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“You clean houses?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.

I’m hoping that holding my body rigid will stop the spinning sensation careening through my veins. It’s just…

This is really weird.

I’ve spent the last week thinking about Willow, and—poof—here she is.

What’s that thing my teammate Colton is always gibbering about? Manifesting? That doesn’t apply outside of optimizing your at-bat, right?

The urge to check on Willow this past week had been stalker-level creepy, but I’d refrained, reminding myself that Willow was capable. She’d stood up to me, hadn’t she? Also, her coworkers obviously loved her, so she had a great support system. More importantly, she hadn’t shared her information when I gave her mine. Me looking her up after learning her full name—Willow Huntley—in an emergency would be sketchy as heck.

Willow tugs at the collar of her tie-dye shirt, blinking. “It’s one of my jobs.”

“Besides being a vet tech.”

Her brows pinch.

“Shoreline Veterinary Center was embroidered on your scrub pocket.”

“Oh.” She gives her head a little shake. “Right.”

The silence stretching between us is more painful than missing every pop fly during the World Series.

“This is great,” she says in a breathy rush.

“How?” I don’t mean for my question to be a biting growl.

“Well…” Willow uses a knuckle to push her bangs aside before visibly gathering her courage.

Brave, beautiful woman, my mind fires off before I tell it to shut up.

“I wanted to formally thank you…for your quick thinking and”—the corner of her mouth curls up—“for kidnapping me.”

My scowl deepens.

“For my own good,” she quickly adds with raised palms, her smile morphing into something dazzling. “I’m feeling better than I have in weeks because you recognized signs I didn’t even know to look for. I’m just…thank you. I’m lucky to have met you.”

I hold perfectly still, telling myself I don’t feel sparks shooting to the soles of my feet.

I’m only off balance because I’m tired. The Admirals gave us a run for our money tonight—though we eventually came out on top, securing our seven-game winning streak. We’ve got two more against the Admirals before a series with the Pioneers. At least this six-game stretch is at home, so I get to sleep on my Hästens mattress. It’s the only thing—besides my clothes and gear—that I took with me when I moved.

Despite the wins, it’s been a crap week. The rest of the season opener was fine, but Monday, we flew to Atlanta so I could play against the team that tossed me aside like a spoiled tuna sandwich. It was nice to knock two home runs into the stands during two separate games, but even that didn’t dull the ache sitting just below the surface.

Instead of concentrating on that sensation, I hit the gym harder than I usually would. Then I went above and beyond in practice, all while getting broken sleep from worrying about the woman in front of me—who’s clearly doing just fine.

I push my fist into my eye, rubbing until I see stars.

“Okay, well, with that out of the way, I should…” I hear rather than see her hastily gathering her things.

Keeping my eyes closed, I count to five.

Just stay put. She’s fine. There’s nothing to do now that you know that.

With my exhausted body at its limits, that little voice every athlete keeps stuffed deep down rears its ugly head.

You’d never be enough anyway.

One would think that, as a professional baseball player, I’d have a handle on insidious thoughts like this, but unfortunately, that nasty voice has history on its side. Mom left because my brothers and I weren’t worth staying for. Even with all the expensive gifts and grand gestures, Brielle chose someone else.