1. Chapter One

Chapter One

Andrew

No one anticipates a shower curtain ending his career, but here I am, sitting on an examination table after a shower gone wrong.

"We've been over this before, Andrew. You're not as young as you once were." Dr. Hastings drops this bomb on me while writing a prescription for pain medication as if I haven't noticed all of the baby-skinned newbies flowing into the locker room like they own the place. It's a constant reminder of how close I am to retirement if only because my body doesn't want to cooperate. "I'm afraid you're going to have to sit out again. Hopefully only for couple of weeks until we get the inflammation down."

I give him a curt nod. "Perfect. This is probably it, Doc. I can't afford to sit out again this early in the season."

The Savannah Sharks' team doctor frowns and scribbles more notes on his tablet. "I know, Andrew. But you're thirty-two years old. You have to admit you've had a good run, but pitching in the pros for ten years is bound to ruin your body. If we don't take our time with this and allow for proper healing, you'll be looking at surgery that will put you out for the whole season."

The fact that he's right does not make this pill any easier to swallow. My whole life has been about baseball, and my last four years with the Sharks have been the best of my career. Until now. It seems like my body is falling apart.

"I'm doing what is best for your health. You know that, right?" Dr. Hastings peers over his glasses and adjusts his tie. The ties always have something baseball related on them. This time it's a pattern of baseball bats in alternating order but it's an awful shade of bright pink and neon green.

"I understand. Doesn't make it any more fun." The paper lining the examination table rips and crinkles when I stand, almost mocking the crunching sound in my shoulder. It's more than inflammation. I know it. He knows it. We all know it, but no one is willing to sit me down and break the news to me. Formally, and with a great big retirement incentive. I should retire and take what I can, but I don't know what comes after this. It's probably something I should have thought about long before now, but when a man as pig-headed and determined as I am sets his focus on something, it's hard to catch what flies by in the peripheral.

"Rest and recover. I want to see you back in a few weeks," he says and opens the door. He has other patients to see, including the backup pitcher whose routine physical will likely show he's a much better bet on the mound than me. The Sharks deserve a fearless pitcher who can win, not an old man who can barely throw a fast ball.

I lumber out the door as if I can change my fate if I wait long enough to face the real world.

"Rossi, what's up?" Marco Martinez tips his head back at me when I pass him in the waiting room. He knows exactly what's up. He was present when the whole locker room heard me curse the day a flimsy sheet of plastic was born. Who knew closing a shower curtain could cause so much damage to a human body part? I'm here to tell you, they're instruments of orthopedic destruction.

"Nothing," I grumble and exit without making eye contact. The little rookie is a great pitcher, but he needs to learn a thing or two about respect. Most of the new players are a little showy in the beginning, but they settle in and learn from the rest of us. Not Martinez. The toddler actually laughed when I injured myself, and kicked it up a notch when Keaton and Pruitt chewed him out.

I shoot a message to Koa to let him know I'm not going to make it to The Salty Dog tonight.

In the parking lot, I scan for my truck before I remember I parked it in the shade of the lot next door. It's in front of a donut shop I visit often, with inside seating and an enticing aroma that always pulls me in. Junk food is on my do not eat list, but with the way I feel right now, I'm throwing my rules out the window and indulging in a donut. I might even go home and enjoy reading an actual book. It will be a nice break from reading the daily emails from Coach Conyers, the sports articles about the Sharks and my fading career, and social media posts about the up-and-coming Sharks star, Marco Martinez.

Opening a bakery door should not make a full-grown man wince, but I can't stop using my dominant hand for everything. My pitching hand. With a scowl and another whispered curse word, I step up to order.

"Hi, Andrew." Evalina smiles and slides a cup of green tea my way.

"Eh, I know that's my usual, but I'm going to need something a little stronger. Coffee. Black. And whatever donut you have with the worst reputation."

Evalina's smile turns into a frown. "It can't be that bad. What has you resorting to carbs, sugar, and caffeine to get through the rest of the day?" She tucks her dark hair behind her ear and shoots a death glare to the two teenage boys who are supposed to be helping customers. Not throwing sugar packets at each other.

Something about this woman's sweet nature—which is usually uplifting—has my gut sinking even deeper. I want to ponder that for a moment, but she clears her throat.

"Oh, well, you know how it is. My shoulder is out again."

She raises a dark brow and reaches for a paper towel. "You're going to want the double chocolate." With a glance in my direction, her frown deepens. "I'm sorry, Andrew. I know you've been worried about this. Is there anything we can do?"

She means her and her son, Banks, but right now all I can think about is how much I've missed out on in life. All at once it hits me. At thirty-two I also do not have a steady girlfriend, let alone a wife or a family. My career has demanded every free minute of my life since college. Even before that, if I'm honest.

"Andrew?"

I blink from my haze and accept the donut and coffee with my left hand. She'll add the items to my monthly tab which, until now, has consisted of only green tea and the occasional fruit cup. Okay, and donuts when I'm a little more down than I should be.

Evalina eyes me for a moment, then rounds the counter. "Here, let me help you. Get settled and I'll bring this to a table."

I hate being limited, but she's a good friend. Has been since I came to Savannah, so I let her trail behind me while I settle into a corner table. Once I'm somewhat comfortable and she's busy arranging items on the table, I pull my phone out to send a message to Coach, updating him about what he already suspects. I've got ten missed calls, seventeen emails, and twelve text messages. I was in the doctor's office for less than an hour, and I've already amassed thirty-nine attempts at communication. I shoot off a response to Coach and scroll to see what might be important. There's a message from my best friend, Owen.

Hey, man, gimme a call when you can. I have some news!

I'm just about to respond and see if he wants to hang out tonight when a shrill voice startles me.

"Oh. My. Gosh. Aren't you Andrew Rossi? The Sharks pitcher?" A woman in the opposite corner booth bolts from her seat and practically knocks Evalina off her feet. Evalina rolls her eyes and disappears behind the counter to take the next order. I wish I could follow her and hide behind the brick-veneered counter until this fan disappears. This is not the first time this has happened, but I do have an escape plan if necessary.

Everywhere I go, I am accosted by people who can't mind their own business. It isn't that I'm against the attention from fans, but sometimes a guy needs some quiet time. I can't help but wonder if things might have turned out differently if I had never pitched in the major leagues before coming down to the Sharks?

A three year stint in the majors was great for my career, but I missed the camaraderie of the minor leagues and asked to be traded back down. I got my wish, but things have been different ever since. For example, people recognizing me.

"You are, aren't you? You're Andrew Rossi! Oh my gosh," the woman squeals and pulls out her phone.

I instinctively tense and shield my shoulder before nodding. I brace for impact while Evalina makes a gagging motion only I can see. It makes me laugh, which is probably a good thing since the woman coming apart at the seams in front of me is less than exciting.

"Oh my gosh! I knew it! Can I get your autograph?" The fan has turned into a teenager, clasping her hands and doing little jumps while barely holding in a squeal. I love my fans just as much as the next guy, but why women resort to this sort of behavior in my presence is beyond me. I'm happy to sign autographs, have pictures, even chat a while, but when they act like this, it's not enjoyable.

"Sure," I say, trying to seem happy to be bothered while I'm trying to have a snack.

She leans in and snaps a few selfies when another group of women enters the building. A round of squeals meets my ears before four more women surround me. These must be the first woman's friends, which means I was pegged the second I walked into the shop.

Or I'm cynical and feeling extra cantankerous while in pain.

I sign shirts, napkins, and even cups for people in the drive through line—all while poor Evalina runs point like a pro assistant. I'm gonna have to give the poor woman a bigger tip, but to deny their requests feels ungrateful. Still, I sure wish I could catch a break. Go somewhere that no one knows me. Meet a woman who doesn't care that I'm an athlete. In fact, a woman who doesn't even know who I am would be even better.

By the time I dot the i on my last Rossi, my coffee is cold and my donut is stale. Evalina nods toward the back entrance. I wink, my cue that yes, indeed, I do want to implement a quick escape. I grab my things, smile to the ladies who are still going gaga over me, and make a mad dash for the back kitchen of the shop. The teen boys are still up to their antics so I make sure I'm not quiet about entering. It startles them and they get right to work.

Behind me, Evalina pushes through the same door and sighs. "I'm so sorry. I don't know how you are so patient with them."

I shrug and immediately wince. "I'm used to it, but today is…you know."

"Yeah. I got you. They went out the front, so you should be good. Lemme check." She opens the rear door and peers out, then waves me over. "All clear, and if you hurry, you can make it straight to your truck from here."

For crying out loud, all I ever wanted to do was play baseball. At no point did I sign up to be some woman's eye candy. It was definitely those three years in the major leagues. I never should have moved up, but I did what I did and now here I am.

I wave to my fearless assistant and jog to my truck. Once inside, I let out a heavy breath. I'm in pain and grumpy, two things that make me a horrible person to be around right now. Driving home seems like the right thing to do, the only thing to do so I don't lash out at fans. It isn't like they're everywhere, but there is always a chance one will pop up, and I don't want to be a total jerk to someone. Besides, this pity party needs to end, and the best way to do that is to go chill out and call Owen.

My house sits at the top of a hill in a quaint subdivision just outside of Savannah. My neighbors lost the sparkle in their eyes for me long ago, and now I'm merely one of the people they wave to while walking their dogs or heading to the community pool. My neighbor to the right, Nancy, always does my gardening. I'm a black thumb, but her rosebushes win the neighborhood flower contest every year. When I pull up, she's weeding my front beds and tossing dead shrubs into the drive.

"Nancy, what a sight for sore eyes." I throw her a wink while slamming my truck door closed. She's deaf in her left ear from a boating accident long ago, something I learned the hard way when I approached her last summer from behind. She's got a killer swat for an older lady.

She grins and brushes her white hair back into her bun. "Andrew, these beds are a mess. I'm sorry it's been a while since I've been over."

I step beside her and glance at the pile of dandelions and other prickly plants she's pulled. "Ah, it's all right. I should have been out here plucking them myself. What are you planting this year?" I ask, instant guilt flooding me because I forgot all about keeping the bed neat so she could design something for the summer.

She taps a gloved finger to her chin and takes in the entire yard. "What would you say to some lavender? It's a nice pop of color and fragrant. Drought tolerant and keeps the insects and weeds out. Easy for someone who isn't home much."

I shrug my good shoulder and pretend I have a clue what lavender looks like. "You're the pro around here, Nancy. You just tell me when you need my credit card and have fun."

Nancy beams and pinches my cheek, no doubt leaving dirt smudges on it. "A man who speaks my language. Some lady will be lucky to have you one day."

"Oh no, I'm lucky to have you. Without you, I'm sure the homeowner's association would fine me for having shoddy lawncare."

She slips off her glove and swats at me. "I enjoy the work. Keeps me agile. It's sure hot out here today though. I think I'll finish up in the morning, if you don't mind."

"Of course I don't mind. Get some rest and cool down. I'll see you in the morning."

"I'm going to make some lemonade and do just that." She waves and crosses my driveway and heads up into her yard. I make a mental note to do something nice for her. Sure, she loves gardening, but she goes above and beyond to make my yard attractive.

Goblin barks at me from the front window, reminding me he's been cooped up almost all day. His black nose is pressed against the glass, waiting impatiently for his afternoon walk. Too bad for him, I don't feel like it today. He'll have to make do with a good run in the backyard.

The echo of the door unlocking is familiar, but oddly colder than usual. My home is sparsely furnished with white sofas, gold-legged black tables, and black lamps. There is the odd throw rug here and there that my sister insisted on for pops of color, but other than that, my life is monochrome inside and out.

Goblin grumbles and shoves his head against my leg. He's needy for a German shepherd, but he's also loyal and good company.

"All right, calm down big man. I'll let you out." I open the back door and he bolts to his favorite toy, a kids' playset with a slide. It was there when I bought the house and I'd planned to tear it down, but after one ride down the slide, I knew I had to keep it for my dog.

Inside, I turn my attention to dinner. Everything in my fridge is prepped by my sister, a chef in training, and all I have to do is pop it out and follow her directions for cooking. The easiest thing for tonight is a tray of veggie lasagna, so I preheat the oven and pop it in before calling my best friend.

Owen Fields and I have known one another since first grade and have been friends just as long. We went to a private school in a small town in northern New Jersey, and we were the only two boys in our grade. More boys trickled in as the years went on, but for a while, it was us against a female population who wanted nothing more than to put us in glittery dresses and play tea.

That's not to say we declined. We were young, not stupid. We played tea party if only to ensure we had something to do besides look at each other during recess.

"Hey, man. How's it going?" Owen sounds winded, which probably means he just finished working out or practicing. Oddly, we both ended up in pro sports—me in baseball and him in soccer.

"Ah, you know, just another day as an old pro athlete. Busted my shoulder again. Don't ever try to open a shower curtain one handed." I sit on my uncomfortable white sofa and try to let the stress of day fall away.

Owen sighs into the phone. "We talked about this. You know it isn't the end of the world if your career is over. I'm thinking about retirement myself. My body is tired. And your shoulder is a constant reminder that we're getting too old for this level of play. Maybe we should take up pickleball."

I can always count on Owen for brutal honesty.

"I need my shoulder for pickleball, too. But you said you had news. Are you coming down for a visit?"

"Not exactly." His tone changes to something whimsical, just like it always does when…

"Is Virginia pregnant?" I ask, scooting forward on the sofa. A smile cracks. This is exactly what I needed to feel better.

"She is." Owen laughs again. "Ah, what am I going to do with six kids, Drew? Maybe I'll send the oldest to spend the summer with you."

"Hey, I'll take him. Maybe teach him why baseball is better than soccer."

"You'd never. Besides, I think Virginia would kill me if I sent him down there. She's…you know. A little sensitive these days, but we're really excited."

I'm happy for my best friend, I am. I really am…so why do I suddenly feel…empty? I try to ignore the feeling and focus on Owen. "She deserves to be pampered. Six of your kids is bound to make any woman sensitive. You have a—"

"If you tell me again that I have a big head, I'll post our fifth grade class photo on social media."

"Dang, Ow. Touchy today?" I chuckle. "No one needs to see me with an accidental mullet, thanks."

A vehicle starts in the background, so I know I only have a little more of his time before he heads to pick his kids up from school. "Yeah, it would be too traumatic for your fans. Speaking of which, when are you going to settle down and give me some little Godchildren?"

I can't pinpoint how, but I feel like I walked into that one. He's been trying to get me to settle down for years, but it's been baseball twenty-four seven. I wanted it too much to slow down. Needed it like I needed air. Water. Food.

"Here we go again." I prepare myself for the usual—I'm too picky, I'm too focused and driven, I only think about work and not long-term life goals. To my surprise, he only laughs.

"Look, I get it. I have an idea if you think you're willing to be open minded about it."

I groan. "Look, when you say to be open minded, what you mean is brace yourself because something utterly ridiculous is about to come out of your mouth." It almost always ends in someone going to jail, getting lost, or losing a finger. I shudder thinking back to the summer after sixth grade. Joey Holmes is still probably screaming about the tip of his pointer finger.

"I'm serious." His tone shifts again.

"I'm not prepared to be open minded by your standard, but tell me anyway." Goblin barks to get my attention, so I walk to the back door and glance out. He's going down the slide again, and evidently, I need to watch him. It's like owning a very furry, hyperactive toddler that never grows up and needs my attention all day every day.

"I never told you how I met Virginia," he says.

"Yeah, you did. You said you met her at Roscoe's down by the river."

"That's where we had our first date, yeah, but I actually met her online."

"Online dating is risky. Maybe it was good years ago for you, but now—"

"Yeah, yeah. Just listen. It's a secret dating app my coach told me about. He met his wife on it, and their success rate is in the high nineties. You can only get in by recommendation from someone else who has used the app."

"This sounds insane or illegal." I run a hand over my face and watch my dog leap from the playset into his plastic pool like a goon.

"It's completely legal. No one is forced to be on it or go on any dates they don't want to go on. They're very secure, and it really works."

"Ow—"

"Hear me out." He pauses to make sure I'm going to listen. "The story goes that the founder developed it in college. He brought in a few people to test the algorithms. When it ended with a near one hundred percent success rate, he opened it up for wide use. The deal has always been to pass it along through strict word of mouth on both sides."

"Owen, this is ridiculous." If this is one of Owen's crazy plans to set me up with one of his cousins again, I might have to drive up to Charleston and throw him in the mud.

"Ten years. It's been around for ten years and trust me, it works. I can set you up. There's just one thing."

"Ah, here we go. What's the catch?"

"It's meant for serious people. Those seeking an actual relationship, not a hook up. It's for adults seeking companionship, friendship, and most importantly, lifelong love."

Oh my gosh. "Owen, I haven't even had a single date in a year. This is…" I fade, unsure what to say. That lonely pit opens again as I gaze out the window. It's just me and Gobs. For a long time, that was okay. But now?

I don't know. What would I even want in a woman? My mind drifts toward Evalina. Though she's not my type and I'm far from hers, she still has a lot of the qualities I'd want in someone I'm seeking a future with. Kindness, intelligence, a drive for the things she wants in life.

I take a deep breath. But do I want a committed relationship right off the rip? Am I ready to settle down and make a life with someone, or should I date for a bit? See what's out there?

There is no way around the truth. Owen and Dr. Hastings are both right. I'm looking at the end of my career, which means I'm ready for the next part of my life to begin. I don't have an aversion to marriage. In fact, I've always wanted that, but I'm a one and done kind of guy. There's no trying it out and divorcing if it doesn't work.

Owen is patient, I'll give him that. He waits silently while I ponder.

"I'm going to need more information before deciding, especially if the women I'll get set up with are anything like the fans that cornered me today."

"Do I even want to know?" he asks.

"Nope. But I have to know, is there some way to keep my job a little secret? I'm good admitting I work for the Sharks, but I'd like to get to know someone before throwing out that I'm well known."

"That's the beauty of it. You can share as much as you'd like."

"Does that seem…dishonest?" I hesitate, unsure if this is a good idea without the truth up front even if it is beneficial to me.

"Virginia didn't mind. I didn't tell her until our third date, remember? I'm not saying you lie to the woman. Tell her the truth when you meet her on a date, but you don't have to put it outright in your profile."

I know I'm going to regret this, somehow, but I know as soon as I hang up the phone I'll be staring at a television all night with a dog. I want more than that. Since I don't have any other ideas, I might as well give this a try. "Set it up, but if this goes anything like sixth grade summer, I'm coming after you, Owen."

I can't miss the muffled chuckle he tries to hide. "I'll submit your referral set up tonight. Be ready for love, bestie."

"Do not ever call me bestie again or I'll disown you. Just don't lie about me on the thing, okay? Be honest about the fact that I'm driven and focused. A lot of people don't like that. I want someone—"

"Yeah, you act like I don't know you. She must love dogs, brains over beauty, and enjoy long walks in the park holding hands with a pro pitcher who hates leaving his house for anything but a game." He doesn't hide his laughter this time, so I hang up on him and toss my phone on the sofa.

Goblin turns his head sideways, peers through the window, and barks. He still wants my attention, so I head outside to toss a ball around for him—with my good arm, of course—and try not to worry too much about what Owen has in store for me.