Chapter 20

twenty

WILL

"I want to start a book club," Becca said while the rest of us were chewing.

It was just after one o'clock, and Chloe's shift was over. Jordan had driven up to Grandpappy's on his lunch break to join us. Mom had whipped up some sandwiches, and we were sitting in the sunshine at one of the picnic tables in front of the Bake Shop.

"Oh!" Chloe swallowed and then added, "I'll be in your book club."

"I thought you were already in the brunch ladies' book club," Jordan asked, licking jelly off his thumb.

"Well, I could do both," Becca replied. "Plus, the brunch ladies mostly meet up to gossip. I'd want my book club to actually talk about the book."

"But we could eat and drink wine and gossip a little too, right?" Chloe confirmed.

Becca grinned. "Oh, for sure."

I took a bite of potato salad to give my mouth something to do besides smile. Then I said casually, eyes on Becca, "I'll be in your book club."

Her megawatt grin zeroed in on me. "You will?"

"Sure," I replied and speared another potato. "I'll read the book, but I won't crash your meeting. We can have our own discussion."

Becca's blue eyes narrowed a fraction, but she was still happy. I could tell. "It'll be romance," she warned.

"That's fine. I liked the ogre book and the vampire one after that. Though I do prefer romantic suspense."

"Oh, good." She beamed. "We can start with something by Catherine Cowles. Small-town spice and serial killers. You'll love her."

I nodded and went back to my sandwich. Truthfully, I liked that she wanted to put down roots in town. That she was already planning ahead for something like a book club was a good sign. It wasn't that I didn't think she was committed. She was. In fact, I'd gone with her to look at several rental properties this week. I'd left work a few times to accompany her to appointments with Trudy Caswell, as the middle-aged real estate agent had some good spaces in mind. Surprisingly, nothing fell apart while I was away from the farm. And it felt good to be involved in the process of Becca moving to Kirby Falls.

I wanted to be supportive. This was a big change for her. And while I knew she wasn't making it just for me, I still wanted her to be happy with the decision. I also felt the urge to tell her she could just move into my house. But I figured she'd probably rather stand on her own two feet for a while. So, for now, I would follow her lead. I'd visit rentals with her and give my opinion when it was requested.

And then I'd trust Becca to do what was right for her.

If that involved packing up all her stuff in Detroit and bringing it back to the homestead with me and Carl, that would be fine too. Better than fine.

It had been good this week, sharing the tiny house with her. Really good. I'd spent every night in her bed, touching and being touched. Reveling in her sweetness and exploring all the ways I could make her light up. Then we'd wake up and have coffee together. I didn't mind squeezing into the shower with her because it meant our hands and lips stayed close and busy.

I'd invited Becca to work in my office again this morning since the temperature had dropped overnight. Before I'd left her to go pitch in over at the pumpkin patch, I'd gotten her off with my fingers. Then she'd dropped to her knees behind the desk and made me wish I didn't have someplace to be.

When I finally glanced up from reliving that particularly pleasant memory from three hours ago, I noticed Jordan and Chloe staring at me in disbelief. Becca was still grinning, so I probably hadn't mentioned the blow job out loud. A piece of bread actually fell out of Jordan's mouth from where it had dropped open.

Oh, right. The book club thing.

"What?" I scowled. "Are you so penned in by toxic masculinity that you can't imagine a man reading a romance novel? Come on, Jordan. Do better."

He recovered enough to look offended. "I will have you know that I am an Emily Henry stan. It's not that I can't imagine a man reading a romance novel. It's that I can't, for the life of me, imagine you reading one. Non-fiction. Sure. A memoir. Definitely. John Grisham. No doubt."

I pointed my fork in his direction. "Well, maybe you don't know everything about me, Jordan Anthony Rockford."

Picking up her sandwich, Becca interrupted. "Jordan, you can join too. Everyone is welcome. I already asked Larry and Mac, and they're in. Bonnie too. She invited someone named Candace. And I'm going to ask Magdaline down at Apollo's the next time we go for pizza. It'll be fun." She paused to take a bite, and her eyes went wide. "Holy cannoli. What's in this? It's amazing."

Chloe replied, listing the ingredients on her fingers, "Sliced chicken breast, herbed goat cheese, hot pepper jelly, and butter lettuce on homemade focaccia."

"Well"—Becca smiled—"it's my new favorite thing."

Chloe chuckled. "You love everything, Becca."

Her blue eyes flickered to mine briefly before she shrugged. "I guess I kinda do."

My chest warmed. We were hovering on the precipice of something—Becca and me. I knew how I felt. This was never going to be some short-term fling for me. That had been the problem from the beginning. But now that she was staying, all my wants and complicated feelings had permission to spread out and take up as much space as they wanted. My heart felt full of Becca Kernsy .

Clearing my throat, I told Becca, "We have conditioning tonight with the baseball team if you want to come watch. Carl can keep you company."

"I'm going to look at the house just down the road at six thirty, but I'll come by the high school after that. Trudy said she thinks it has too much land for me to manage, but I told her I still wanted to see it."

I smiled. "Sounds good."

The four-mile run and the rest of the practice went well. The night air was cool and felt good on my heated skin. Jordan's brother, Seth, had gradually seen more and more interest for these impromptu conditioning meetups in the last six weeks. I hadn't made it out to every single one, but I'd been pretty consistent this month, and there were at least twenty kids here tonight.

I checked my watch. At 6:55 p.m., the sun was inching toward the horizon. If we were going to keep these up through November, we'd have to start meeting earlier.

The tail end of practice usually devolved into me giving pointers to any of the pitchers present, and there were a few new faces in the bunch tonight. But they all listened when I spoke and asked questions that showed they were paying attention.

I even took a few throws off the mound to demonstrate a particular point I was trying to make. The familiar tightness in my shoulder welcomed me when I tried to overextend my current range of motion. I rolled my shoulders back a few times and stepped away, motioning for Mason Gentry to come up and pitch a few.

I'd noticed his dad in the stands again and given him a nod when we'd made eye contact. He hadn't brought up the coaching thing again, but I couldn't say I hadn't thought about it. I'd even gone so far as to look up the course requirements for coaches in North Carolina. None of it sounded horrible or unmanageable. My hesitancy at this point was how the high school baseball season might impact my time requirements at the farm.

It seemed I was less worried about how it looked for a washed-up has-been to swallow his pride and coach kids from his own high school. Sure, there would probably be a smart-ass freshman down the line who thought it would be fun to run his mouth and bring up my past. And I was pretty positive the parents would talk and whisper in the stands. But so far, I hadn't heard a word. None of the boys who came out here looking for extra practice and guidance had even asked me about my time playing in college or the minors or the majors. I guessed they were too focused on themselves to be worried about me.

It was humbling to consider. Maybe I shouldn't be so damn concerned about myself either.

Seated a few rows down from Principal Gentry was Becca. She'd arrived a few minutes ago, and Carl had trotted over to join her. She'd given me a sweet wave and sat down very casually in the stands. But I noticed she was wearing a gray Kirby Falls Parks and Rec hoodie I'd left at the tiny house the other night. It swallowed her, hiding her beautiful body, but I liked how my clothes looked on her. And I liked that she was comfortable enough to swipe it and wear it in front of me.

A moment later, she stood and wandered away from the stands. She had her phone out, and I wondered if her sister was bothering her again. I knew she hadn't yet told Heather she was leaving Detroit. But she still texted and called with regularity—demanding money, eager to know when Becca would be back in town. I thought it was the simple fact that for the first time in her life, Becca had told her sister no. Despite her denied requests, Heather was persistent. I wished Becca would block her number or refuse to answer. Heather only added to Becca's stress, and I sure as hell didn't like seeing her hurt.

I was distracted and watching Carl trot after her when I heard some of the new boys horsing around, laughing.

"What is she doing?" one kid said.

"Oh my God. What a freak," another added.

"She's hot, but clearly a weirdo," came the last assessment.

I glanced around and followed their gaze to where Becca was next to the chain-link fence surrounding the field. She had her phone in hand, lining it up for a shot of the sunset. The colors were dramatic, reflecting off the low clouds as the sun threatened to shrink behind the mountains.

The mocking and laughter continued until I barked out a sharp, "Hey! "

They all turned to look at me, wide-eyed and expectant. Not just the teenage boneheads but all the baseball players in the infield. Even a few parents glanced my way from the bleachers.

But I directed my attention to the four comedians who thought it was acceptable to mock someone behind their back. "What did you just say about her?"

One kid—an outfielder on the JV squad, I thought—raised his hands in surrender. "I didn't say anything."

In my periphery, I saw Seth and Jordan walk up to where I stood, just off the pitcher's mound.

I narrowed my eyes, and one of the other four players blurted out, "I'm sorry, Mr. Clark. We didn't know she was your girl."

My gaze focused on him—tall and skinny with big floppy hair—and I said, "Well, she is. And she's the best fucking person I know. And if I ever hear you badmouth a woman, any woman , you'll think you joined the cross-country team by mistake. Now go run the perimeter of the field until I tell you to stop."

The boys looked stunned. No one moved, and the only sounds were the leaves on the trees beyond the fence, vibrating in the breeze.

The first kid was brave enough to argue. "But you—you're not our coach."

I gave it a moment's thought, enough that it settled something restless beneath my skin, before I replied, "Yeah, well. I will be next year. So pissing me off now is a mistake. Go. Run."

Two of the four took off immediately for the first base line, ready to hustle around the edge of the field. One of the two boys remaining sighed and hit the first kid in the stomach, "Just come on, Nate, before you make it worse."

After my glare followed them for a moment, I felt a grinning Seth slap me on the back. "Try to only use your powers for good, though, Uncle Will."

I tossed him the baseball I still held in my hand. "Get out of here before I make you run too."

He laughed and hitched his bag higher on his shoulder before heading toward the parking lot with the majority of the boys .

Crossing my arms, I watched the four troublemakers jog through the outfield before Jordan stepped directly into my view. His smile was enormous, engulfing his entire face. Brown eyes sparkled, and I thought he might chip a tooth.

"Not a word," I said, shaking my head.

My friend just laughed. "You have to let me have an I told you so moment. Because I did. I. Told. You. So. You stubborn, pig-headed pain in the ass."

"There, you said your piece. Let's just let it go." I peeked at the runners who were closing in on the infield. "Pick up the pace, gentlemen," I shouted, and they scurried to do my bidding.

"This is going to be so fun," Jordan said.

"Yeah, I think it is," I agreed. And I might have even believed it.

Jordan headed out and most of the stands emptied.

Following another two laps, my bloodlust was satisfied. They were only idiot teenagers, after all. They didn't know what it was like to look at another person and see anything beyond the surface. They didn't know that weird was maybe the best thing a person could be. Because when you were sixteen years old, all you wanted was to fit in and be exactly like everyone else. Standing out from the crowd in high school was something those boys didn't have the courage to take on. But we'd work on that.

After I released my winded and shame-faced charges, I gathered up my bag and water bottle from the dugout and made my way to where Becca waited with Carl. She was seated on the first row, looking down at her phone. Hopefully, she was oblivious to everything that had gone down in the last fifteen minutes.

"Hey, you," she said when she caught sight of me walking toward her.

"Hi, City Girl."

Grinning, she stood, and I walked right up to her, throwing an arm around her shoulder and hugging her tight.

She sighed against me, her body sagging forward into my touch. I thought that might be the best sort of welcome—someone else dropping their walls and relaxing their shoulders, just for you .

Becca mumbled against my chest, "Why did four sweaty teenagers come up to me and stutter out apologies?"

It was my turn to sigh. "Let's call it growth and forget it ever happened."

I felt her snuggle closer, her hand sneaking under my workout shirt and up my back, seeking my warmth.

Fighting a smile against her hair, I admitted, "You look good in my sweatshirt."

Becca tilted her chin up to look at me, equal parts shy and mischievous. "You don't mind?"

"As long as I get to take it off you later, it's yours."

Her smile widened and she bit her lip to contain it, even white teeth digging into soft pink skin.

"You ready?" I asked, resisting the urge to kiss that bottom lip.

Becca nodded. "You?"

I cast one more glance around us. The stadium lights had kicked on earlier, illuminating the field—green grass, red dirt, and a huge part of my life.

We were the only ones left, not even the distant sounds of car doors shutting in the parking lot beyond interrupted the stillness in the air. Insects chirped and clicked, making their night noises. And I thought, alone with Becca in a baseball stadium might be the most peaceful I'd felt in a long time.

Finally, I released her from my hold. But before she could get too far away, I threaded my fingers through hers. "I'm ready. Let's go home."

When we reached the tiny house, I set Carl up with some dinner and then asked Becca if she wanted to join me in the shower.

"Sure. I'll wash your back." She'd grinned and went to grab some towels out of the linen closet in the hallway.

I stripped off my sweaty workout clothes and turned on the water. Becca was back before the steam could fill the small bathroom. She was naked with her blond hair piled in a bun on top of her head .

Grabbing her, I pulled her with me under the spray, careful to keep from getting her face and her hair wet.

"How was the house?" I asked, referring to the rental she'd visited with Trudy during practice. It was easy to get distracted when her smooth, wet skin was within touching distance, but I made the effort, eager to hear about her afternoon.

"Trudy was right. The yard was more of a two-acre field, with a little creek and everything. I don't think I could manage that much land."

Grabbing the shampoo, I quickly washed my hair. "But you liked the house?"

"It was cute. More of a fixer-upper than I'm looking for, though."

Closing my eyes, I leaned back and rinsed the soap from my hair. With my arms raised and scrubbing my scalp, I could feel the stiffness in my right shoulder from the pitches I'd thrown today. I'd probably overdone it. I might get up early and go through some stretches in the morning.

"You know you can stay here as long as you like," I said once my head was out of the water.

Becca appeared uncertain. "Your mom is too nice. She won't let me pay rent, and I feel like I'm taking advantage."

I reached for the soap and started soaping up my body. "You're not taking advantage. She wants you here. And she's not going to rent it out to strangers anyhow." She didn't look any more convinced. "All I'm saying is, if you don't find a house or a rental you're happy with before moving, you could always put your things in storage and stay here at the tiny house longer."

And because I was a coward, I turned my body into the spray to rinse off, with my back to Becca, and added, "Or you could always stay with me and Carl up on the mountain. You'd be welcome."

Becca didn't speak, and I realized I was holding my breath. Finally, I felt slender arms wrap around my waist, and soft breasts pressed against the wet skin of my back.

"You wouldn't mind having me in your space?" she asked, and I fought to stay focused. She felt so good.

"I've been in your space all week, and you didn't seem to mind. "

Her nails scraped along my abdomen, and I jolted at the touch. "You're a pretty good roommate," she offered, and I felt the sudden drag of her tongue up my spine. "You start the coffee, and you do the dishes. I'm not sure what I could contribute if I found myself at your house."

My lips tugged up in a grin as I turned in her arms. "Well, you're pretty handy in the shower."

She smiled. "I am, aren't I?"

Leaning down, I pressed a kiss to her lips. She welcomed me, humming sweetly in appreciation.

We kissed until our bodies grew restless. I cupped her breasts, running my thumbs across her sensitive nipples—petal pink and just as soft. Before I could lean down to suck one of her stiff peaks into my mouth, Becca's hands found their way to my ass, and she pulled me close. All of our slick, wet skin, heated from the water, suddenly touched from chest to knees.

I groaned into her mouth at the feel of her, so near and warm. With little forethought beyond more and yes , I bent and gripped her thighs, lifting and pressing her into the cool tiles of the shower wall. Becca gasped and then locked her legs tight around me. My dick was trapped between us, nestled between the folds of her pussy. Despite the water cascading over my back, Becca felt hotter surrounding me.

When our kisses resumed, they were sloppier, needier. I had Becca braced against the shower wall, and she ground herself up and down my erection, driving my need higher.

Another gasp and I knew she was getting close. Her head tilted back as she inhaled a shaky breath. So I took advantage and dragged my lips along her jaw and sucked at her throat.

"Will," she panted. "I want to feel you."

Her arms gripped me around my shoulders, and when I didn't stop licking the water droplets off her collarbone, she slid her fingers through my wet hair and pulled. It wasn't enough to hurt, but it got my attention.

Becca's blue eyes were bright, cheeks flushed, and her already full lips were plump and gorgeous from our kisses. "Please. "

Desire pitched low in my belly at the plea. With my eyes on hers, I reached down and positioned myself at her entrance. And then I gave her what she wanted.

Her eyes closed as I pushed inside, and so did mine. I released a rough breath at the feel of her. The utter relief and connection at having her like this. Knowing that this wasn't temporary. That she was mine.

My forehead rested against hers as I started to thrust, deep and slow. She was so tight and hot, and despite the midmorning blow job, I knew this wasn't going to last long. Water dripped from my hair and onto my face. It slid into my mouth as I groaned out rough exhalations. You feel so good and stay, stay just like this and Becca, fuck, you're perfect .

I could feel her tightening around me. Her frantic breaths puffing against my lips.

Repositioning my hands, I squeezed the globes of her ass, and she moaned out brokenly that she was coming.

Thank fuck because I was getting ready to lose it. I pumped into her faster, feeling her spasming muscles clenching over and over. The pleasure that had been gathering, steady and sure, finally released. The tendrils of my orgasm unraveled as I locked my hips against Becca, going as deep as I could go and pulsing into her.

Moments passed, and all I could hear was the thundering of my heart in time with the beating of the water all around us. Becca's fingers sifted through my hair as she placed kisses all over my face.

When I could manage it, I straightened from the wall, lowering her body gently to the shower floor. I held her waist and made sure she was steady before bringing her back under the spray and cleaning her off.

Becca's hands and lips moved over me where we brushed. I liked her sweet affection. Over the years, I'd gotten used to a lack of it. It had been my own doing. Sometimes I felt like an old dog that didn't know how to trust anymore—the way Carl had been when I'd adopted him. Becca had never seemed afraid, just persistent and kind, no matter my mood. I wanted to feel her hands tracing down my arms and smoothing over my back. I liked having her lips graze the skin of my chest and neck .

Sometimes affection didn't have to lead to something else, and I'd forgotten that. It could just be a way to let someone know you were on their mind. That touching you made them feel better. And so I was generous with my glances. I let my hands linger when I tucked a wayward wet strand behind her ear. My thumb tracing the elegant line of her neck.

Eventually, we dried off. I slid into some boxer briefs and didn't bother with anything more. Becca put on some underwear—yellow daisy print—and grabbed the navy tee shirt I'd slept in last night.

"Do you want a fire?" I asked, eyeing her in my shirt and fighting the urge to strip it off her because she looked too fucking good wearing my clothes.

She shook her head. "No, I want to do something else."

I raised an eyebrow but stayed quiet as she took me by the hand and had me lie down on the bed.

Becca took a bracing breath, and I had no idea where this was going. "So, um, I looked up a few massage techniques for shoulder injuries and wanted to try them out. I noticed your shoulder is pretty stiff in the mornings when you wake up, and I could tell it was bothering you after practice tonight. I could try a few, and if you hate it, I'll stop, or if it hurts, or I've overstepped or?—"

"Becca," I said, eager to halt her worried rambling. I grabbed her hand and ran my thumb over her knuckles. "I'm never gonna say no to you putting your hands all over me."

She managed to meet my eyes and smiled, small and shy and breathtaking. It struck me that we could do what we'd just done in the shower, but she'd actually been nervous about bringing up my injury. And here she'd gone to the trouble to look up massage techniques to help me.

My throat felt tighter than my shoulder at the moment.

"Thank you," I said hoarsely.

"Well, don't thank me yet. Let's just see how this goes. Scoot toward the middle and lie on your left side."

I did as I was told, and she inched closer, kneeling, her bare legs beneath my tee shirt resting against the middle of my back .

"This is just lotion," she warned as she squeezed some in her hands and rubbed them together. "It's honeysuckle. I hope that's okay."

I swallowed thickly. So that was where her sweet scent came from. I didn't want to tell her just how okay that was. I could breathe her in all night. "Sure."

Her touch was tentative at first. She explained what she was doing—soft tissue massage—and where her hands would be touching me. But after a few minutes, she grew quiet and focused, her hands surer, her grip firm.

I could feel my arm loosening as her thumb followed the path of the tendons long since healed in my arm. Well, as healed as they were capable of getting. The slow, steady pressure behind my shoulder blade was a good sort of hurt. Becca pressed and held and then gently released. And I sighed out a long breath through my nose.

My mind worked as I closed my eyes, and Becca kept up her patient movements. She and I had never really had a conversation about my life before . Sure, I talked about my teammates in high school and college. She knew that baseball had been a big part of my life. But I'd never brought up my injury and how everything had fallen apart—the sharp decline after trying to piece myself back together for nearly a year.

I was sure Becca knew the basics because my town was nosy and my family vocal. Neighbors felt entitled to my business because I was Kirby Falls, born and raised. They wanted to be a part of my journey and my success—or lack thereof. But there was no way for my family and friends and small-town acquaintances to know how crushing the loss of my baseball career had been. Hell, I hadn't even known when it was happening to me. I'd thought I was young and strong. I'd assumed my recovery would be successful because I'd handled it like everything else—by working my ass off through single-minded determination. I remembered the day of my surgery, thinking I'd be back on the field before I knew it.

Only, it hadn't gone like that.

The surgeon had warned me that with my kind of tendon tears—moderate, full thickness—the odds of rotator cuff surgery failure were nearly forty percent. And the possibility of a re-tear after reconstruction, especially in my chosen field, were somewhere in the neighborhood of likely. The long road to recovery had been frustrating. I'd had a team of professionals dedicated to seeing me back on the pitching mound. I'd taken every suggestion. I'd kept my arm in a sling and my shoulder stationary for six weeks post-op in order to give the tendons a chance to heal and reattach. I'd slept uncomfortably in a recliner instead of my bed for months to make sure I didn't roll over in my sleep and reinjure myself. I'd gone to every appointment, met with every physical therapist, and still was not prepared for the six months of recovery time required for an injury like mine.

I watched my team get to the playoffs without me. I endured pitying glances and well-wishes over time, and then eventually, nothing at all as career trajectories changed, and I'd been excluded from that world.

Not once did I beg to be released to play sooner. Knowing what was at stake, I hadn't rushed my progress or my healing. Instead, I'd gritted my teeth, and I'd done what was asked of me, thinking all the while that there was a day when I'd be back to normal.

Only that day never came.

"Do you, uh, know what happened?" I asked stiffly while Becca worked, figuring she deserved some answers.

Her hands paused briefly at my question, but she quickly regained her composure. "Just what I've been told around town. I didn't go look up your Wikipedia page, if that's what you're asking."

"Jesus," I muttered, opening my eyes and sliding her an embarrassed glance.

She winked. After a moment, her voice came quietly, gently—like she was talking to a wounded animal, and maybe to a lot of people, that was what I was. "You don't have to talk about it, if you don't want to, Will. You don't owe me anything because we're—we're together or because I'm trying to take away your pain."

There was no way Becca knew how much that meant to me. The fact that she cared enough to do this, to care for me in such a way . . . it made me want to fall to my knees and wrap my arms around her waist, press my face into her middle. But there was also what she'd said. She'd never once put pressure on me to talk to her about my life before.

Part of me wanted to tell her, though. Maybe because she'd never needed to ask.

"I got hurt when I was twenty. It was spring, and I'd gotten called up from the minors to pitch early in the season. The team had had some injuries and gave me a shot. Anyway, I didn't hear a pop or anything, like what happens to some people. The doc said it was likely wear and tear—a lifetime of baseball, thousands of pitches thrown." I swallowed heavily. There was no way to minimize what baseball had been to me, condensing it down to an injury made me sick to my stomach.

"But once I started having pain," I continued, "I didn't stop or see a doctor. I thought it would work itself out. I kept practicing and pitched another game in the majors. My whole family was there. Jordan, too. The loudest one. I could hear them all from the stands, screaming my name. So fucking proud. I didn't know how I'd manage to throw a single pitch feeling as emotional and grateful as I did during that ball game." Another rough swallow of remembered pain. "But I did. And afterward, the soreness was worse. The team doctor noticed and wanted to take a look. Then I was referred to a surgeon after testing and scans. It all snowballed from there. The long and short of it is: the surgery and the recovery couldn't get me back to where I'd been. And when playing at that level was no longer an option, the team let me go. I went back to UNC and finished up my degree. Graduated and then I came home."

I didn't tell her about the things that didn't matter—the things I couldn't change or get over, no matter how much I tried. How after my surgery and recovery, the stiffness in my arm persisted. My range of motion was limited. And when I finally started pitching again, I'd lost the power behind my throws. My control suffered too, and I was in a lot of pain from trying so hard to be normal again.

Even with a patient coaching staff and a determined physical therapist, the odds were good that I'd never be at the same level I'd been before my surgery. A second surgery wasn't an option. And when the team released me from my contract . . . that was when I let all those bitter feelings overwhelm me. The why me? bullshit. The unfairness of it all. The crushing despair that came with losing your identity, the only thing you'd ever wanted—what you'd sacrificed your whole life to achieve.

I'd been depressed and bitter for a long time. Part of me thought I'd only gone back to college to avoid the inevitable return to Kirby Falls.

"I'm sorry that happened to you, Will," Becca finally said into the quiet of the bedroom .

For the first time, someone saying those words to me didn't feel like pity. It sounded like heartbreak. Becca hurt for me. She only cared because she cared about me. I wasn't letting her down by leaving baseball. She hadn't been invested in my career since I was a kid. She'd never watched me on television or sat in the stands in any stadium to see me pitch. She was separate from it all, but she still cared.

Because it was me.

"I can't imagine how hard it must have been to go through all that." Her hands kept up their soothing strokes, over and over. "And I know I'm only getting to know you now, following that part of your life. But I can still see parts of it shining through. Like your determination and your teamwork on the farm. Your dedication to your family. And your leadership and guidance on the field with those kids. I know it probably feels like a part of you died when you had to give up your dream, but our pasts stay with us. Who we were informs who we are now, and none of it ever really goes away—no matter how much you might want it to."

I considered the truth of Becca's words and marveled over how she saw things so clearly when I'd been struggling with clouded vision for a decade. And then I thought of how her own history might affect the Becca before me now. The kindness and goodness she'd learned at the hands of a stand-in parent. The way she showed everyone around her that she cared after dealing with a lifetime of neglect.

Reaching back, I placed my left hand atop hers and squeezed.

Over the next forty minutes, she worked quietly, moving and positioning my right arm. She had me lie on my side, my back, and then my chest as she stretched, pushed, pulled, and rotated. But through it all, with every pass of her soft fingers, I felt her care, her concern, her love.

Finally, when her hands smoothed away and she shifted to sit beside me on the bed, Becca asked, "So, how do you feel? Was it okay?"

In truth, I felt a little sore, and I probably would be in the morning too. But my joint felt loose and warm—the stiffness lessened drastically.

I opened my eyes and met her worried expression. Smiling gently, I admitted, "It's the best I've felt in a long time. "

Her relief was palpable. She took a huge breath and blew it out before grinning at me. "We can do that whenever you want. Whenever you feel like it might help. I'll get even better with practice, I'm sure of it."

My throat went suspiciously tight again, and I didn't think I could manage to speak around the emotion constricting my airway. The thought of her so eager to help and care for me, researching my injury, watching instructional videos on her laptop in secret, giving me her time and energy and heart—it was all overwhelming in the best possible way.

I reached for her and urged her down beside me. Wrapping her in my arms, I held her close. When I could manage to get the words out, I said, "Thank you for taking care of me," my lips brushing the soft, delicate hair at her temple.

She just squeezed me tighter.

What Becca had done over the past hour hadn't been anything that I hadn't already gone through with numerous physical therapists many years ago, but this—with Becca—felt different. Her touch soothed and roused in equal measure.

Her goal here wasn't to get me back to my pre-operative performance. This was more than improving my range of motion and making me a successful athlete. Her touch had nothing to do with the team or management or expectations, and everything to do with me. Not even me, the baseball player. Just me . . . Will Clark. Farmer. Grumpy hermit. And someone who'd take care of her for as long as she'd let me.

Her thoughtfulness was on full display, bright and bold and eager. But that was just Becca—kind and selfless, attentive and generous. She was more than I deserved.

And she'd be the woman who held my heart in her hands for the rest of my life.