Chapter Twenty-Two Jimmy

TUCK CALLS AND WAKES HIM UP AT SIX THIRTY, THE LIGHT JUST leaking through the bedroom windows and the last of the birds barely waking up outside the glass. "Yo," he says when Jimmy mumbles a groggy hello, "is Lacey okay? Did you fly out there?"

"What?" Jimmy struggles upright, rubbing a dazed, sleepy hand over his face. Tuck doesn't know they broke up. Nobody knows they broke up, really; Jimmy hasn't said anything to anyone, assuming Lacey would at some point send him further instructions via carrier pigeon or a chip she had secretly implanted in his brain while he slept. She hasn't, though, and the last week or so the thought has occurred to Jimmy that it's possible she'll leave him hanging indefinitely as a final fuck you, fielding questions about her at every media appearance he makes for the short remainder of his career and into whatever he winds up doing next until one day it suddenly comes to light that she's been married to the son of an oligarch from Monaco for eleven years. "Um. No, why?"

"What do you mean, why?" Tuck sounds incredulous. "You didn't talk to her?"

"Not this morning," Jimmy admits, which isn't a lie. "Why, what's going on?"

"Dude," Tuck says, "she got got by some huge, crazy mob of fans in LA last night. I think she's in the hospital." A pause. "She really didn't call you? Everything okay with you guys?"

"Everything's fine," Jimmy manages. "Everything is great."

He hangs up without saying goodbye, opening the browser on his phone and searching. Sure enough, two seconds later: Megastar Lacey Logan Hospitalized Following Crowd Incident in LA.

Jimmy's vision starts to swim as his eyes flick over the headlines, the panicky taste of iron hot at the back of his mouth. He thinks of his mom calling to tell him about Matty, about how soft and sorry her voice was. This isn't that, he scolds himself almost immediately, scanning the article; this is nothing like that.

Still, though. Still.

He chugs the glass of water on his nightstand, forces himself to read more carefully: A concert, a car accident. Security at the venue was quickly overwhelmed. A never-ending cascade of hot takes:

Looking for attention just like always

This is why we can't have nice things!!!!

Police are investigating the cause of the accident, which according to sources familiar with the incident occurred when the SUV in which Logan was riding was pursued by a second vehicle as she attempted to leave the venue.

Making everything about her.

It's Lacey Logan's world, including at other people's concerts, ap parently.

Logan was treated for what her publicist described as "minor inju ries" at Cedars-Sinai and released.

Jimmy scans three more pages of Google results trying to figure out how hurt she was, exactly, then realizes he's being an enormous fucking chump and calls her instead. Are you okay? he texts, when she doesn't answer . You don't have to talk to me if you don't want to. I get it if you don't want to talk to me. I just want to make sure you're okay.

Her reply comes through a moment later: It's four in the fucking morning here, James.

Then, before he has time to be properly abashed: I miss you.

Jimmy's whole body goes briefly boneless; he flops backward onto the mattress, scrubbing a hand over his beard. He thinks of what Rachel said to him back in her kitchen. He thinks of what Lacey said to him the last time they fought.

He has to report to Camden for Game 1 of the World Series in a little over twenty-six hours.

He doesn't have time for distractions.

He needs to make a choice.

"Fuck me," Jimmy mumbles out loud in the empty apartment, then gets up off his bed to go pack.

***

H E FLIES COMMERCIAL, OBVIOUSLY, LIKE A SCHMUCK, THOUGH HE has his assistant call a black car to meet him at LAX. "Mr. Hodges," the driver says, when he comes down the elevator at baggage claim. "Do you have luggage?"

"Nope," Jimmy says, holding up the same battered Nike backpack he's been carrying since he was a rookie. "There's actually a not-insignificant chance we're going to wind up coming directly back to the airport in an hour."

The driver's thick eyebrows twitch, but he doesn't comment. Jimmy follows him through the crowded airport and into the parking garage; they cruise in silence down the 405 toward Malibu, the palm trees rolling by outside the tinted windows of the SUV. More people could stand to have this guy's discretion, in Jimmy's opinion, though he guesses it's also entirely possible he has the woman who runs the Sinclair on speed dial and this whole dumbass gambit will be all over the internet before he even gets a chance to do what he came all the way out here to do. It's always a possibility, when it comes to Lacey Logan. Turns out, it's a risk Jimmy's willing to take.

"You can just pull over up here," he says finally, when according to his phone they're half a mile from her complex. "I've got to, uh—make a call."

Jimmy grits his teeth, the full idiocy of this particular endeavor hitting him all at once as he scrolls to her number in his contacts. He didn't tell her he was coming here. She isn't expecting him, and it's not like he can stroll up to her porch and ring the doorbell; just watch her tell him to go fuck himself and leave him standing out there in front of who the fuck knows how many dozens of cameras while she holes up with her ex. A few hours ago, this felt not just romantic but like something he was committed to do, like the only path forward. Now, all at once, he feels like an enormous swinging dick.

He takes a deep breath, dials her number. "I really am okay," she says, when she picks up. "This isn't something where you have to feel sorry for me and—"

"I'm not calling because I feel sorry for you," Jimmy interrupts her. "I'm calling because I'm outside."

Lacey barks a laugh at that, sharp and a tiny bit hysterical-sounding. "Shut up," she instructs, her voice wobbling a little. "No you're not."

"Well, no," Jimmy admits. "I'm not right outside, technically. But I'm, you know. Close. If you have time to hang out for a little bit."

"Has anybody seen you?"

"Not yet," he says. "Why, you want me to hop out and go say hello?"

But Lacey doesn't answer. "Wait a second," she says instead. "How are you—don't you have—I mean. Doesn't the World Series start, like. Tomorrow?"

That makes him smile, he can't help it. "You're a person who pays attention to when the World Series starts now, huh?"

"Shut up," Lacey tells him again. "Yes. Answer me."

Jimmy glances up at the driver, still assiduously pretending not to listen. "Yeah," he admits. "Starts tomorrow."

"And you came here."

"Yeah, Lacey. I came here."

"Okay," Lacey says softly. "Well. I'll have Claire open the gate."

***

S HE'S NOT WEARING ANY MAKEUP, IS THE FIRST THING J IMMY NOTICES . It makes her look younger, more vulnerable than he thinks of her as being. Her mouth is pale and thin. "Hi," he says, tucking his hands safely into his pockets so he doesn't reach for her, then pulls one out again to offer a wave to Claire. "Good to see you again."

Claire nods like, frankly, she could take him or leave him. He's going to have to work on that, Jimmy thinks. "Lacey," Claire says, "if you're okay here, I'll—" She motions toward the door.

"Yeah," Lacey says. "Yes, of course. Thank you."

They're alone then, the house huge and quiet all around them. Lacey sits down on the couch. "I need to fix things with her," she says, nodding in the direction of the driveway. She's wearing a fancy gray sweatsuit and slippers, her dark hair in a braid down her back. "Claire, I mean. Although let's be real, I need to fix things with everybody."

Jimmy frowns. "Everybody like who?" he asks, but Lacey doesn't answer.

"You really didn't have to come out here," she tells him instead. "I didn't mean to make you worry, especially if you've got your whole—" She shakes her head, pulling one knee up to her chest. "I'm fine."

"Oh, yeah," Jimmy tells her, sitting down on the enormous tufted ottoman across from her and stretching his legs out, his ankle just barely knocking hers. "You look great."

"Fuck you," she says, but she's smiling a little. She's got her wrist wrapped in an Ace bandage. "It's not a big deal," she says, when she catches him looking. "It's not even broken. I'll be fine for the next leg of the tour." She waggles her fingers in jazz hands to illustrate, then she stops halfway through and abruptly starts to cry.

Jimmy startles. He's never seen her cry before and before he knows what he's doing he crosses the space between them, sitting back on the couch beside her and pulling her gently into his lap. He holds her for a long time while her body shakes, these huge sobs that feel like they're coming from her marrow. "I'm so embarrassed," she says into his chest, her tears leaving wet spots on his T-shirt. "I fucked up."

"How did you fuck up?"

"Something could have happened to those kids. Something could have happened to Javi—"

"Javi was doing his job."

"I told him I didn't want more security!" Lacey wails. "He suggested more—everyone suggested more; everyone more than suggested it—and I told him I wanted to travel light."

Jimmy shrugs. "It's Javi's job to put his foot down," he argues. "It's his job to make sure what you're doing is safe."

But Lacey shakes her head. "Nobody ever puts their foot down with me," she reminds him. "And I knew that, and I took advantage of it." She pulls back to look at him, her face red and blotchy and beautiful. "I like being who I am," she says. "I love being who I am, but I just, after everything—I wanted to be somebody else for a minute, you know? And I thought maybe I could just... take a break really quick. Blend in, be like everybody else." She shrugs. "But I couldn't."

"I get it," Jimmy murmurs, twisting the end of her braid around two fingers. "I do."

Lacey sighs, sitting back and clearing her throat a little, smoothing her good hand over the wet spots on his shirt. "I'm sorry I ruined your game," she announces.

Right away, Jimmy shakes his head. "You didn't ruin my game."

"Everyone thinks I did," Lacey counters. " You thought I did."

"Yeah, well, I was being an asshole," Jimmy declares with a shrug, "and fuck everybody else. I'm a grown-ass man and a professional fucking athlete. I can ruin my own games." He pulls her closer again, leaning back so her head rests against his chest. "Anyway, it turned out fine. We're going to the World Series."

"I saw," she says with a watery smile. "I pay attention to that stuff now. Congrats."

"Thanks," Jimmy tells her, then feels himself hedge. "I mean, we'll see how it goes."

But Lacey shakes her head. "You're going to win," she says, and Jimmy nods.

"Yeah," he agrees, and feels himself grin with the truth of it. "I'm going to win." He's done dicking around and half-assing. He's done trying to protect himself by acting like he isn't desperate for all the things he wants.

"I know you think I should say I'm sorry," she tells him. "For being a distraction, or whatever. For showing up and thunder-stealing. For being as big as I am."

Jimmy stares at her. "That's not what I want you to say."

"Isn't it?"

"Of course it's not what I want you to say," he says, a little offended. "Why would I ever want you to say that? It would be bullshit, first of all."

"Well, yeah," she agrees with a slightly phlegmy laugh. "It would be."

Jimmy sighs, yanking at his beard in frustration. "Look," he tells her finally. "I knew what I was getting into the second I left that club with you in New York City. Maybe not the details," he says, anticipating her protest, "but the general outline. I knew who you were, Lacey. I knew what your situation was. And you asked me if I wanted to leave with you, and I said yes." He shakes his head. "How much fucking space you take up is one of my favorite things about you. What I'm sorry about is that I didn't have the balls to be as honest about who I am and what I wanted as you are. As you always have been."

She lifts an eyebrow. "Oh yeah?"

Jimmy nods. "I should have said I didn't feel ready for that whole big night out in Cincinnati. And I should have been honest about not being sure it was a good idea for you to come to the game. And, like"—he holds a hand up—"I know I was the one who wanted to go out to breakfast that day, and I know I was the one who was like, What's the big deal about being public —"

"You were," Lacey agrees quietly. "And when I tried to tell you what it was actually going to be like—"

"I was an idiot," Jimmy agrees with a shrug, "and I didn't listen. I talked a big game, but I was ultimately full of shit and underprepared, and I took it out on you. I'm really sorry, Lacey. I really do apologize."

Lacey is quiet for a moment once he's finished, then sits upright. Jimmy thinks she's about to climb out of his lap altogether but in the end she just shifts around to look at him, legs on either side of his thighs and the two of them face-to-face. "Wow," she says. "Can I ask you something? Are you sure you failed at couples therapy?"

Jimmy snorts, tipping his head back against the cushions. "I emphatically failed at couples therapy, yes."

"Well." She shrugs. "Sounds like you learned something."

"Not on purpose."

"Osmosis, then," Lacey decides, reaching up to worry a loose thread in the seam at his shoulder. "I'm sorry, too," she says eventually, "for knowing the whole press situation was kind of eating you alive and not doing anything to stop it. And for accusing you of wanting to be with me to stay relevant."

Jimmy shrugs. She's perched back on his knees, enough space between them for plausible deniability. He stops himself from pulling her closer, but barely. "It's a valid worry. I would worry about it, if I were you."

"I'm not worried about it," Lacey says hotly. "I said it specifically to hurt you. I've been around people who are using me, Jimmy. I can smell it on them. That's not what this is."

"No," Jimmy agrees, looking at her evenly. "That's not what this is."

"What is it, then?"

"I don't know, Lacey," he tells her honestly. "I don't know. I want to win this fucking Series. I want it like I've never wanted anything else. But then it's going to be over, and I know I don't want to go back to my condo with my ring and be proud of myself by myself and never talk to you again and feel weird every time one of your songs comes on the radio until finally I drop dead in a puddle of my own drool. I want you to be there when it's finished. I want something with you that's going to last." Jimmy takes a breath. His heart is pounding like he just ran suicides up and down the bleachers for an hour, knocking wildly around in his chest. "I'm serious about you, Lacey. I think I could be really fucking serious."

Lacey kisses him.

Right away Jimmy kisses her back, the pure, unadulterated relief of it like a hot shower after extra innings. The feeling is replaced a moment later with something darker, his head swimming, all the blood in his body rushing to his dick. Easy , he thinks as he nudges her mouth open, be careful , only it's not easy or careful, it's like somebody slammed open a fire door inside him and everything he's barely managed to hold back for the last couple of weeks, everything he told himself he wasn't really feeling, is raging out of him all at once in an uncontrollable blaze. He missed her, he realizes, hooking his hands behind her knees and pulling her toward him until their chests are fused together. He missed her tall, pretty body. He missed her expensive-perfume smell. "Where are you hurt?" he mutters into the crook of her neck, running careful hands over her ribs and stomach. He wants to strip her down and check her for damage. He wants to stand guard outside her door for the rest of his natural life.

"I'm okay," Lacey promises between kisses, wrapping her arms around his neck and scratching gentle fingers through the hair at the back of his neck. "You're good. Just touch me."

Jimmy does, tugging off her hoodie and peeling off the tank she's got on underneath it, unable to keep from wincing at the constellation of blue and purple bruises around her ribs and arms and shoulders. There's a mark in the shape of a hand where someone grabbed her through her clothes. "I'm sorry," he tells her, tracing a finger along the lace of her bra strap. "I should have been there."

Lacey laughs at that, full-throated. "Bro," she reminds him, "Javi spent fifteen years in the United States Marine Corps. I love you, but I gotta say I don't think you were the thing standing between me and—" She breaks off, blanching, both of them registering the confession at the same time. "Um." Lacey clears her throat. "Sorry. I just meant—"

"It's okay," he says. "I get it."

Lacey wrinkles her nose. "Sorry," she repeats, leaning forward and bumping their foreheads together. "Did I just make it weird?"

Jimmy shakes his head. "No," he promises, and kisses her again to show her he means it. He boosts her gently off his lap and peels the rest of her clothes off—taking his time about it, mindful of the bruised places. He kneels down in front of the sofa and tugs her gently toward the edge of it, then lifts her long, warm thighs up over his shoulders and sets about apologizing to her for real.

It takes some time, her hips shifting against the cushions, the muscles in her calves flexing and relaxing against his back. "Don't stop," she gasps, reaching down to thread her fingers through his hair, tugging a little. "Oh my god, Jimmy, please don't stop."

"Not stopping," he promises. Holy shit, is Jimmy not ever stopping, his whole world narrowing to her smell and her taste and the urgent way she's moving, her quiet, half-desperate sounds. He'll stay here while the rest of the team plays the Series without him, he thinks vaguely, working two gentle fingers inside her. He'll stay here until the day he dies.

"Come up here," she gasps when he's finally wrung it all out of her—her hands scrabbling for the hem of his thermal and yanking it up over his head, pulling at his shoulders so he'll come close and kiss her without bothering to peel his arms out of the sleeves. "I mean it, I want you to—"

"Yeah." Jimmy nods dazedly and nudges her back onto the cushions, but Lacey shakes her head. "Not here," she says, wrapping her arms around him. "In my bed."

So Jimmy scoops her up and carries her up the wide, curving staircase, down the long hallway to her room. The thermal's cutting at a weird angle across his neck, but he doesn't care. He sets her down on her bed, then gets up there beside her and lets her strip off his jeans and his boxers, running her hands across his stomach and chest like she's refamiliarizing herself with the topography of his body. Like she's checking to make sure he's really here.

"I love you, too," Jimmy says right before he pushes himself inside her, and as soon as it's out of his mouth he knows it's the truth. He loves her like the first day of pitchers and catchers reporting. He loves her like the bottom of the ninth. What's happening between them isn't a distraction. What's happening between them is the main event. "Hey. Lacey. I love you, too."

When it's over they lie there for a long time, the quiet of her house all around him. Jimmy uses one finger to trace ghost patterns over the skin of her back. "I'm going to Europe," she murmurs finally, her sleepy voice muffled against his chest.

Jimmy lifts his head to look at her. "Today?"

Lacey smiles. "After Christmas," she reminds him. "For the tour." She's quiet for a moment then, pushing herself up on her elbows. "I'm just, you know, putting it out there. On the off chance you're looking for something to do after you retire."

Jimmy laughs at that. "Sure," he says, letting himself picture it for a moment: waking up beside her in a hotel bed in Paris, waiting for her backstage in Berlin. "Europe sounds nice." He presses a kiss against her shoulder. "I got a couple of things I gotta do before then, though."

Lacey smiles, her dark eyes shining. "Just a couple of errands."

"Quick stop back home," he agrees. He raises an eyebrow. "Speaking of which: you, uh. Wanna come to a baseball game tomorrow night?"

"What?" Lacey shakes her head—she shakes her whole body —so hard she almost falls off the bed. "No!"

That surprises him. "Really?" he asks, propping himself up on one arm. "You don't?"

"No!" she insists again, sitting up and resting her chin on one bare knee. "Are you demented? You literally just said you were sorry you didn't tell me not to come the last time."

Jimmy makes a noncommittal sound, reaching out to tuck a loose strand of hair back behind her ear before flopping down onto the bed one more time. "Horse is out of the barn at this point, wouldn't you say?"

"Listen to you, with the farm metaphors." Lacey rolls her eyes. "Also, not for nothing, I don't seem to be what one might call a good luck charm."

"Yeah, well." Jimmy shrugs into her pillows. He likes how her sheets smell, like fresh air and lavender and whatever expensive shampoo she uses. Like Lacey herself. "Luck's for losers."

Lacey huffs out a noisy breath, but she's laughing, and that's how he knows he's got her. "Jimmy—"

"Look," he says, pulling her back down so she's lying sprawled across him, her sharp chin digging into his chest. He doesn't want to stop touching her. He never wants to stop touching her ever again. "I will be the first to admit that our last public outing left something to be desired. And if I'm not a good enough baseball player to win the Series with you there, then so be it. But I don't actually think that's true, do you?"

Lacey considers that for a moment. "No," she says. "I think you're exactly that good."

Jimmy smiles. "Yeah," he says, and ducks his head to kiss her. "I think I am, too."

***

T HE NEXT NIGHT, J IMMY STANDS IN THE LOCKER ROOM AT Camden, breathing in the familiar smell of bleach and sweat and listening to the sound of forty-five thousand baseball fans humming in the seats. His heart is a fist inside his chest. "You ready?" he asks, looking around at his guys. "Because this is it."

"Born ready," Tuck promises. "Let's do this, Cap."

Jimmy nods. "Let's do this," he echoes. He takes a deep breath and walks up the ramp through the tunnel, toward the field where the lights are shining brilliantly overhead. Jimmy glances up at the stands as he goes, at the place where he knows his future is waiting. Then he turns and crouches behind the plate.