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Turning toward the skee-ball target, I force myself to focus.

In baseball, you fail most of the time.

Even players with excellent batting averages are only hitting thirty percent of what’s thrown at them. Teams only ever win half of their games—the good teams, slightly more than half. Strikeouts. Errors. Bad swings. Accepting failure is part of the process.

If I mess this up, I’ll still have the pleasure of Willow’s company for the rest of the day.

That in itself is a win.

As I pull my arm back to swing, Willow snatches the ball from my fingers. Then she walks up the lane, ducks down, and slips her hand beneath the divider to toss the ball in the fifty-point pocket. The machine beeps and illuminates with my total score: fifty.

I’m laughing by the time my wife struts back down the lane, sending me a wink before picking up her helmet. It’s a joyful tangerine, matching the D30-armor motorcycle jacket I got for her. When she flicks her leather jacket over her shoulder, not even glancing back on her way to the exit, an exhale punches from me.

My wife confidently striding toward my motorcycle has to be the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.

I take an appreciative sweep from her raven hair to her black Docs before jolting into action.

Looks like we’re spending the rest of the day at my favorite place.

Home.

Chapter 28

Shane

Seven grueling days later, and I’m irritated that we’re standing in front of Trevor’s front door instead of snuggling on the couch or kissing in the kitchen. Turns out, I hate away games now. They never bothered me before, but after being gone all week, I just want to spend my precious day off in Willow’s company.

Alone.

In the case of ‘I don’t want to be here,’ I’d like the record to reflect that Willow is wearing a sundress. Yes, you heard me right. A sundress. It’s Waves blue with tiny white flowers and cascades effortlessly to her knees. The most maddening parts of the garment are the thin blue straps.

How am I expected to be social when Willow’s lovely shoulders are on display?

She pauses before ringing the doorbell, adjusting the aluminum foil over the tray of diabetic-friendly chocolate cookies I’m carrying.

“I think I’m coming down with something.”

Willow clicks her teeth, tired of my nonsense. To her credit, I’ve been trying to get out of this team get-together since I walked on the tarmac last Friday and realized I left my heart at home.

A part of me knows that we should probably talk about what we’re doing now that we’ve kissed, but I’ve been following her lead. Willow seems happy with our current situation, and I’m perfectly content to keep her that way.

“We’re not staying that long. Cabin check-in starts at four.”

While I’ve been playing in various cities, Willow has been productive. She kept our pillow fort up, hosting Piper for an epic weekend sleepover. Delilah and Adam were beyond grateful for extended solo couple time. Willow and Piper FaceTimed me before my games. Piper is now convinced that I’m secretly a prince, pretending to be a baseball player.

Willow also logged valuable hours on her piece, making astonishing progress. After returning home late last night, I spent entirely too long visually tracing the scales of the dinosaur’s snout.

And if that wasn’t enough, Willow planned our next adventure—staying the night in a cabin. She’s particularly excited to share this ‘must-have childhood experience’ with me. Roasting marshmallows beneath winking stars is something Willow often did with her mom growing up.

Since I have less than twenty-four hours off before I have to report to Waves Stadium for tomorrow’s home game, we’re keeping it local. Fortunately, First Landing State Park is less than fifteen minutes from the ballpark. After this, we’ll head to the cabin, and tomorrow, I’ll go straight to the stadium where I’ll have an in-person meeting with Carter before practice.

Though he’s spent the last week groveling like a champ, assuring me that he’s close to landing both a New Balance and Rawlings deal, I wanted time to think about keeping him as my agent. In the end, Carter isn’t a bad person; he just takes jokes too far. With some new expectations, I’m sure we can continue working together.

I grunt, prepared to make another bid for Willow’s attention, when the door flies open. Kenzie’s red hair swings back with the motion.

“Willow! Shane! I’m so glad you could make it.” A calico cat rests in a cross-body sling thingy, pawing at her shoulder. “Come on in.”

When Kenzie turns, leading the way, I give Willow one last pleading glance. She frames my face, her thumb giving my cheek an affectionate caress.