Chapter 20
Liam
"Getaway day," Holloway sings, stepping up behind my bench.
I look up at him hovered over me, more than his body weight in my hands. I don't respond. Instead, I finish my set, pressing the bar three more times before racking it above me.
"Damn, Two-Three," he says, stepping around the large metal plates. "It has to kill you that you're aging out cause I'm pretty sure you can still rep more than me."
I huff out a laugh, rolling my wrist. "I have an eleven-year-old daughter, Rook. I don't train for baseball." I stand, nodding toward the bench. "But I can definitely still rep more than you."
Jace rolls his eyes playfully, sitting down and dipping his head below the bar.
He slides backward as I take the place behind him.
Gripping the metal, he adjusts his palms until they feel right, then presses his shoulders into the cushion beneath him.
"You figure out your plan yet?" he grinds out, un-racking the weight.
He lowers the barbell until it touches the silver chain laying on his chest.
"You figure out your timing yet?" I toss back, knowing damn well his slow throw release has nothing on my lack of plans for the future.
He pauses at the top of his next rep, his brow creased as his gaze meets mine. "Why are you so scared?"
I follow the bar as he lowers it again, my expression unchanged despite feeling completely exposed. "I'm not scared," I lie, crossing my arms. "I've just been a little busy with everything else."
Jace chuckles, his motion still fluid as he continues to lift and lower the bar. "None of that shit will matter when you're begging for Zyn at a gas station."
My hand darts forward, stopping him from lifting the bar more than a few inches from his body. He struggles as he attempts to push past me, but I continue to resist until the bar drops to his chest. "Come on, man," he grunts.
I finally move my hand, and he presses it up shakily, throwing it back into the pegs.
"Jesus, I was kidding. Are you trying to kill me?
" He sits up and rubs his chest. "I'm just saying, I don't know much besides your kid that could be more important than figuring out how to keep baseball in your life. "
I shrug nonchalantly as if the weight of this conversation isn't sitting on my shoulders. "Maybe I'm not worried about keeping baseball in my life."
His head flies backward. "What? Why?"
I throw my thumb behind me telling him to move. We switch places, the bar now warm from where his hands once were. "Because there's more to life than the diamond," I say, trying to convince us both. I lift the weight from the pegs and steady it above me.
"Yeah, your family."
I inhale deeply before starting my set, then bang out three reps before responding. "And that's not enough?" I finally ask.
Jace scoffs. "Your kid is here all the time, Montgomery—not that it's a bad thing. But you can have both."
I pause, my arms straight, relishing the ache of the weight in my hands. "Yeah, from a distance. From the dugout. Between games and after practices. I think I'm ready to close that gap for a while."
I finish my next two while he thinks.
"Okay, so don't coach—scout or analyze games. You've got a face for TV," he says.
I laugh with him, but not at his joke. I almost forgot what it was like to be this green. To have just started living the dream, all the love for the sport still so fresh—still unshakeable.
I never wore the jewelry or the color-clashing sleeves or threw peace signs to the crowd every time I batted like he does. But at one point, I would have reacted the same way had someone told me they were ready to retire their glove completely.
"Stop flirting with me, Rook," I grunt, finishing my set, the nostalgia washing over me. I rack the bar and sit up, but when I do, I feel weaker than I should from just the exercise. "Besides… you don't want me analyzing your plays one day. Trust me."
Jace brushes me off, taking my spot. "I just think you're gonna miss it."
Tension bubbles in my gut. "It sounds like you're gonna miss me," I toss back, my tone rough.
His persistence is annoying every day—Jace Holloway might be the most tenacious guy I know—but this morning, talking about this topic, my tolerance is even lower than it normally is for his conversation.
Getaway days are always packed—we squeeze the same schedule into a day where we also need to catch a flight—and it's the end of a travel weekend, so we're already beat. But doing it on half of the sleep I would normally have is only making it worse.
My mind has been reeling about Tessa since either the best—or worst—timed calf cramp happened the other night. Her sweet scent, her body in such close proximity to mine, the way she looked at me differently than she ever has—and she's… single?
I wasn't really sure what to do with that information other than wish I could unhear it. The second she said it, something released in me—broke free. As if I've been living with my chest wrapped tightly, and those three words cut right through the tape.
We broke up.
That shouldn't excite me. It shouldn't make me want to be around her more. But it does—it has. And a day and a half later, I'm still not sure what to do with that.
It doesn't help that I barely saw her yesterday.
Between a full day of workouts and video, plus a late afternoon game, I knew I wouldn't. But even when she was invited to join me, Ruthie, and the guys for team dinner, she passed.
She said she had calls to make and planned on hitting bed early, but it left me sitting with my thoughts, anxious to feel out her post-moment vibes.
"There's spring training clinics, or college camps. You could even start a podcast or something if you're into that—"
"Rook," I interrupt. "You're already taking my spot. For the love of God, will you please stop talking so you don't take my sanity too?"
Jace's jaw ticks as his cheeks grow red. "Yep," he says shortly. "My bad."
He walks toward the Smith machine, and I part my lips to call after him—to apologize—but before I can, he slips his massive headphones over his ears to drown the world out.
Or me, at least.
It's the bottom of the ninth. We're one out from ending the game and heading back to Golden City, and the Oilers are one run from pushing our flight back another inning. Jace has a runner on second eager to take off the second he gets his chance, and their next batter's at the plate.
I glance at Holloway to my left, shifting his weight back and forth, ready. J.J. on my right is set at third, eager and waiting. Our current pitcher, Javi Solano, glances back, eyeing the runner. His eyes flit to mine, and I tap my glove.
We got this.
He nods back, slowly turning away from me. A moment later, he lifts his leg, falling onto the mound and sending a curveball toward home. The crisp sound of Garcia's glove snapping shut around it causes groans from the stands, and a few whistles from the outfield.
Strike one.
The crowd gets loud as Solano resets. Once again, he peers back, and this time, Jace moves half a step closer to the base. Javi tips his chin down, exhaling slowly as he turns back, then fires a fastball right down the center.
Strike two.
Oilers fans rise to their feet, the stands buzzing with equal parts noise and energy. The runner leads off the bag a step further than before, ready to take off the moment he gets the chance. But we can't give him that.
I lead toward third, ready to cover J.J. if the ball comes his way. Our opponent taps his bat on his foot, then lifts it, moving it in slow, steady circles. Solano inhales a deep breath, and the noise level falls as his front leg rises. He sends the pitch—a sinker—and the batter swings.
I watch it happen in slow motion, years of experience telling me it's coming sharp down the middle.
The ground ball barrels up the gut as the runner takes off, already halfway to third.
I look at Holloway as he ranges left, adrenaline coursing through my veins.
He finally got his pivot down, but his release has been slow—slow enough, at least, for me to worry now about him getting it home.
He fields it cleanly just behind the bag, but then my fear comes true as he switches his grip.
One movement.
One beat.
Half a second—that's all it takes.
He sends it to Garcia, his throw sharp and direct, but he's too late. The batter slides past the base a split fraction of time sooner than our catcher can tag him.
Oilers' score.
Game tied.
There’s a dull hum on the field that’s indescribable considering the eruption from the crowd. I can’t hear it exactly, but I can feel it—the energy shift of a tied game in the bottom of the ninth.
The outfielders will call to each other, Ruiz will pray the Ave María underneath his breath, and Jace will go so quiet the silence will be deafening.
It’s the sound of potential—to lose hope and the game—or to rise to the occasion. There's only one out left, and as much as I want wheels lifting sooner than later on that flight home, I want to kick some Oilers ass more.
In the thick of the moment, one voice cuts through everything.
Ruthie yells from the stands in the same seat she's claimed all weekend, and my gaze finds her like it's wired to.
She has her hands on the wall in front of her, leaning forward, her face full of the determination that we need.
I wink at her, throwing my fist into my glove, and she bounces on her toes, her two little braids jumping off her shoulders.
I move to spin back toward my outfield to hype up the guys and reset the field—and my mind. But I stall. Despite my best efforts, I can't turn away. Not yet. Because as naturally as they found Ruthie before, my eyes slide to… her.
Tessa is standing, one arm hugged tight across her chest, the other propped on it so she can anxiously tap her fingertips against her lips. She's looking at me the same way she did the other night—half thrill, half worry—and I hate that I notice. I hate that the vision steadies something in me.
Because I might be rusty, but I'm not wrong. Something shifted between us that I can't quite name, but it was there. It's here now. In the quiet of her hotel room, with her pinned between me and the dresser, Tessa saw me differently. Not as her boss or Ruthie’s dad. But me.
And even if I have no business doing it—I saw her too.
I think I always have—ever since she and Sammy shared that stupid ice cream cone.
But last night, I actually let myself feel it.
That undeniable attraction, the pull I've pretended isn't there.
I didn't shove it down or rush past it. There were no flashing warning signs or mental checklists of reasons why that shouldn't happen.
For one reckless heartbeat, I just let myself want her.
And I swear, in the one moment I gave us before backing away again… she wanted me too.
Now, under the stadium lights rather than the dull shadow of the hotel lamp, with another batter up and the score even, she looks at me again. The same way she did then—like more than the game is left unfinished.
And the worst part? That threatens to finish me before my brain can shut it down.
The hum on the dirt rises to a roar, and I force my focus back on the game. This time, I really do turn toward the boys, raising my glove. "One more," I call sharply, like my voice can drown out the one in my head.
I pull in a breath, smacking my bare hand to leather and crouching low.
I was ready before—to let Tessa in, to get closer to her for Ruthie’s sake. But I’d be lying if I said that’s still what this is no matter how hard I'm telling myself that's all that it can be. Now, much like this game, the stakes feel higher.
And the potential loss lingers—strong and heavy.