How Much I Care (Miami Nights Book 2)

by Marie Force

“Hi.”

  For the longest time, we simply stare at each other. I don’t blink for a full minute.

  “Did you catch the game?” he asks.

  “I did. Congrats on the win.”

  “Thanks, not that I had anything to do with it.”

  “The broadcasters were talking about you.”

  “They were? What did they say?”

  “Speculation about free agency and your next move.”

  “Ah, yes, the big story in the off-season. I’m getting a lot of interview requests from baseball reporters, but I’m not saying anything until the time comes.”

  “Do you have any idea where you might end up yet?”

  “Not really. Supposedly, there’s interest from San Francisco, Seattle and Anaheim, as well as the Cubs and possibly the Red Sox. I’m staying out of it until after the World Series, when we can start to talk turkey.”

  My heart sinks as he lists all the faraway places where he might end up.

  “How was the rest of your day?” he asks.

  “It was good. I met my cousin Carmen after work for another fitting for her dress and mine for the wedding. We grabbed a drink after. Then I came home to watch the end of the game.”

  “When is Carmen’s wedding?”

  “Second weekend in October.”

  “Ah, not long, then.”

  “Nope. They’ll have had a three-month engagement.”

  “Wow, that is quick. And you said this is her second marriage?”

  “Right. Her first husband, Tony, was a police officer and was killed in a convenience store robbery when he and Carmen were twenty-four. They’d been married less than a year.”

  “Oh, God, that’s terrible.”

  “It was. He was the best guy, and they were so happy together from the time they were in, like, ninth grade. The whole thing sucked so bad.”

  “I can only imagine.”

  “I’m so happy for her and Jason. They’re great together.”

  “That’s good.”

  I hate that it feels awkward to actually talk to him face-to-face. I hadn’t expected that, and it’s a little disappointing.

  “Does this feel weird to you?” he asks, grinning.

  “Yes,” I reply on a sigh of relief that he feels the same way. “I was just thinking that I didn’t expect it to be awkward after the way we’ve talked about everything by email.”

  “I couldn’t wait to actually talk to you. I walked back to the hotel because I didn’t feel like waiting for everyone else to get their shit together and get on the bus.”

  Hearing that, I relax a bit. “I couldn’t wait, either.”

  “I was hoping the game wouldn’t end up in extra innings.”

  “That would’ve sucked.”

  “Yep.”

  “What would you normally be doing after a game?”

  “Maybe go out for a beer with the guys.”

  “Will they wonder why you didn’t go tonight?”

  “I don’t think so. I don’t always go.”

  “Did you get to talk to Everly?”

  “Before the game. I tucked her in. That’s our tradition when I’m on the road.”

  Swoon! “That’s very sweet.”

  “I miss her so much when I’m away on these long stretches. It sucks.”

  “That’s got to be so hard.”

  “It is. Eleven days without my baby girl is brutal.”

  “Could you bring her with you if you wanted to now that she’s out of quarantine?”

  “Sure, but that would be so disruptive for her. We’ve got her on a good schedule, and according to my mom, kids thrive off routine. Life on the road would mess that up, so for now, she’s better off at home. Plus, I’m still super freaked out about exposing her to germs. It’s not like something magical happens at the one-year mark. Her immune system is still compromised.”

  “You’re a wonderful dad, Austin.”

  “Thanks. I try to be. She’s my whole world. But enough about me. Tell me more about you. I want to know everything.”

  I laugh at the intense way he says that, in a gruff, sexy voice that sends shivers down my spine. “I’ve told you more than most people ever know about me.”

  “Same. Tell me something else.”

  “Let’s see… I won the spelling bee when I was in eighth grade.”

  “That’s so hot.”

  I lose it laughing. “Can I tell you a secret?”

  “Please do.”

  “I wouldn’t still be talking to you if your emails hadn’t included proper spelling, grammar and punctuation.”

  He shivers and fans his face dramatically. “You’re a stickler for proper grammar, then?”

  “Not always, but people who don’t know the difference between ‘your’ and ‘you’re’ or ‘there’ and ‘their’ shouldn’t be let out of school.”

  “I had no idea that ninth-grade grammar would one day be so important.”

  “Did you get good grades?”

  “Hell no,” he says, laughing. “I did the bare minimum to get the F out of there in both high school and college. I made it through two years of college and entered the draft. Best day of my life. No more school. What about you?”

  “I did very well.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  “I loved school. I still think about going back to get a master’s in public health.”

  “Do you think you will?”

  “I don’t know. It is sort of nice to be able to do whatever I want when I’m not working. If I went back to school, all my off time would be about studying and homework.”

  “What do you do for fun?”

  “I go to the beach every chance I get. I love to shop and have lunch with my cousin and sister when she’s in town. We do that on a lot of Saturdays. I like to spend time with my family and go out dancing.”

  “Are you a good dancer?”

  “I danced with a local studio from the time I was four until I was twenty-two.”

  “So that’s a yes, then.”

  “I do okay. What about you?”

  “Um, well… I’ve never broken anyone’s foot, but I’m a bit of a hack when it comes to dancing.”

  “So proceed with caution?”

  “Something like that,” he says, laughing.

  He’s sexy and sweet and everything perfect. But he lives hundreds of miles from me and could end up thousands of miles away if free agency goes well for him, which it will. My sense of self-preservation overrules my desire to spend more time with him.

  “I should probably get to bed. I’m working in the morning.”

  “I wish we could talk all night. I like talking to you.”

  “I like it, too.”

  “Will you email me from work tomorrow?”

  “Do you want me to?”

  “Hell yes, I want you to. I love your emails. I’ve read them so many times.”

  I love that he’s not shy about admitting that he’s reread my emails. A lot of guys wouldn’t confess to that. “If I get a quiet minute, I will.”

  “I hope you do. Sleep tight.”

  “You, too.”

  “Night, Maria.”

  “Night, Austin.” I hit the red button to end the FaceTime call. For a long time after I get in bed, I stare up at my pink ceiling, processing everything I know now. Anaheim, Seattle, San Francisco, Chicago and Boston are all a very long way from Miami. I’ve never had any desire to live anywhere but right here. Dee couldn’t wait to go somewhere else. She moved to New York for college and never came back. Domenic Junior was the same way. They both wanted out of here as soon as they could. Not me. I love my hometown and don’t want to move, even for a guy as great as Austin seems to be.

  I feel deflated after our FaceTime call. It was a big heads-up that getting wildly excited about a man I barely know could turn out to be a huge mistake. I need to take a step back from him and find some perspective.

  Knowing there’s no way I’ll sleep for a while yet,
I scroll through our messages again, starting with the first one six months ago, through the ones from yesterday and earlier today, experiencing the same magic I felt the first time I read them.

  The next day, I force myself to resist all temptation. I don’t write an email to Austin, and I don’t check my personal account to see if he’s hit me up. I spend the whole day trying to get my head on straight where he’s concerned, but by the following morning, I’m no closer than I was the day before.

  While I’m eating lunch with my coworkers, my phone dings with a text from him. I’m pitching tonight, and all I can think about is you and why I haven’t heard from you since the other night. I’m not trying to be a creeper. I swear. But I’m worried about you, and there’s no one else I can ask if you’re okay. I need to get my head in the game, but first I need to know you’re all right. So can you tell me that much?

  I melt reading that text, and all the resolve I’ve built up over the last two days disappears in a matter of seconds. I write back to him right away, because he has other things to be focused on today, and I don’t want him to worry. I’m sorry. I needed to take a breather and get my head on straight about you.

  Did you?

  Not really.

  Me, either. Call me after the game if you want to talk. In the meantime, I’ll just say this: I miss you. He includes the heart and kissy-face emojis.

  I stare at his message thinking the same thing. I miss you, too.

  AUSTIN

  I’m so relieved to hear from Maria. I was beginning to worry that something awful had happened to her, which is part of the legacy of Ev’s illness. I’m always anticipating worst-case scenarios.

  “Did you hear from your friend?” Larry, the pitching coach, asks. I told him I was worried about a friend who went silent.

  “Yeah, I did. All good.” I stash my phone in the locker, still thinking about what she said. She tried and failed to get her head on straight about me. I need to hear more about that, but it has to wait until later.

  “Great, now maybe we can talk about this game you’re starting in an hour?”

  “Let’s do it.”

  By the time we take the field in the bottom of the first, I’m in my zone, laser-focused on the task at hand. I’ve pushed everything else to the back of my mind so I can do my job. That’s how I’ve managed to get back to playing after Ev’s illness, by visualizing everything else in the far back corners of my mind when I’m pitching. My therapist has really helped with that. She’s taught me about visualizing the immediate goal and focusing only on that so I can function when necessary.

  Since focus and concentration are so critical to successfully doing my job, the visualizations have been extremely helpful. This is the first time I take the mound with Maria stuffed into one of those corners along with Ev and my career and free agency and all the other things occupying my attention between games lately.

  I wonder if Maria is watching the game, or if getting her head on straight means she’s avoiding anything to do with me.

  I pitch four three-up-three-down innings and take the mound in the fifth, with a perfect game going more than halfway through. That means we’ve retired every batter we’ve faced. Speaking of things that need to be stuffed into the back corners… Pitchers never allow themselves to think about throwing perfect games, especially in the midst of such a possibility. I’ve come really close in the past and have learned not to get excited about the possibility, especially after the near-miss two seasons ago that was scuttled by a routine grounder gone wrong in the ninth.

  No one says a word about it, and I certainly don’t think about it as I stare down the top of the Tigers’ order. The lead-off batter smokes one to center field, and I hold my breath waiting for Donny to grab it, which he does. I retire the next batter on strikes, and the third one pops up to the infield. I wave everyone off and dispose of him on my own before trotting back to the dugout.

  Everyone leaves me alone between innings, which is how I want it. It’s chilly in Detroit, so I put on a jacket to keep my arm warm while our guys put three runs on the boards. More than forty minutes later, I return to the mound for the sixth. My pitch count is still low, so there’s no talk of taking me out, especially since I’ve got a perfect game going in the seventh.

  I glance behind me and note the fierce concentration on the faces of my beloved teammates. They know what it would mean to me—and my free agency bid—to pull off a perfect game, and none of them wants to be the one to mess it up. Knowing they’ve got my back, I square off with the batter, who connects with my first pitch, sending a grounder to short, which Jose handles smoothly, throwing the batter out at first.

  One down.

  An hour later, we enter the bottom of the ninth with three batters between me and my first career perfect game. The tension in the dugout and the ballpark has risen with every inning, making it a huge effort to stay cool and focused and not get ahead of myself. I take one second to again wonder if Maria is watching. I really hope she is and that she knows what’s happening. The thought of her cheering me on makes me happy for reasons I can’t begin to think about right now.

  Three more outs. You’ve got this.

  I bring everything I’ve got to those first two batters, putting them away with fastballs they never see coming. Six strikes in a row. Lights out.

  With one batter standing between me and a perfect game, my palms are sweaty. How many times have I seen a pitcher blow it on the last batter? Too many to count. Don’t be that guy, AJ. Get it done. Make the close.

  I shake off the signal from Santiago. He wants another fastball. By now, the batters will be expecting that. I go with the cutter. The batter swings and misses. I need two more strikes.

  Santiago again calls for the heat.

  I shake my head and throw a curve ball that lands outside the strike zone for a ball. I regroup and throw another slider, which the hitter fouls off into the third-base seats. Two strikes.

  Santiago calls for a time-out and approaches the mound. The infielders join him in a circle around me. We hold our gloves over our mouths so the other team can’t read our lips. “Send the heat, man,” my catcher says. “They can’t touch you tonight.”

  “Go for it,” Carlo, the first baseman, says. “You’re on fire with that fastball. That’s what I’d do.”

  “All right.” They’re right. I’d be crazy not to use the pitch that’s gotten me this far to get the last strike.

  One strike away from adding my name to a short list of pitchers who’ve thrown perfect games. I’ve got this. I hope…

  Chapter 6

  AUSTIN

  With everyone back in place, I stare down the target Santiago’s catcher’s mitt provides, take a deep breath and release it as I go into my rotation and fire off my signature pitch. The sound of the bat connecting stops my heart as the ball sails toward the left-field wall. I’m almost sure it’s going to be a single until Rodrigo launches and grabs that fly ball right out of the air—and manages to hold on to it when he lands hard.

  My teammates go wild, surrounding me and freaking out.

  Grinning widely, Rodrigo jogs in from the outfield and hands me the ball he caught.

  I hug him. “Thanks, man.”

  “I was shitting my pants when that ball headed my way.”

  Laughing, I smack him on the back and hug him again. I’ll get credit for the perfect game, but I couldn’t have done it without him and my other teammates backing me up with offense and defense.

  Even the Tigers’ fans give me a warm round of applause, which I acknowledge with a tip of my cap as we finally head toward the dugout.

  “Holy shit, AJ,” Mick says when he hugs me. “That was fucking awesome.”

  “Thanks, Coach.”

  While the others celebrate, Larry straps an ice pack to my arm that encompasses my shoulder and elbow. It’s almost unheard of these days for a starter to throw a complete game, and I’ll pay for it later. But for right now, all I feel is elated. Throw
ing a perfect game is a rare feat and one that’s always been a goal of mine.

  I want to find my phone, call my folks and see if Maria texted, but right now, I need to give my full attention to the teammates who helped make it happen.

  The Tigers send over champagne, which is a classy move. We celebrate for at least an hour before they let in the media. Reporters swarm me. I answer all their questions while trying to be patient with them. Baseball reporters were so good to me when Ev was sick, and I keep that in mind when it starts to feel like they’re going to trap me all night.

  “That’s enough, people,” Mick says. “The trainers are waiting for AJ.”

  “Thanks, everyone,” I tell them as Mick extracts me from the scrum and leads me into the training room, where Mary Ellen, the trainer assigned to pitchers, will rub down my arm.

  “How’re you feeling?” Mick asks.

  “Pretty good right now.” We both know that won’t last. “What was the final pitch count?”

  “Ninety-two. Eleven strikeouts.”

  “Haven’t thrown that many in a while.”

  “I was gonna pull you at a hundred.”

  “You’d a had to take me kicking and screaming.”

  “Whatever it took,” Mick said, grinning. “Glad you got it done before it came to that.”

  “Me, too.” We both know I just made myself even more valuable in the free agency market with that performance, but we don’t talk about it. Everyone involved with the O’s is aware that I’ll be hitting the road after the season, and there’re no hard feelings that I know of. Any of them would do the same thing in my shoes.

  Mary Ellen’s rubdown feels damned good on my tired arm and shoulder. She uses what I refer to as her magic balm as she also works on the tense muscles in my neck until I’m limber and feeling no pain. “Ice it periodically for the next twenty-four hours,” she reminds me.

  “Will do. You’re the best, ME.”

  “Congrats. It was thrilling to watch.”

  “Thanks.” I head for the shower and let the hot water rain down on my arm and shoulder before I wash up and head for my locker, a towel knotted around my waist. I reach for my phone and take a quick look to find hundreds of texts from friends, family, former teammates and coaches sending their congrats. I scroll through the long list, looking for one name in the sea of texts.