Page 11 of The Pitcher’s Proposal

“What did you do before the Titans?” I ask.

Dakota tells me about the private performance center where she worked in Raleigh and the university athletic department before that.

“I loved the university job, but I always wanted to work with one professional team,” she says, running a finger along the cardboard sleeve around her cup. “The same players. The same clubhouse. The same goal every day.”

I nod. “I get that. There’s something special about chasing the same goal with the same people every day.”

She smiles. “Exactly.”

I ask about her family. She tells me she grew up outside Richmond, where her mother still lives. Her older brother is married and expecting his first kid in December.

“You excited to be an aunt?” I ask.

“Very. I’ve already bought too many things.”

“That’s your job.”

“My brother claims the baby doesn’t need three blankets.”

“Your brother’s wrong.”

“Exactly.” Her face lights up as she tells me about the tiny clothes she’s already bought and the argument she had with her mother over who gets to babysit first.

I shouldn’t picture Dakota holding a baby. But there it is anyway: the image of her rocking a sleepy newborn in her arms, murmuring softly, looking so beautiful it makes my chest ache.

When she asks about my family, I tell her about my parents in Tennessee and my younger sister, who has two kids. My niece tells everyone at school that I’m famous. My nephew only cares whether I bring him another game ball.

“Do you?” Dakota asks.

“Every time.”

“Your nephew must love that.”

“He’s got me wrapped around his finger.”

We move from family to travel, then to the lives we have when the season isn’t consuming every hour. Dakota likes museums but hates guided tours. I own a fishing boat I barely use and a guitar I can’t play worth a damn.

“You have a guitar?” she asks, amusement lifting her brows.

“I know parts of three songs.”

“That doesn’t mean you can play.”

“It means I can almost play.”

“I’m not convinced.”

“I could prove it sometime.”

The invitation slips out honestly. Dakota’s gaze holds mine, and something warm gathers in the silence.

“Maybe,” she says.

I’m deciding whether to press my luck when an older couple enters the coffee shop. The man uses a cane, and his wife scans the room for an open table. There isn’t one.

I stand and gather our cups. Dakota looks up. “Everything okay?”

“Be right back.”