Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
I give up pretending like I’m going to fall back asleep and slide out of bed. Maybe a run will help. Exhaustion will stop me from replaying that moment at the fence when Jay handed me the baseball. And if I run far enough, I'll stop thinking about how he looked at me before every single strikeout.
Yeah, right. And maybe I'll suddenly develop amnesia about his entire pitching repertoire.
I'm lacing up my running shoes in the kitchen when I hear the front door. My heart does this stupid skippy thing because I know—I just know—who else would be up this early after a game.
"Couldn't sleep either?" Jay's voice comes from the doorway.
I spin around too fast and nearly fall off the kitchen stool. He's in running shorts and a faded State Baseball shirt that I remember. Oh boy, do I remember that shirt.
"I always run," I lie. "Love running. Big runner, that's me."
His mouth quirks up. "Since when? You used to say running was only acceptable if someone was chasing you with a weapon."
"People change." I stand and do an elaborate hamstring stretch to prove my dedication to fitness. "I'm very athletic now."
"Tracy, you're stretching your quad, not your hamstring."
I switch legs. "I knew that."
"Want company?" He's already stretching—correctly—and I try not to notice how his shirt rides up. "I know a good route. There's a park with a baseball field about two miles out."
Of course there is. Because the universe has a twisted sense of humor.
"Sure," I hear myself say. "Just a casual run between two people who barely know each other."
We jog, and I concentrate on not dying. Jay kindly keeps the pace easy, though I catch him hiding a smile when I start breathing hard after half a mile.
"So," he says conversationally, "twenty-one strikeouts."
"Was that a lot? I couldn't tell."
"You marked my release point changes between the fourth and fifth innings."
I almost trip. "You saw my scorecard?"
"Ted noticed you in the stands. Said there was a woman charting pitches like a scout." He glances at me sideways. "He asked if the Stars had hired someone new."
"That's... embarrassing."
"That's incredible. Do you know how much I've missed having you watch me and understand what I’m doing and why?"
The words hang between us in the humid morning air. We run in silence until we reach the park.
The baseball field spreads out before us in the early morning light, dew still glittering on the grass. My feet automatically carry me toward the mound.
"Remember when you taught me how to throw a curveball?" I ask, stepping onto the rubber.
"You mean when you demanded I teach you so you could, quote, 'properly appreciate the artistry'?"
"It worked, didn't it?"
He joins me on the mound, standing close. "Want to see if you remember the grip?"
I nod, not trusting my voice. He takes my hand, positioning my fingers on an imaginary baseball. His hands are warm and calloused, exactly like I remember.
"Two fingers here," he murmurs, adjusting my grip. "Thumb underneath..."
I look up at him, and he's looking down at me, and we're definitely not talking about baseball anymore. The sunrise is painting everything golden, and Jay's eyes are doing that soft thing they used to do right before?—
"Yo, is that Jay Talley?"
We jump apart like we've been electrocuted. Two high school boys in baseball gear are jogging onto the field, equipment bags slung over their shoulders.
"Dude, it is him!" The taller one elbows his friend. "Twenty-one strikeouts last night!"
Jay shifts into professional athlete mode, but his ears are pink. "Thanks, guys. You here for early practice?"
"Yeah, summer training." The shorter one's eyes shift between us, and his grin turns wicked. "Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt your... morning run."
"We were just—" I start.
"Getting private pitching lessons?" The tall one smirks. "At six AM? On the mound?"
My face is on fire. "I like Mounds. They're very... moundy."
"Moundy," the shorter one repeats, holding back a chuckle. "Bro, she said moundy."
"Is that what you kids are calling it these days?" The tall one asks his friend. "Checking out the mound?"
"I need to go," I squeak, backing away.
"Don't leave on our account!" The shorter one calls. "We can practice in the outfield! Give you two some privacy to discuss... pitch grips!"
I turn and sprint off the field, their laughter following me. Jay catches up within minutes.
"Smooth exit," he says, not even breathing hard.
"Those children are a menace."
"They're seventeen. Everything's funny when you're seventeen." He matches my pace. "Besides, Rodriguez is going to tell this story for weeks."
"I'm moving to Alaska."
"Before or after we finish our mound inspection?"
"Not funny!"
"It's a little funny."
We reach the house in silence. On the porch, I turn to face him. "I'll see you tonight. At the rehearsal dinner."
"Tracy, about this morning?—"
"We should forget it happened."
"Were we really about two seconds away from?—"
"From nothing. From absolutely nothing between two people who are mature adults."
He studies me for a moment. "Right. No drama."
"Zero drama."
"Got it." He heads for the door, then pauses. "Hey Tracy? Your shirt's on inside out."
I look down. He's right. "It's a fashion choice," I say with as much dignity as possible.
His laugh follows me into the house, warm and familiar and absolutely not making me want to turn around and kiss him senseless.
By evening, I've almost convinced myself I can handle the rehearsal dinner like a normal person. I'm wearing the blue dress Megan picked out, I've practiced my "polite wedding guest" smile in the mirror, and I absolutely have not thought about this morning's almost-kiss over forty times.
The country club's private dining room is beautiful, all soft lighting and elegant table settings. What's not beautiful is the seating arrangement that somehow has me directly across from Jay. Again.
"Wasn't I supposed to be at the other end?" I whisper to Megan.
"Greg's mom rearranged things," she says innocently. "Something about conversation flow."
Fine. I can handle this. I'm a professional adult who definitely didn't calculate anyone's ERA to four decimal places this afternoon.
"So Jay," Greg's dad starts during the salad course, "tell us about the game last night. Twenty-one strikeouts!"
"It felt good," Jay says modestly. "Sometimes everything just clicks."
"Must have been your lucky day," Greg's mom adds. "Do you have any pre-game superstitions?"
I carefully study my salad.
"A few," Jay admits. "Nothing too crazy."
"Tracy used to be superstitious about tests," Megan pipes up. "Remember? You had that lucky pencil."
"That's different," I protest.
"Is it though?" Jay's eyes meet mine. "I seem to remember someone who insisted on sitting in the same seat for every game..."
"Lots of people have preferred seats."
"And who found exactly three heads-up pennies before each game..."
I kick him under the table. He doesn't even flinch.
"Wait," Greg's mom looks between us. "You went to Jay's college games?"
"Every single one for three years," Jay says quietly.
The table goes silent. I concentrate on cutting my chicken into tiny, very precise pieces.
When Greg stands to give his speech about partnership and dreams, I risk a glance at Jay. He's twisted his napkin into something unrecognizable.
"Like my buddy Jay here," Greg's saying. "This guy's been grinding in the minors for years, never giving up on making it back to the show."
Everyone raises their glasses. Jay's eyes find mine over his champagne flute.
"Actually," Jay says suddenly, "I should clarify something. When I hurt my arm senior year, when everything fell apart... someone told me that dreams were worth fighting for, even when the path wasn't clear. That person was right."
He's looking directly at me now.
"So here's to second chances," he continues. "And to the people who believe in us."
Everyone drinks. I set my glass down with shaking hands.
"That was beautiful," Megan says. Then adds, "Tracy, didn't you write something similar in that article about perseverance in athletics?"
"I wrote a lot of articles," I mumble.
"No, I remember! It was about that pitcher who—oh." Her eyes go wide. "You wrote about Jay!"
Jay pulls out his phone, scrolls for a moment, then slides it across the table. There it is, saved in his notes. My article about him, about dreams deferred but not destroyed.
"I read it whenever I have a bad game," he admits.
"Okay," Greg says slowly, "what's happening here?"
"We dated," I say quickly. "In college. Past tense."
"For three years," Jay adds. "She was at every game. Had this complete system for charting my pitches."
"You kept statistics?" someone asks.
And then, because apparently my brain has given up on self-preservation, I hear myself say: "His fastball sits at ninety-two but touches ninety-five when he's really on.
His curveball breaks at seventy-eight. He tips his changeup sometimes when he's tired.
His best pitch is the backdoor slider to righties. "
The entire table is silent.
"Tracy," Megan says flatly. "You're in love with him."
"I am not?—"
"You track his statistics!"
"You almost kissed him on a pitcher's mound this morning!"
"Those high school boys don't know what they saw!"
"Tracy." Jay's voice cuts through our bickering. "Look at me."
I peek up. He's leaning forward, intense and focused.
"I still look for you," he says. "Every game. Seventh inning, I still check behind home plate, even though I know you won't be there. Last night was the first time in five years that you were actually there. And I threw twenty-one strikeouts."
"That's just?—"
"My best games have always been when you're watching. You know that."
I do. I hate that I do, but I've run the numbers.
"This is the most romantic thing I've ever seen," Sarah sighs.
"It's a disaster," I correct. "We broke up for good reasons."
"Did you though?" Greg asks. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you broke up because you were scared."
I look around the table, then at Jay, who's been nothing but kind and patient and perfect.
"I need some air," I announce, standing abruptly.
I make it to the garden before the tears start. Five years of carefully built walls crumbling because Jay still reads my articles. He still looks for me in the seventh inning. And he signed that baseball with his college number.
"Tracy?"
Of course he followed me.
"I'm fine," I say, wiping my eyes. "Just needed a moment."
"You weren't humiliated in there. You were honest." He steps closer. "Maybe for the first time all week."
"I can't do this, Jay. We decided?—"
"You decided. You decided for both of us."
"Because it was the right thing!"
"Was it? Because I've spent five years trying to convince myself it was, and I'm thinking we were just young and scared and stupid."
He's close enough now that I can see the gold flecks in his eyes. "The Rangers called last week," he says. "They're watching my starts. Might get called up if someone goes on the IL."
My heart stops. "Jay, that's amazing."
"Is it? All I could think was that I had no one to call when I got the news."
"I can't be your good luck charm again," I whisper. "It's too much pressure."
"I don't need a good-luck charm." His hand comes up to cup my face. "I just need you."
I hiccup. Because of course I do.
"We live in different cities," I protest weakly.
"Austin to Dallas. Two and a half hours. I've timed it."
"Your schedule is crazy."
"You have it memorized."
"I'm scared."
"Me too." His thumb traces my cheekbone. "But I'm more scared of spending another five years wondering what if."
"Jay?"
"Yeah?"
"Please kiss me before I overthink this."
He laughs. "There's my Tracy."
And then he's kissing me, and it's like coming home and starting fresh all at once. It's everything I've been trying not to want.
When we finally break apart, there's actual applause from the country club windows.
"So," Jay says, resting his forehead against mine. "Think you can handle dating a Triple-A pitcher with major league dreams?"
"I don't know," I say, smiling. "Think you can handle dating a marketing manager who color-codes her entire life?"
"I guess we'll find out."
We walk back into the dining room hand in hand to find everyone pretending they weren't just pressed against the windows.
"So," Megan says innocently, "anyone want dessert?"
"I do," I say, squeezing Jay's hand. "I suddenly have a lot to celebrate."
"Like what?" she asks, all fake confusion.
"Like getting the best wedding present ever—a second chance."
Jay pulls me closer. "That's funny. I was thinking the same thing."