We both tip our heads back, and for a second I see us from a distance, poised on the edge of this booth, a tiny moment of calm before we’re pitched into a future we can’t predict.
I know he’s thinking the same thing when he says, “If you hadn’t helped me, we’d be going to ASU together in the fall.”
I shake my head because I’m done looking back. “We’re still going to get our chance to be broadcasters.”
His fingers tighten over mine, and he kisses the back of my hand.
The day they posted the contest winner, Garrett and I were at my house, playing our own game of chicken. The computer was on the counter and one click of the refresh button would show us the results.
“You do it,” I said.
“No, you.”
“You should. It was your idea.”
“You made it happen.”
“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Mom said, and she stabbed at the return button.
We were still laughing when the results flashed and there were our names. Garrett Reeves and Josie Walters.
We both froze, a little in shock.
“Congratulations!” Mom cheered and squeezed both of our shoulders and then headed back to the office to give us some privacy.
We both had to hit the refresh button two more times before it finally sank in.
“Are you disappointed?” he asked me then. “Not to be pursuing broadcasting?”
“Not really,” I said, and I meant it. “I’m glad we did it, though. You took a place full of bad memories and turned it into something good.”
“And I wanted to be close to the team, but I also wanted to matter. You gave that to me.”
“We’re incredible, aren’t we?” I said.
We enjoyed annoying everyone with our victory for the next few days, and during the school’s final assembly, we stood at the podium and accepted a check for five thousand dollars to the baseball program. My own check for one thousand dollars is still sitting on the kitchen counter. I’ll be adding it to the car fund. I’m going to need my own transportation in order to be at all of Garrett’s games. On June twenty-sixth, we’ll be calling an inning of an Arizona Diamondbacks game. I got my revenge, and found that I don’t really need it, or want it.
“You sure you’re okay with me going?” Garrett asks me now. “I don’t know how long I’ll be in Tucson. Maybe one year, maybe two. Or maybe I’ll wash out.”
“Garrett.”
“Maybe if I did, it would be the best thing.”
“Why would you say that? You’re hitting with power, you’re locating the ball, you’re making contact with nearly every pitch.”
“Because if I do well, it’s all the crap you didn’t want. Moving around. Small towns and bus rides and never knowing.”
“I know what it is, Garrett.”
He doesn’t say anything, but I can feel that he’s holding words back.
“What?” I ask.
Softly, he says, “If I do well, I’m worried that you’ll leave me.”
His words break my heart, but they also heal it. I know how much he loves baseball, but I also know how much he loves me. He tells me so every day. But more than that, I feel loved. I don’t have to be anyone but myself. Maybe that’s why the idea of moving doesn’t scare me anymore. Wherever we are, I’ll be at home with Garrett.
“I love you, and I won’t leave because the life is hard,” I say. “It doesn’t scare me like it used to. I think it’s because I’m figuring out what I want for me, too. So I’ll have my life the way you’ll have yours. Wherever we end up, it won’t be about you or about me. It’ll be about us.”
“I love how you say the word us.”
I smile. “I thought you loved how I say the word we.”
“I love everything about you, Josie Walters.”
“Even my sandals?”
“Almost everything about you.”
He pulls me close. The baseball field is spread out in front of us. It’s always been part of my past and now it’ll be part of my future. A game where a bunch of guys spend their lives trying to get home. I press closer to Garrett and smile. It makes sense now that I’ve found mine.
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Acknowledgments
I had a lot of help writing Josie and Garrett’s story.
A huge thanks to Chris Cron who has been a part of professional baseball for over 30 years and answered questions about all aspects of the game. I also had help from my favorite ballplayer in the world—my son, Kyle—who pitched through college and helped me get the lingo right. Love you, Kyle! Thanks to Darren Zaslau who told me everything I needed to know about sports broadcasting. And to my husband, Jake, a fan of all things baseball, who provided ideas and inspiration. I love you more than I can say.
Thanks to Caryn Wiseman, my agent, who seems to wear a million hats, helping me through every stage of the process. I also want to thank my critique partners and friends who always keep me sane. Terry Lynn Johnson, Christina Mandelski, Marty Murphy, Erin Jade Lange, Amy Nichols, Tom Leveen, Gae Polisner and Nate Evans. And to Rachel, who loves reading romance as much as I do. Thanks for helping me brainstorm ideas. I love you, Daughter.
A special thanks to my editor, Stacy Abrams. Ten years ago, in 2009, my first novel was edited by Stacy. I am beyond lucky to work with you again, Stacy. Your editorial genius has only grown over the years. More thanks goes to Judi Lauren. Your insightful comments helped make this story so much better. To the whole team at Entangled Publishing—thank you for bringing this book to life.
Finally, a heart-felt thanks to my readers. Your blogs, reviews, notes and support are appreciated more than you know.
