3. Grant

This is my favorite part of work—when I look up at the scoreboard, see my name, and it says I've gone three for three. Or hit a homer. Or knocked in a couple runs.

The flip side of that is seeing a giant goose-egg next to my name. That's what I'm looking at today—a big, fat zero for every freaking at-bat. We lost the last two games of this series against the Coyotes, and I'd like to salvage our final shot.

It's the bottom of the ninth, we're down by two runs, and I step into the box. We have a runner on first, so if I can get the job done, the Cougars have a chance to tie the score.

I laser in on the pitcher, shoving everything else aside. The pitcher lobs a juicy curveball, and I lunge for it, going deep, I'm sure. It arcs along the first baseline straight out to right field, and I swear on my love for James Bond that it's going to land in the stands and tie the score for us.

But it's a foul ball.

Thrumming with irritation, I return to the plate, where I take some deep breaths and a few cuts. When I'm focused again, I step into the box and wait for my pitch. The man on the mound serves up another curveball, and I go for it once more. This time, I miss it entirely, swinging through and coming up empty.

I grit my teeth and dig in again, determined to get out of this hole. But when the pitch comes soaring at me, I'm too late, hitting a lazy fly ball that pops out to second base.

I don't send the runner home. Two batters later, the game is over.

I leave the field, head down and jaw tight as I make for the locker room, ready to wash the game away.

From his chair in front of his locker, Crosby holds up a pair of red socks with cartoon penguins on them. "Clearly, these are about to become sock puppets since I am never wearing them again on the field."

"Yes, please ditch your socks, Crosby. Now that we've found the culprit for our shitty series," I say as I finish getting dressed, stuffing my wallet and phone into the pockets of my jeans.

"You and me both, bro." Crosby went hitless too. "This was not the way I wanted to go into the All-Star break—losing three games in a row."

"You guys didn't even give me a chance to get on the mound," Chance calls from across the locker room.

Before I can answer him, someone shushes the room and turns up the volume on the TV. A female reporter from the Sports Network speaks from in front of the Chicago ballpark, updating the anchors in the studio.

"What we know so far is that Manuel Rosa was taken to a hospital in Seattle when he fractured his leg during the Storm Chasers' game against the Chicago Sharks today."

A clip of the Storm Chasers' game plays as the reporter talks about the team's centerfielder.

"Running out a bunt, Rosa landed hard on first base, appearing to dislocate his ankle. But before trainers could even reach the Storm Chasers' centerfielder, we all saw it was dramatically worse."

The team stares, drop-jawed, at the footage of Rosa on the ground. Before the trainers and medics block the view, the camera catches the horrifying angle of the guy's leg. My stomach flips, and the locker room echoes with oh fuck, that hurts, and holy shit, almost covering the reporter saying "rushed into emergency surgery" and "open compound fracture."

The network cuts back to the reporter in front of the stadium, who tells the camera somberly, "Rosa, who was scheduled to start at center field in Monday's All-Star game, will unquestionably be out for the rest of the season."

I shudder, trying to shake the image of that horrible landing. But I can't, and I'm obviously not the only one.

"I was supposed to grab a beer with him in Houston," Crosby says.

"He was a helluva rookie last year," Chance remarks.

Was.

Chance is already talking about Manuel like his career is over.

Well, his season is, and that sucks big time.

I head out of the stadium, and once I'm in my car, I drop my shades over my eyes to protect them against the blaze of the early evening sun before I drive around to the front of the stadium. My best friend, Reese, visited a client nearby, and she's meeting me here. I spot her easily, her blonde hair blowing in the breeze as she sticks out her thumb, pretending she's hitching a ride.

I'm extra grateful for her company. The thing with Rosa is making going hitless harder to shake off, and I don't do well dwelling alone with negative thoughts, and after a game like that my brain is all kinds of dark.

I lean over to push open the passenger door, then whistle at her like I'm at a construction site. "Hey, hot, sweet thang. Want a ride?"

"Oh, you know it, baby." She dashes inside, pulls the door closed, and clicks on her seatbelt. "How was the game?"

"Ugh. Bad."

"Will dancing tomorrow cheer you up? Or was tonight even worse than the box score?"

"It was terrible. My game blew out, and did you hear about Rosa on the Storm Chasers?"

She pats my arm. "I did. So awful. As for you, it's one game out of one hundred sixty-two."

"One is all it takes to lose momentum. We've had a great season, and I don't want to see it all go downhill now. Also, it's not just one game. We lost three in a row."

"You're seriously adorable. These are your worries? You lose three games in a row, so now you worry that your season is whacked?" She smiles kindly, but her eyes hint that she's concerned. "Let's focus on real problems—like what we're going to get your boyfriend to wear tomorrow night."

"Those are dire dilemmas, woman," I say, quickly shifting gears as I cruise through the city. "So, fashionista, tell me stuff. What are you up to at work?"

"I started planning a 5K run for some local animal shelters," she says as we drive toward the shopping location she's picked. I listen to the details, glad to focus on her now that I've voiced my worries.

In Hayes Valley, I snag a parking spot on a side street, still chatting as we walk to the shop. "The 5K practically markets itself," Reese adds. "The runners and the dogs are supposed to run in costume."

"Seems like if you can't market a dog dressed as a taco, you ought to get out of the profession," I quip as we enter Sage, a trendy boutique. The selection is, honestly, a little overwhelming. I like to dress well when I go out with Declan, but that doesn't mean I know brands, or names, or fashion.

I let Reese do the work, and she's a model of decisive efficiency, taking me straight to a display of short-sleeved button-down shirts.

"Let's check these out," she says as a man in skinny jeans, biker boots, and a paisley shirt ambles over. He looks like he sings in a K-pop band.

The guy flashes a cheery grin, his eyes twinkling behind hipster glasses. "I'm Lane. I run the shop. Can I help you find something?"

Reese points at me. "My bestie's looking for something sexy for his boyfriend."

"Aren't we all? And what do you like to see him in?"

I rub my chin, picturing Declan. "I'm shameless. My boyfriend has big guns." I tap my own biceps. "Kind of like Hemsworth, so I like to look at his arms." Then I knock my knuckles against my sternum. "But he also has the perfect amount of chest hair. Not too much, not too little, so I like it when he wears a shirt with a couple buttons open. And I like it tight. I want to just stare at him and be driven mad with the desire to rip it off. That's what I like him in."

Lane pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "And your boyfriend is officially the luckiest guy in the world."

Chuckling softly, I say, "I think I am."

Lane taps his chin, sorting through shirts and picking a forest-green, short-sleeve one that he holds against his chest. "Tell me about your guy. What's his coloring like?"

"He has brown hair and dark brown eyes. His skin is just a little bit darker than mine," I say. "More tan."

"He's going to look really good in this shirt, then," he says.

"Sold," I declare.

"My turn," Reese says, and we help her pick a red dress that shows off her curves.

Lane picks a shirt for me, and then I buy all three items, insisting on paying the freight for Reese's dress and grateful she lets me since I love to give gifts. I take the bag, and Reese and I head to the nearby tapas bar to grab a bite to eat. It's the same place Declan and I met up the night we got back together. I even order the same drink—a virgin spicy margarita. Maybe it'll help reset my mood, being someplace with so many good memories.

"Catch me up on everything you have going on," I ask after the waitress brings us appetizers and drinks. "We've got taco dogs—what else is cooking at work?"

As we nibble on olives, Reese tells me about an upcoming event for young female athletes. "I feel like I'm doing exactly what I was meant to do. You know the feeling, right?"

Do I ever. "Funny, that's what's been weighing on me since this afternoon." Reese has often been the easiest person for me to talk to about the hard stuff.

She stares at me curiously over the olive she just picked up. "What do you mean?"

I scratch my chin, trying to put my worries into words now that I have some distance from the game and the news. "I've had a good run. But my playing today was kind of so-so. Honestly, my last few games have been kind of so-so. And the news about Rosa makes me realize this could all change in the blink of an eye."

"It all could," she says. "But that's the nature of sports. That's the joy and the agony of being an athlete and a fan, isn't it?"

I heave a sigh. "But I don't know what I'd do if that happened. I guess, too, that it hit me how everything in my life is so good. I don't want to do anything to mess it up. I have great friends like you, a terrific career, and I love using my platform to further causes I believe in. And I have Declan, of course." Last listed, but unquestionably the best part of my life.

"Ah, so you're worried that life and love are too good to be true?" Reese hits the nail on the head.

"You know me so well," I say with a small smile, then it disappears as I flashback to earlier, when Declan and I skirted talk about the PDA thing. "Everything's been amazing with Declan, but every now and then, I wonder."

"What do you wonder?"

I lean forward, feeling a little guilty voicing this. "I wonder what it takes to make something last—as in forever—and is that different from what it takes to fall in love. Know what I mean?"

She nods, a little solemn too. "I do know. And I think about it with Holden. I believe it takes being honest, being open, listening. And being willing to work on staying close every day, even when it's hard."

I marinate on that for a bit. She's not wrong. "That's good advice."

She reaches for my hand, squeezes. "And as for your worries about work, you just have to take things as they come and do what you can to make your life what you want it to be."

That sounds good, in theory. But if one game can throw you off in baseball, if one moment can end your season, how little would it take to derail a relationship?

So far, Declan and I have been on a honeymoon of sorts. But what comes next?

Ah, hell—maybe I'm a fool for worrying about what's next when what I have in front of me is out of this world.

Later that night, as I hang the shirts in the closet, I tell myself to take each day on its own terms. I repeat it as I brush my teeth. I remind myself once again as my phone pings with the news that Declan's plane just landed.

I'll see him soon. But I'm bone tired, and a yawn escapes me as I write back, telling him I'll be in bed when he walks in the door.

I get under the covers. Before I know it, I crash.

Thirty minutes later, I'm no longer thinking about taking each day as it comes.

The man I want just slid into bed next to me.

And my whole body aches, maybe more than it ever has, with the need to reconnect with him.