Page 10 of The Pitcher’s Proposal

A tired laugh escapes me. “Pretty much.”

Dakota doesn’t tell me we exceeded expectations or that we should be proud of how far we came. I’ve heard enough of that from people who mean well. She lets the loss remain what it is, and somehow that helps more than anything anyone else has said.

Neither of us mentions the deal.

Losing the chance to take her out hurts, but bringing it up now would make everything feel smaller. This isn’t only about a date. The season ended, the clubhouse emptied, and a group of men who had spent every day together scattered within hours.

Dakota glances at the box. “Are you finished here?”

“Yeah. You?”

“I need to drop these in Marissa’s office.”

“What about after?”

Her eyes rise to mine questioningly.

“Can I buy you a cup of coffee?” I ask.

She hesitates, and for a second I’m sure she’ll refuse. But she nods.

“Sure,” she says. “I’d like that.”

“I still think Luis should’ve stopped at second,” Dakota says, wrapping both hands around her coffee cup.

“He would’ve been safe at third if he hadn’t tripped over his own feet.”

“He denies tripping.”

“There are six camera angles proving it.” I lean back in my chair and shake my head. “The man tried to blame the dirt.”

“He said it shifted under his cleat.”

“I’m surprised he hasn’t filed a complaint against the grounds crew.”

Her laugh makes a little bit more of my sorrow ease.

We’ve been sitting in the corner of the coffee shop for nearly an hour, talking about the best parts of the season. Not the final game or the opportunities we missed. Just the ridiculous moments that still make us laugh. Luis falling between second and third, then scoring when the throw went into the dugout. A rookie getting lost in the visiting clubhouse. Half the team playing cards on the floor during a rain delay because someone misplaced the folding tables.

Dakota sits across from me, relaxed in a way I rarely see at the stadium. I’ve wanted her since February, but most of what I know about her belongs to baseball.

I know her routines. I know she drinks iced coffee during afternoon games and chamomile tea at night. I know she keeps cinnamon gum in her desk and hates when players leave refrigerator doors open.

I want to know everything else.

“What do you do when you’re not keeping twenty-six grown men alive?” I ask.

“Recover from keeping twenty-six grown men alive.” Her eyes warm. “Some of you are much more work than others.”

“I have a feeling you’re talking about me.”

“You did eat three cinnamon rolls the morning of a day game.”

“I was carb loading.”

“You were showing off.”

Our familiar banter is still there, but it’s quieter now. For the first time, it feels like we’re really talking instead of just flirting.