24. Chapter 24
Cade
Icount three rows back from the home dugout twice before I find her, because the ballpark during batting practice is a wall of red and white, and the one face I'm looking for keeps disappearing behind a guy in a foam finger.
Then I see her. Dressed for an October night, hands wrapped around a cup of something she's probably not drinking, looking like she's still deciding whether she's allowed to be here.
She came.
I knew she would. I bought that ticket two weeks ago like it was already decided. But knowing and seeing are different things. My pulse settles, quick and certain, like the calm right before a good pitch.
I pull my phone out between reps.
You came.
The reply takes long enough that I picture her staring at the screen, deciding how much to give away.
You bought the ticket.
Wasn't sure you'd use it.
I'm here.
I know. Can't stop looking.
I put the phone away before Diaz notices my face and asks a question I'm not ready to answer at this exact moment.
By the second inning I've caught myself looking for her three times between pitches, which is exactly the kind of distraction that gets a catcher a mound visit he doesn't need. Reyes would bench me for less if he could see inside my head right now.
I call a fastball away. The batter fouls it off. Garcia, on the mound, gives me a look that says focus, and he's right, so I do. Eighty-two degrees of flexion didn't get me back here so I could lose a playoff game thinking about a woman in section whatever-it-is.
Still. Jogging back to the dugout between innings, I let myself glance up once.
She's watching me, not the field, like she's cataloging something. I grin before I can stop myself.
By the time I come up again in the sixth, I've already grounded into a fielder's choice and struck out swinging, the kind of at-bats nobody remembers. Two outs this time, and a runner on second I need to bring home if we're going to put this game out of reach.
I step in. Roll my shoulders the same as always, except this time I'm aware of doing it. Aware that somewhere in the stands she's probably tracking the motion and thinking about UCL strain and pronation angles instead of just watching me hit.
First pitch, I take it. Ball outside.
Second pitch, I swing through a slider that drops faster than I expect.
Third pitch comes in middle-away, a fastball I've been waiting for all night, and I don't think about my elbow at all. I just swing.
The crack is the kind that tells you everything before you even see where the ball lands. I'm running before I process it. By the time the left fielder tracks it down and fires it back toward the infield, I'm already sliding into second, with our runner crossing the plate.
The stadium comes apart.
I stand up, brush the dirt off my pants, and look straight at her section.
I can't see her face from here, not really. But I don't need to. I know exactly where she's sitting, and I picture her on her feet, hands pressed to her mouth, the unshakable Quinn McKenzie completely undone by a scoring line drive double.
That was for you, I text her after the inning, between sips of water in the dugout.
Show-off, comes back almost instantly.
Wait until dinner.
We secure the win in the ninth. The dugout empties onto the field in the kind of chaos that only happens in October. Somebody dumps a water jug over my head before I even clear the mob.
Somewhere in the middle of getting tackled and shouted at by half my teammates, all I can think about is how fast I can get off this field and find her.
I text her directions through the noise: service entrance, credential check, the long quiet hallway that finally gets me away from the crowd. I'm still in uniform, pants dirt-streaked from the slide, hair still dripping from celebration, when the door opens and she's standing there.
"You came," I say again. I can't help it. I still don't quite believe it.
"You won!"
"That too."
I reach for her and she steps into me like we've been doing this for years instead of days. She smells like the cold she just walked in from, and underneath it, something clean and faintly citrus I've been learning by heart.
"I watched your elbow," she admits against my chest. "The whole game. I couldn't stop assessing."
I laugh, low enough that I feel it more than hear it. "Old habits."
"I kept looking for compensation patterns."
"Find any?"
She pulls back enough to meet my eyes. "No."
"That's because you're really good at your job, Quinn McKenzie."
"Former job. With you anyway." The correction comes fast, automatic. "You're not my patient anymore."
"No." I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, thumb tracing her jaw. "I'm not."
The hallway is empty. Fluorescent light buzzing overhead. Somewhere distant, the rest of the team is celebrating a win that means everything to this season, and I can't make myself care about any of it right now.
"I should let you go celebrate," she says.
"Probably."
Neither of us moves.
"There's a dinner," I say. "It's a team thing, and it's mandatory."
"I know. Graham mentioned it."
"Come with me."
She blinks. "To the team dinner?"
"As my date." I keep my voice steady, even though bringing her into the center of my professional life isn't a small thing and we both know it. "I want you there. I want everyone to know."
Her breath catches, just slightly. "Cade."
"You set the rule." My voice stays steady. Certain. "I don't make decisions about your career without asking first. So I'm asking. Will you come?"
I watch her think it through, the careful walls I know she's spent years building, the ethics policy she helped write, the reputation she rebuilt one client at a time. Then something shifts behind her eyes, and I know which way this is going before she says it.
"Yes."
My grin must give me away completely, because she laughs.
I kiss her then, slow and still a little stunned that I'm allowed to. Nothing rushed. Nothing that needs an audience.
"Twelve days ago," I say against her mouth, "you signed my clearance."
"I remember."
"Best day of my life."
"You just won a playoff game."
"Second best day of my life."
As she laughs, I kiss her again, softer. And my forehead finds hers.
***
The team dinner is loud and chaotic, nothing like the controlled rooms Quinn's spent her career working in. I keep one hand at the small of her back the entire night, mostly because I can, and my teammates keep finding excuses to introduce themselves twice.
Graham catches my eye across the room and raises his glass, half toast, half threat, the kind only a brother gets to give.
We've been friends since college, longer than I've known half the guys in this room.
He's been coming to these things since I signed with the Sox.
Quinn becoming part of this just gave him an excuse to make our brotherhood official.
Diaz corners her near the bar before dessert and asks, half-joking, if she'll take a look at his throwing shoulder once the season wraps.
She hands him her card before I can even finish the introduction, already half back in clinician mode, like muscle memory she can't quite turn off.
Then she catches herself and laughs at the reflex.
I love that off the clock, she still can't stop being good at the thing she loves.
***
Later, once most of the tables have cleared, I lean toward her. "Ready to get out of here?"
"Where are we going?"
"I promised you a tablecloth. I know a place in the Back Bay that'll still be seating."
She laughs. "You're ridiculous."
"You're beautiful." I say it plain, because it's obvious, and her cheeks go pink in a way I want to remember for a long time. "I've been waiting for weeks to say that without it being a problem."
I stand, take her hand, and lead her toward the door.
Graham catches us on the way out. "You're leaving?"
"Taking Quinn for a late dinner." My hand tightens around hers. "Or an early breakfast? Depends on the menu."
Graham looks between us, grin knowing. "About damn time."
We walk out into the Boston night, the air sharp and cold after the warmth of the restaurant.
"More games ahead, which means more travel." She doesn't look at me when she says it. "I can't come to all of them."
"I know."
We're almost to the corner where my car's waiting when she stops walking. Turns to face me.
"This is going to be complicated, isn't it?"
I cup her face in both hands, thumbs at her cheekbones.
"You're not thinking about the schedule."
She doesn't answer right away, which is answer enough.
"You're thinking about what's in the paper tomorrow. Both of our names in the same sentence?"
Her jaw tightens, just slightly. "I spent years rebuilding a reputation one client at a time. I know exactly how fast a story becomes the only thing people remember about you."
"That's not happening again." I hold her gaze, steady. I learned this look on that call, the day I put myself on the record instead of her. "If anyone writes anything tomorrow, it's about me wanting to be seen with you. You don't have to be the story unless you choose to be."
"You can't control what they print."
"No. But I can control what I do next, and tonight I chose to walk you into a room full of my teammates and not let go of your hand once.
" My forehead drops to hers. "You set the rule back at the ranch.
I don't decide things about your career without asking first. This counts.
If tonight was too much, tell me, and we slow down. "
"I don't want you to slow down." Her voice is quiet. Certain. "I just want to know it won't cost me everything again."
"It won't."
"What if I get scared?"
"Then you tell me, and we'll figure it out."
"What if you get tired of me being scared?"
I press a kiss to her forehead, slow and deliberate. "I've wanted you since you handed me that first resistance band and told me not to be late. I'm not getting tired of you. Not tomorrow. Not when this gets loud."
The city hums around us. Somewhere distant, a car horn sounds. A couple passing on the sidewalk pretends not to watch us.
"Okay," she says.
"Yeah?"
She rises onto her toes and kisses me, slow and certain. "Let's go find that tablecloth."