Chapter Thirty-One
I should not be here.
Agreeing to meet Cade at his home after the all-client dinner is objectively a bad idea.
Last time I was here, it almost ended with me on his lap and our lips sewn together.
But I’m a damn good agent, and his vague comment at the third hole about Jon not being an issue anymore won’t stop needling at me until I make sure he’s okay.
Pacing across the wraparound porch, I weigh my options. There’s still time to leave. Sure, he watched me park my car from the window, but I can come up with a good excuse.
Explosive diarrhea? Food poisoning? Bubble guts?
Maybe something less stinky.
“Debating how to let me down?”
I didn’t even notice the door had opened.
Cade stands in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame.
It’s hard not to stare, especially now that we’re not surrounded by my other clients.
He’s still wearing his mini golf outfit, but a pair of glasses are perched on his nose. He always hated wearing contacts.
“Sort of,” I admit, toe scuffing the ground. “Why did we need to meet at your house for this?”
Cade grins, sparkly like the white walls behind him. “There’s something I want to show you in person, but if you prefer, I’ll bring them to your office when I get back from D.C. Whatever you want.”
“It’s okay,” I say with false ease. “I’m already here.”
Stepping aside, he gives me freedom to roam his space.
I didn’t have time to take in the house when I delivered the All-Star Game news, but I can now.
Floor-to-ceiling windows wash the room in the moon’s silvery glow.
My pink Converse squeak across the espresso hardwood.
Stacks of video games sprawl beneath the biggest television I’ve ever seen.
Framed photos of the people he loves cover the walls.
One of our many unfulfilled goals was to live together if Cade was ever traded to North Carolina, but the universe had other plans. He made himself a home here while I’m still struggling.
The hole deepens in my chest as I follow him into the kitchen.
“So, what did you want to show me?” I ask, taking a seat on a cushy stool at the island table. It’s so polished, it could double as a mirror.
Cade opens a taupe cabinet, grabs two glasses, and fills them with water. “Don’t you want to know what Jon said?”
Honestly, no. If I hear anything else he did to hurt Cade, I might explode. But I’m starting to realize this conversation isn’t for me. He needs and wants to talk about it.
My dismay dims slightly at his openness. “Sure. What happened?”
“You’ve never been a good liar, but thank you.” He slides onto the stool beside me. “It was a short conversation. He wanted me to make a statement about our time working together. Apparently, my silence has been keeping him from getting some valuable clients.”
“He asked you to lie for him?”
“Basically. He said it was the least I could do after everything he did for me, and that I could help him out.”
“Help him?” My fist slams against my table. “That emotionally abusive and manipulative piece of shit! Oh, when I get my hands on him—”
“No, Shay. It’s okay. Really.”
Cade’s voice is too calm and measured when speaking about finally confronting the person who forced him to cling to a title, ignored how unhappy he was, and pushed him through physical pain. Yet the man sitting beside me is composed and kind.
Two things I wouldn’t be if I were in his position.
“That sad excuse for an agent didn’t do his job. If you decide to break your silence, he should be dragged through the mud. Complaints should be filed, Cade. He should lose everything.”
“Maybe, but I don’t care anymore. Not about what the media says or what anyone expects of me.
” A sharp laugh leaves his lips when my jaw drops in disbelief.
“Okay, I do care, a lot. And I always will, but I don’t want to live life like this anymore.
Spending every moment worrying I’ll make a mistake and get demoted or traded.
Caring about the expectations of others.
Staying up too late preparing for games and running on fumes. I want to just be.”
Just being started off as nothing more than a phrase that left my lips in an attempt to help, but Cade took those words to heart. A state of just being is different for everyone, and for him, it’s releasing the weight of the world’s expectations.
I’ve never been more proud of him.
Breaking rule five, I press my bicep against his. “Do you feel better?”
“I do.” He shatters rule five and rests his hand on top of mine. “And CLU emailed me this morning. I’ll be able to finish my degree in person during offseason, which means you did it.”
Finally. After getting no response from them after multiple follow-ups, I started looking at other universities that would take his credits.
But I know how much Cade loves Clear Lake University.
It’s his dream to graduate from there, so I stood in the reception area until someone finally made time to meet with the woman who refused to leave.
“I’ve always got your back, Cade. In baseball and in life.”
“I know you do. It’s what made saying goodbye to Jon so easy. You showed me what a good agent looks like.” My hand goes cold when he lets me go, but he grabs a box and slides it in front of me. “And I want to show you this.”
With cautious hands, I peel back the flaps of the box. The penmanship of a physician is scrawled across every inch of yellow paper. At first glance, they look like love letters, but they’re anything but kind.
This is your worst game so far. Gotta work on your quickness.
I reach for another, and the rest are equally atrocious.
Do you want to be in the minors forever?
First good stop of the night. Sucks that we’re in the eighth inning.
Not good enough for the golden boy. You can do better than this.
“What the fuck?” My voice echoes, ricocheting off the beams in his fancy ceiling. “He wrote you anti-love notes? ”
Cade doesn’t seem to grasp just how pissed off I am, because he looks downright cheerful as I plunge my hand back into the box. But my curse is cut short when my fingers snag on something daintier.
Screw yellow legal pads. Pink is better. Thanks for being honest
My chest tightens as I continue sifting through the box, finding more pink scattered in the yellow.
Great stop on that rocket from Ulysses! You’re a machine tonight
Rookie of the year? I think yes
Just be Cade. That’s all that matters
It’s kind of annoying how good you are at this
How cool is it to be Cade? Looks pretty fun to me
Stop beating yourself up over one mistake. One mistake doesn’t dictate the entire game unless you let it, so don’t
By the time I’ve read every pink sticky note, my vision is a kaleidoscope of light and colors from the tears clouding my vision.
“You kept these?” I ask, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand.
“Every single one.”
“Why?” I ask. I need to know.
Cade shakes his head at me like I should know the answer.
“Because you wrote them for me. At first, it reminded me of our BYOB nights, and I was happy to have them back in some form. We may not have been breaking down each game side by side, but your feedback was always special to me.” With a lazy smile, he hands me a shoe box. “Now open this.”
I follow his instructions, and the sight of more pink sticky notes makes me hesitate. These aren’t from the last three months. They’re faded, crumpled, and ripped, with doodled smiley faces looking up at me.
Appointment with team doc for my hammy. Come by after?
Mally’s making spaghetti. Invite Kenneth if he promises to act right
30-minute nap! New record!
I’ll be studying at the library tonight for a sports marketing exam, but stop by and keep me company if you have time
My heart stutters as I lift the last note I wrote him. I had mailed it to him a week before things ended between us.
What are the odds you come home right now? I miss you
“This is what I used to counteract Jon’s notes.
” Cade hauls himself from the stool, steps behind me, and brackets me in his arms. “After I ruined things, these notes were the only way I could hear your voice. I always read them in hopes that your words, your love, would outweigh the bad until all I could see and hear was you.” A rush of air escapes my lungs as his chest presses against my back.
“And if it isn’t clear, all I see is you, Shay,” he continues, breath dancing across my collarbone.
“And you see me. You’re the person I want to tell everything to at the end of the day.
The good, the bad, and the ugly. I can’t change the past, but I can promise there will be no more running away. I want to run to you always.”
Each word sinks into my skin like a tattoo of his promise, but it doesn’t hurt or sting. And even if it’s stupid of me, I know I believe him.
I only get one last moment in his embrace before he backs away. He wasn’t lying about letting me take the lead. He’s a gentleman to his core.
It’s one of my favorite things about him.
Clearing his throat, he opens the pantry. “Want to stay and make s’mores with me? I got chocolate bars with almonds because you like them crunchy.”
A quick peek at the clock tells me it’s way too late. Dinner went past our reservation, because after the impromptu speeches, Holly challenged everyone to a rematch and won again.
However, I’m not ready to go home yet.
I stand. “I’ll stay as long as we burn his notes.”
“Have I told you lately that I love your brain?” Tossing me a candy bar, he grins, and it widens when I catch it. “Because I really do.”
If I didn’t know otherwise, I’d assume Cade had a secret girlfriend because the backyard is too perfect.
Flowering garden beds line the tall fence, providing extra privacy.
A picnic table sits in the middle of the yard, covered with Jenga blocks.
But it’s the string lights hanging over us that are making me overthink.
They’re too golden, and a little too romantic draped between two massive oak trees.
It’s as if we’re at our own backyard wedding.
“Do you throw a lot of parties?” I ask over the crackling fire. “You’ve got the perfect house for it.”
“No.” Tired eyes drift around the massive space. “The family I bought the house from left everything behind. It’s not my forever place, but I’m happy here until that day comes.”
His words land heavily, like he knows my little red house is where he should be. With me. Like we planned.
Crumpled yellow papers flutter across the gravel, carried by the cool breeze. Halfway through Jon’s disgusting notes, I lost it. The paper might as well have been his head, because I crushed each one in my fist.
As Cade loads fluffy marshmallows onto sticks, I ask, “Are you sure you want to do this with me?
“Without a doubt. I started this journey with you years ago, Shay. Way before going pro, it was me and you, filling out sticky notes and spending our days at the batting cages.” There’s a grounding intensity to him as he looks into my eyes.
“So, if I’m closing a chapter, it’ll be with you. You’re the one I want here.”
He reaches for my hand, and I freeze, unsure if I should let him hold it. Instead, he uncurls my balled-up fingers and presses the stick into my palm, forcing me to relax.
“He’s no longer my problem. It’s time for me to let it go.”
Taking a page from his composed playbook, I straighten and hand him the box. “Then let’s make it an official ceremony. Do you have anything you want to say first?”
There’s no resentment as he studies the cardboard in his lap. Instead, his lips are curved upward in that small smile I know so well.
A real Cade Owens smile.
“Goodbye, Jon. Out of all the things you believed you did for me, I can only think of one to thank you for. Thanks for pushing me back to Shay. Every moment working with you hurt like hell, but I’m finally back with my favorite person.”
Then he tips the box into the fire. The flames greedily attack the paper, roaring to life before they settle, flickering and calm, like even they’ve had enough. As if they read the notes, the comments, and the doubts and decided there was nothing worth keeping.
And in the silence that follows, something shifts.
It’s a subtle kind of loosening, like the knot inside Cade finally lets go, and I can’t look away.
Broad shoulders drop a fraction, and I realize how high they’ve been since he walked into Permian.
His left hand loosens, fingers uncoiling one by one, no longer preparing to fight.
His exhale is slow. Not a sigh, but something deeper and more serene.
Pushing his hand over the armrest, it hangs between our chairs for a moment. And even though I shouldn’t, I do the same. It’s not a surprise when our pinkies brush, nor is it a surprise when they interlock in a silent promise to always be there for each other.
No matter what.
With his free hand, he holds up a marshmallow. “To the future.”
I tip my marshmallow against his. “To the future.”