2. Sinclaire

Toronto / six weeks later

A month and a half later, I can still hear those stupid words ringing in my ears. "Give me the good stuff."

It is single-handedly the most cringe thing I have ever said to anyone in the entire world, and I said it to one of the best baseball players of all time.

Ever since, it's been hella awkward between us.

I haven't even opened the email from the team photographer, who sent me a copy of the pictures she took that day. I can't look at them. I'm sure my face is bright red and Patrick looks deeply uncomfortable.

Trick. You have to think of him as a player now, and nothing but a player.

In the days that followed, he made it clear he didn't like me being on the analytics team. He spent an entire day—one of his last days off before spring training started—shadowing me, glowering at the people I was trying to work with.

The first game was a disaster. I could feel him staring at me, and his at-bats were atrocious.

I even found him to apologize, and he blew me off. "It's not you, Sinclaire. This is what spring training is for, to iron out the kinks. I hope you're getting what you need for your school project."

My school project.

That's what he'd called my Masters thesis.

I wanted a hole to appear beneath my feet and swallow me hole.

I made myself scarce after that, only attending a handful of games.

And I skipped their official season opener at home.

I tagged along on this trip to Toronto because my dad played here for two years, and I have friends I want to catch up with, but I'm not going to travel with the team again.

I'm a stats girl, and the numbers don't lie: when I'm in the stadium, Trick plays significantly worse. Or rather, when he's aware of me in the stadium.

After their season opener, I snuck into the stadium at home and quietly watched the next game from the upper deck. I told my dad I was going to stay home and do work instead, and he'd been disappointed.

Trick played just fine.

I don't like lying to my dad.

On the other hand, I really don't like distracting my dad's star player.

The obvious solution is I pack up my laptop and return to California. I can remotely track the data that I need for my thesis. It's not the same as being in the ballpark and seeing, feeling the energy, but it's fine.

It'll have to be fine, because my dad keeps telling me this team is built to go all the way.

If I ruin that for him—and for Trick—I'll never forgive myself.

* * *

Unknown Number: Your dad says you're not flying home with us

I get the text when I get off the plane at LAX. My stomach does a funny swoop, shame souring in my tummy.

Unknown Number: This is Trick

I knew that already. I add him to my contacts list and take a deep breath.

Sinclaire: I had to get back to school.

Trick: Ah, okay. Makes sense. See you soon, I hope.

I wish I could say yes, but it'll really depend on how he plays without me.