Epilogue
Three Months Later
I hate moving.
Usually, at least. I’ve moved multiple times in the last two years, but I’m sure this will be the final time I have to pack my belongings, pile them into a moving truck, and unpack them all over again.
Moving in after three months of dating may seem quick to some people, but today is years in the making.
“Why are your bathroom boxes so dang heavy? I thought men only have a toothbrush, toothpaste, and a 5-in-1 body wash that they use for everything from their face to their ass.”
With a kiss to Shay’s forehead, I scoop the box from her arms. “Blame Lula for that. And ouch. You know my hygiene is better than a teenager’s.”
This is only the first of four boxes filled with Loc & Key products. Our partnership is thriving, and with Andy still by my side, we extended our contract.
In the bathroom, I place the box on the ground with the others and take in the space. Two towels hang over the door. Two toothbrushes sit beside the double sinks. Two pairs of slippers hide beneath the counter, both fuzzy and pink because that’s what she wanted.
There’s two of everything because this is now our bathroom.
Shay has lovingly reminded me multiple times that this place belongs to us and that I shouldn’t worry about taking up too much space.
And it’s clear she meant it. Pieces of me are woven into every part of the house.
My pillows sit to the right of hers, with my alarm clock and glasses on the nightstand.
Video games are stacked beside her rom-com DVDs under the television.
The beanbag chair I’ve had since Kenneth gave it to me on my sixteenth birthday sits in the corner.
Photos that once lined the walls of my home now line the walls of our home, updated with pictures of us over the last three months.
When I walk into the kitchen, Shay is hunched over my lone box of kitchen supplies. We traded my fridge for hers, but other than a few essentials, I’m starting fresh.
“You donated my favorite glass cups but kept the janky toaster?” She glares at the beat-up toaster like it personally offended her.
“She’s not janky.” I pick it up and rub a hand over the toaster protectively. “She has character.”
“She has tetanus,” Shay rebuffs before snatching it. “It’s been years. You need to throw it away already. It literally fell off the back of Kenneth’s truck on the highway, shocked you when you tried to unplug it, and Mallory punted it after it burned her waffle.”
MalPal punted it twice, but I can’t get rid of it.
Shay rolls her eyes, but instead of tossing it into the black trash bag like she wants to, she slides it onto the counter beside her completely functional one.
It may not seem like much, but it’s damn near a declaration of love.
To be fair, everything about me moving in has seemed intentional and full of love. She stocked the pantry with my favorite snacks, replaced the batteries in the smoke alarms because she’s giving me another chance to cook for her, and made plenty of room for my clothes in the closet.
And not once has she checked her phone.
There was a time when she would’ve spent the whole day with her phone in hand, sending emails, fielding phone calls, and doing whatever her supervisor wanted, but things are different now. She’s her own boss, running Even Odds Sports Agency in a way that makes her happy.
She’s lighter now, and it’s noticeable as she plops onto the floor in the living room. There’s still that busy nature I love, built by ambition and running on caffeine, but there’s a calm that allows her to enjoy this moment.
She’s fully present and completely mine.
The boxes surrounding us are filled with my childhood baseball memories. Mom didn’t want a single piece of memorabilia to be forgotten or lost, so she collected them and boxed them up, hiding them in her attic until I was ready to take them.
Shay pulls out twelve rusted trophies. “If these are just from first grade, I don’t think there’s going to be enough room on the mantle.”
“They can go in storage.” I laugh, opening another box that has at least ten more identical trophies. “I guess Mom was happy to get rid of all of my childhood boxes, because she gave me everything she could.”
“Or she knew you’d want to fill this space with parts of you.” She digs around and pulls out something that makes my heart squeeze. “Like your first baseball glove. This has to stay out.”
“Are you sure?” I ask. “I don’t want to overrun your house—”
“Our house,” she corrects me again. “This is our home as of this morning when we left your house empty and you officially started leasing it. I know you’ve moved around a lot for baseball, and you may get traded and have to leave Clear Lake someday, but this will always be your home, Cade.
Your permanent place. Somewhere you can always come back to. ”
I love the sound of that.
This feels like home.
Shay feels like home.
“Plus,” she sings, “it’ll fit in with the other stuff. We’ve got your College World Series rings. And we can’t forget about your Rookie of the Year plaque. Anytime someone comes over, they’ll see your past and present in baseball.”
A month has passed since I received the award, and it still doesn’t feel real. Coming back to North Carolina changed my life in ways I’ll never forget. The way I saw myself was altered in a matter of three months, and I owe it all to the wrecking ball of an agent sitting in front of me.
Telling the world about Jon wasn’t the end of my story with him.
Instead, I was approached by more of his old clients who were ready to tell their stories of how Jon pushed them past the brink and into a dangerous spiral of fear.
Articles continue to be printed and shared about all the terrible things he did to his clients, like sending one into an early retirement after an injury.
After that, there was no saving his career. We celebrated with champagne when he was no longer listed as an agent on the ProPact website.
And in two semesters, I’ll be able to add my Clear Lake University diploma to the wall beside Shay’s. Offseason has been full of studying, spending my days with her, and just being.
Baseball is fun again. Life is fun again. Being me is fun again.
When she looks up from the glove, her bottom lip is trembling.
“You okay?” I ask.
She nods, then, quietly says, “It’s just real now.”
Taking her hand, I pull her up and lead her to the couch. It’s littered with boxes, blankets, and picture frames, but I find a space for us and set her onto my lap. With my chin against her collarbone and arms around her waist, she settles into me like it’s second nature.
“It was real before,” I say. “Moving in together is the next step.”
“A big and fun step.” She turns in my arms and props her legs across the rolled-up rug. It’s a housewarming gift from her mom, who’s excited to meet me next month. “Are you sure you’re ready for my middle-of-the-night pacing when a client’s having a meltdown?”
I smile, thinking of her full client list. Holly, Victoria, Brett, Delilah, and Lionel rejoined her team not long after Even Odds officially opened.
Deshawn is healthy and playing like a star.
Simon Godfrey, the second baseman who pitched himself to her at the All-Star Game, also joined her team a few weeks ago.
And yesterday afternoon, Garrett Blane called and pitched himself to her.
She’s a superstar. She wanted eight clients. She secured eight clients.
“As long as you’re pacing in our bedroom,” I say, “I don’t mind at all.”
She looks around the house, eyes full of certainty. “Welcome home, Cade. I made space.”
I smile. “And I brought the dark chocolate chips.”
Her laugh bounces off the walls of our home, where there’s dozens of baseball trophies, an endless pile of rom-coms, liters of bubble bath liquid, a busted toaster on the counter, and love in every corner.
“What are the odds we get everything we’ve ever wanted?” she asks.
Our lips meet, and I savor it.
“Better than even odds. This is everything I’ve ever wanted.”