by Skylar Platt
Lauren was standing in the massive kitchen watching the Weather Channel. The remnants of a tropical storm were supposed to clip the area and would likely postpone tomorrow night’s game.
“Hey,” she said very surprised to see it was me Tara was dragging into the house.
“Hey,” I said, and leaned over to give her a hug. “Sorry I hope…”
“You do not need to apologize for dropping by here, geez,” she smacked me with a towel.
“You guys heard the news?”
“About the storm, yeah it looks bad,” she winked. “You mean the storm from Miami? Yep.”
“Silly me, I thought letting them speculate on my free agency would keep retirement rumors at bay, now the whole city is pissed because they think I’m abandoning them and thinking about leaving before the playoffs are even over.”
“Yes, well you’ve created quite the buzz. Since when do you care about that?”
“I care when it affects people I love.” I grabbed a glass and walked over to the fridge to fill it with water under her watchful eye.
“Or person?” she said.
I raised my eyebrows in acknowledgement. I knew Tara and Maddie would have let her know about Meredith after the game.
“Talk,” she turned to face me and rested her hip against the counter.
“She didn’t see any of this coming and now…she’s pissed and I walked away without realizing why she was pissed, and didn’t get to explain.”
“So walk back,” Lauren said.
I looked at her and smiled.
“She doesn’t know baseball or pro sports at all does she?”
I shook my head.
“Anthony Wayne, march your pretty little butt right out of here and fix it! She was blindsided, she doesn’t know this world and the way you pretend the media doesn’t exist…she didn’t stand a chance to be prepared and understand you didn’t do this…go…NOW!” She took the glass from my hand and shoved me out of the kitchen.
I dialed my agent’s number and then the team PR rep and the press conference for the next afternoon was scheduled before I even got out of the neighborhood.
I drove back to Meredith’s office and it was locked up tight. There was no answer at her row house either. Well, shit. I smacked my hands hard against the steering wheel and did the only thing I could at this point. I sent a text and a prayer
CHAPTER EIGHT
MEREDITH
The attachment to the text was a brief press release about the press conference. He then texted me with details about how to attend. Finally, he asked me to please be there.
I’ll admit to feeling a huge wave of relief at hearing from him. I had no clue how a press conference about his departure to Miami was going to solve anything. But I would go. He’d said please.
The storm had arrived sooner and been way bigger than predicted. Tonight’s game had already been postponed. Driving through the driving rain and wind was a white-knuckled crawl. And by the time I made it into the building at Eagles’ headquarters I was drenched and had just moments to spare before the press conference was scheduled to begin.
I ducked into the back of the packed room and stood against the wall just as Anthony walked out and positioned himself behind a podium. He was joined by several other men in suits and another man more casually dressed in team gear.
He looked exhausted, defeated, sad. I’d always thought he could still pass for an early 30-something. Today, he looked older than me.
“Thanks for coming out in this weather,” he began slowly. “I’ve known most of you in this room for a very long time, some for my entire career, and you all know how much I love media attention.”
A collective chuckle rippled through the room.
“I’ve always believed addressing rumors only adds fuel to fire, so I typically let them burn themselves out. But this time the rumors are affecting my life and people that I love.” With that his eyes met mine. My heart began to race and my knees threatened to buckle.
“I have spent nearly two decades as an Eagle. A very proud one,” He shifted on his feet a few times. “It is time for me to begin a new chapter of my life. I am not interested in wearing another team’s uniform, so today, I am announcing that when the Eagles’ season ends, hopefully several more weeks from now, I will be retiring from professional baseball. My playing days will be done.” He let out a deep sigh and returned his gaze to me.
My jaw dropped. A symphony of camera shutters filled the room and flashes popped trying to capture that key moment, the water-filled eyes.
He held up a hand at the barrage of questions. “I promise I will sit here and answer all of your questions, but I need to do one thing first.”
He stepped away from the podium, and past the front row of seats to the TV camera-filled aisle. I met him halfway, tears streaming down my cheeks, blubbering an apology when he cupped my face in his hands and met those apologies with a kiss. He held his lips to mine and we both took much needed breath. I looked into his eyes, his tears filling the tiny creases around them. “I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered against my lips. “Ever.”
