to the ribs—expected, but still a hit.
“There’s talk around the front office,” he went on. “Not just about your numbers, but your presence. What you bring off the field.”
I wasn’t sure if that was praise or warning. “Alright.”
“We’re considering transitions—coaching, development, maybe front office mentorship. You could shape the next wave.”
My chest tightened. “Are you saying you want me to retire?”
“No,” he said evenly. “But it’s a conversation we need open. We value you, Nate. We also have to be honest about where we’re headed.”
I let the words settle. Not done, not kept—just hovering somewhere in between. Useful, but temporary.
“I want to keep playing,” I said.
“I know. And I believe you,” he replied. “But you’re smart enough to think about the bigger picture.”
He wasn’t sugarcoating it. He was handing me truth.
“What happens next?”
“We let the season play out,” he said. “You keep pitching. Keep showing us what you’ve got left—and keep your options open.”
It wasn’t a yes or a no. Just a pause. A polite deferral wrapped in respect.
“We’ll talk again in the offseason,” he added. “You’ve been a steady hand here. A guy others look up to. Whatever happens, finish this season your way.”
He stood and offered his hand. I rose and shook it, grip firm despite the unraveling inside me.
“Thank you,” I managed.
“You’ve been one of the good ones, Nate,” he said, squeezing my shoulder. “Don’t forget that.”
I stepped out into the hallway and let the door close behind me.
The silence hit first. Then the weight. Nothing had been decided.
Not really. But everything had changed. Every pitch, every inning, every outing from now on would carry the weight of something final.
Like I was auditioning for a role I’d already aged out of.
I walked down the hall slowly, my legs stiff, my chest heavy.
I didn’t know if this was the start of the end, or just the beginning of something else.
All I knew was that the air in the stadium felt thicker now.
Like it was pressing against my chest, reminding me that time didn’t wait, not even for a veteran who’d given everything he had to the game.
Halfway back to the clubhouse, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I didn’t want to check it at first. Didn’t want more weight, more distraction, more decisions to make.
Then I saw her name on the screen.
Cassidy: Should I wear this tonight or would that count as betrayal? ??
Attached was a photo of her in the concourse, standing in front of the Gila Monsters Team Shop mirror. She had on Pavin’s jersey, hanging off one shoulder, her expression sweet and fake-innocent like she didn’t know exactly what the hell she was doing to me.
She was absolutely fucking glowing. Hair gorgeous, eyes bright, lips curled in a smirk that made something in my chest kick hard and I smiled.
I should’ve been mad. Focused. Locked in.
I had a day game to prep for. The owner of the team had just told me to keep my options open.
This should’ve been the moment I pulled away but something like excitement tugged at me.
This damn woman had disrupted my life and yeah, I should’ve ignored the text, her, all of it, but I found myself replying anyway.
Nate: I told you what would happen if you do that, Cassidy. Seems like you’re asking for it now.
I wasn’t prepared.
Not even a little.
The second Cassidy opened the door, my brain forgot how to function. She stepped into the porch light and I forgot how to breathe.
She wore a short, champagne-colored satin dress that clung to her body and showcased every one of her curves.
Thin straps sat barely on her shoulders, the neckline dipping just enough to destroy my concentration.
The hem hit mid-thigh, showing off those legs I’d had wrapped around me more than once in my fantasies.
She wore heels—strappy ones, gold, stupidly hot—and a tiny clutch in her hand.
Her hair was curled and pinned half-up, a few loose strands falling around her face.
My mouth went dry.
“You okay there, old man?” she teased, one brow raised, lips painted in a deep red that made my pulse spike.
“I—yeah.” I blinked. “Yeah, just … you look incredible.”
“Thanks.” She smirked, then leaned in a little closer, her voice dropping. “You’re staring at my legs.”
“You are fucking gorgeous, Cass.” I blew out a breath, laughed, and groaned. “Just, damn.”
A slight blush crept up her face and she twirled for me.
The dress dipped low, showcasing her bare back with the dress held together with one small strap.
There was no way she could’ve worn a bra, and now that’s all I focused on when she turned back around.
My tongue practically swelled. I must’ve had vision issues when I first met her.
“The answer to your question is no.”
“No?”
“I’m not wearing a bra.” She rubbed her lips together as my blood heated. She was a walking fantasy and she knew it. “Figured I’d get that out of the way so you wouldn’t have to worry about it all evening.”
“Fuck,” I whispered, scrubbing my face before I forced myself to turn, to open the truck door for her.
Even that felt clumsy under how hard I was gripping my self-control.
She slid into the seat, her dress rising higher on her thighs, and I had to bite the inside of my cheek just to stay tethered to reality.
She smelled so damn good and I wanted to lick every part of her skin and mark her as mine.
We pulled out of her complex and onto the main road. For a minute, we didn’t speak. I needed that silence. I needed to breathe before I said something feral.
Halfway down the street, she finally glanced at me. “I know you’re struck speechless by my no bra comment, but where are we going?”
I almost laughed at her audacity. I reached over and gripped her thigh, squeezing it for a second before letting go. “It’s called The Marquee. It’s on top of the McDowell House hotel, kind of a speakeasy setup.”
Her lips parted slightly. “Wait, is that the one with the vintage movie theme? I’ve heard of it but—”
“Your dad told me about it,” I said, keeping my eyes on the road.
“He mentioned it to me once on a slow moment outside the clubhouse. He said it was perfect and they were playing a league of their own one night, and he wanted to take you but you couldn’t go.
Said he was planning on taking you for your birthday.
Now, I realize I should ask when your birthday actually is, but for our first date?
I wanted to take you here because I think he would be proud. ”
When I glanced at her again, she wasn’t smiling. Not fully. But her eyes were glassy and her fingers had gone still in her lap. She was quiet for a few long seconds. I kept one hand on the wheel and the other itching to reach for hers, but I waited.
Then she exhaled, soft and shaky. “He would’ve loved this,” she whispered, her voice thick. “And he would’ve teased me for crying on a first date.”
I risked a glance over, and yeah—she was smiling now. Barely. But it was genuine and caused a pleased ache in my chest.
She shook her head and let out a watery laugh. “I haven’t felt like this in a long time, Nate. Like something is … right. And terrifying. And kind. All at once.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I know what you mean.”
“Ugh, okay, enough feelings. I haven’t been on a date in … half a year? Probably more?”
“Your ex didn’t take you out?”
“Mathias?”
“I prefer not to use his name.”
She swatted my arm, chuckling. “So jealous, its precious. But yes, Mathias and I never really went on dates. He’d hang out, spend time with friends, but dating? No. I think we got caught up in things instead of each other.”
“Mm.” I tried not to picture the two of them together, despite the fact they were a good looking couple and he was more her age. “Well, you deserve to be taken out for a nice dinner.”
“I hope you know I don’t need that, right?
I’m not … I don’t care about fancy or nice.
The fact you picked somewhere that had a connection to my dad means more than anything else you could’ve done.
” Her voice softened as she took my hand and kissed the back of it.
“You might be grumpy and crotchety, but you’re thoughtful and being kind is honestly super sexy. ”
“Crotchety?”
“Anyway,” she said, poking my side with a sly grin. “How was your meeting with J.O.?”
I filled her in on the meeting as we drove, keeping my voice even, even though the tension still clawed beneath my skin.
I told her how it wasn’t a yes or a no. Just a “wait and see,” dressed up in business talk and polite smiles.
Cassidy didn’t interrupt, didn’t offer any fake silver linings.
She just listened, her fingers tracing idle patterns across the inside of my wrist while I talked. It helped more than I expected.
When we pulled into the lot at the McDowell House, she sat up straighter. Her eyes tracked the soft glow of the building’s uplighting, the way the dark brick and gold lettering gleamed beneath the early evening sky.
“This is it?” she asked, already smiling.
“Yeah.” I cut the engine, stepped out, and met her at the passenger door.
I didn’t wait—I pressed my hand to the small of her back as we walked toward the side entrance where the elevator waited.
Her skin was warm beneath the fabric of her dress, and the way she leaned into the touch had me desperate to kiss her.
Inside the elevator, she watched the numbers light up. “Is it weird I’m kind of nervous?”
“No.” I couldn’t stop myself from reaching out and running my fingers over her back, over her hair and feeling how soft it was. “I’m nervous too.”
We stepped out into the rooftop lounge and she froze halfway through the door.
The space wasn’t huge, but it was perfect.
Dim and ambient in the best way—lit almost entirely by string lights overhead and old sconces designed to look like golden reel canisters mounted on the walls.
The far side of the rooftop had been transformed into something between a 1940s movie theater lobby and a stylish open-air bar.
Red velvet drapes were pulled back from the glass doors, framing the view of the city like it was the feature presentation.
Oversized marquee letters spelled out Now Showing: Magic, Kindness & One Hell of a View above the bar.
A retro popcorn machine churned near the lounge entrance, its hum soft beneath the crackle of old jazz coming from a refurbished jukebox near the stairwell.
Along the back wall, vintage movie posters lined up in slim black frames—Roman Holiday, Singin’ in the Rain, Casablanca, The Philadelphia Story.
I’d asked them to add The Sandlot for her.
“It’s a speakeasy,” I said as she looked around, eyes wide. “But one made for people who grew up loving stories.”
The bar menu sat on a little black stand at the center of our table, its drinks all named after classic films. The Bogart Old Fashioned. A peach bourbon fizz called Frankly, My Dear. A lavender gin number labeled Marilyn’s Giggle.
And hers, already waiting for her in a tall coupe glass: The Smalls—coconut, lime, and something fizzy with a cherry on top. Oh, and a bouquet of daisies.
She took two steps closer, eyes trailing over the old projector on a pedestal, the reel-inspired chandeliers, and the tiny plate of dill-pickle popcorn beside the drinks. “Oh my god. Daisies! The drinks!”
I stayed back, watching her with my hands in my pockets.
Her shoulders rose with every breath, taking in the details, the care. She circled once, slowly, like she was afraid she’d miss something.
“Is that … is that a Casablanca quote on the window?” she asked, blinking fast.
“Yeah,” I said.
Her hand flew to her chest, and she laughed, light but shaky. “This is the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me. Like … in my life. And I don’t even have a quip for it. That’s how good this is.”
I stepped forward and reached for her hand, wrapping it in mine. “Then let’s make it count.”
She didn’t answer with words. Just looked at me with eyes so bright I wanted to bottle the moment. “I want to kiss the shit out of you right now, Nate O’Brien.”
“By all means.”