by Tara Wyatt
“…that’s not what you said last weekend,” she said, her voice low and flirtatious. “Right, right, like you were complaining.” Dylan didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but he couldn’t help but overhear what she was saying. “No…I mean, I would but…you know how it is. If anyone found out about us…” She laughed, a feminine giggle he was surprised to hear come from Abby’s mouth. “Besides, sneaking around is kinda fun.” A long pause, and then “if you don’t make it, we should get away for the All-Star break. I know it’s six weeks away, but…okay. Okay. I gotta go.”
Dylan retrieved his gloves and slammed his locker shut just as Abby came around the corner. Her cheeks went red when she saw him, and she pointed to the phone in her hand. “My sister,” she said, and then moved past him to the stairs, bounding back up to the dugout. Shaking his head, he tugged on his gloves and followed Abby, choosing to mind his own damn business. Even still, he couldn’t help but notice the way Javi’s eyes tracked Abby as she moved through the dugout and his slight hesitation before he went to talk to her. Oh, boy. Drama waiting to happen, that’s what that looked like. Javi had it bad for her, and Abby had some secret dude on the side.
“You got your popcorn ready?” asked Hunter, showing a sign of his trademark smartassery. “Something’s going down there, and I don’t think it’s Javi.”
Dylan snorted out a laugh. “No shit. I’m staying far away from that one.”
“You wanna grab a beer later?” Hunter asked suddenly, rubbing a hand over his beard.
“Shit, I got plans with my girl. Another time?”
“Sure, yeah. Hey, you got a girl? Since when?”
Dylan shrugged, not quite sure how to answer that question. It had only been a couple of days since Maggie had stayed over at his place and he’d felt everything between them shift. Before she’d admitted she wanted to be with him. But she’d been his girl for far longer than that.
“A little while.” He grabbed his bat and headed for the on deck circle to warm up.
“Here we go to the bottom of the eighth,” says Wayne Hopkins. “Dylan McCormick batting against the left-hander Burns. The first pitch is up and away for ball one.”
“I’m so impressed with the hard work McCormick has put in since his arrival here in Dallas. He’s proven his worth and earned a spot on the team. He looks like a different guy than the one who first set foot on the field back in April,” says Ron Whittaker.
“During the month of May, he’s hit a solid .305, has four home runs and ten RBIs. There’s a fastball that just catches the inside corner for strike one.”
“Not to mention that he’s shone defensively in center field.”
“Swing and miss, 1-2.”
“As we head into June, I think we only have more good things to look forward to from Dylan McCormick, who’s really turned it around here.”
“Swing and a line drive up the third base line. McCormick takes off, rounding first and pushing for a double. He’s racing down the line, and he is…safe! He went into that base hand first, and let’s hope he’s okay. He’s on the ground, still holding his hand, seems to be trying to flex his thumb. McCormick takes his time getting up after that slide.”
“It looks like he’s going to come out of the game. Hopefully, it’s nothing more than precaution.”
“McCormick throws his helmet down in frustration as he heads into the dugout.”
Dylan grimaced as Joe, the team’s head trainer, examined his thumb. Throbbing pain radiated down into the palm of his hand.
“Flex it,” Joe said, bending his head to get a closer look. Dylan did, pain shooting up his arm. “How did that feel?”
“Hurts. Thumb feels stiff, like I don’t have full control.”
Joe nodded. “It could be a sprain, but there might be damage to the ligament. We’d better send you for an MRI. I’ll get you booked in for first thing tomorrow morning.”
Dylan closed his eyes and nodded. “Sure.” He didn’t know what else to say. What if he’d just derailed his career again with that stupid slide?
“You okay? You look pale,” said Javi, his arms crossed over his chest as he studied Dylan.
“Yeah.” His stomach churned uncomfortably. He didn’t say anything more, and Javi didn’t press him.
Joe wrapped up his thumb in an elastic compression bandage. “When you get home, put ice on it, try to keep it elevated, and rest it. I’ll text you the appointment time for your scan once I have it.”
Dylan thanked everyone, got his shit together, and headed for the parking garage. The game was over, but even though they’d won, he just wanted to go home. As he drove, handling the wheel carefully with his bandaged hand, worry burned through him, scorching a path up the center of his chest. He’d lost a whole season to that knee injury, and it had taken him months to get back to where he’d been before. It had nearly cost him his career. Now what if the ligament was torn, and he needed surgery? He’d probably be done for the season. Again. Just when he’d gotten things back on track.
“Fuck!” He slammed his good hand against the steering wheel, his shouted curse reverberating in his ears. He drove home on autopilot, his mind preoccupied with what ifs and uncertainties and what it would all mean.
He unlocked his door, tossed his keys on the kitchen counter and tugged open the fridge, pulling out a beer. He cracked it open, then opened one of the cabinets and grabbed the bottle of Advil. He palmed three and tossed them into his mouth, washing them down with another swig of his drink. With the bottle in his good hand, he paced aimlessly around his apartment, surveying the half-unpacked boxes still littering the floor. The knee injury had cost him so much—time, progress, playing for a team he’d loved. What would this one cost him? Shit, he didn’t want to get a rep as a china doll, a player who just couldn’t stay healthy. He paced to the windows, staring out at the skyline. What if this injury cost him his spot in Dallas and took him away from Maggie?
As if on cue, a knock sounded on his door. Crap, he’d meant to message her to ask her not to come over, but he’d been so locked into his own head that he’d forgotten.
“Hey, your doorman let me up,” she said when he opened the door. “I hope that’s okay. Are you all right?”
He shook his head slowly. “I don’t know.” He stood back to let her come in. Her eyes roved over him, landing on his bandaged thumb.
“What did the trainer say?”
Dylan turned and led them to the living room, where he dropped down onto the couch. “Might be a sprain, might be a torn ligament. MRI tomorrow morning will tell us more.”
“Shit.” She sank down onto the couch beside him and took his good hand in hers, weaving her fingers through his. “If it’s torn, does that mean surgery?”
“Probably, yeah.” He stared out the window, worry and fear and frustration clashing together inside him.
“Hey,” Maggie said softly, and with a hand on his cheek turned his face toward her, forcing him to meet her eyes. “Even if it’s the worst-case scenario, you’ll get through it. You survived that knee injury, and you can survive this. You work so hard, babe, and I’ve seen the way you fight. It sucks if this is another setback, but if it is, I know you’ll face it head on.”
“Remember what I told you about the knee injury? It fucked me up, Mags. I don’t know why this would be any different.”
“Well, you won’t be alone, for starters. Because if you think for one second that I’d let you sit at home alone feeling sorry for yourself, you don’t know me very well at all.”
He felt the corner of his mouth quirk up. “True.”
“So for now, we’ll pray for good news tomorrow, and if it’s bad news, we’ll face it. I’ll be right here, and I know you’re gonna get through this because you’re Dylan freaking McCormick. You’re an all-star and a gold glove winner and a fighter. You hear me?”
He felt something inside him loosen a bit at her words, and a tingling warmth worked its way down his arms and into his chest. Gratitude nearly overwh
elmed him—gratitude that she would be with him, no matter what tomorrow’s MRI revealed, that she was here right now, that she was here at all. Unable to contain it, he leaned forward and kissed her, a soft, sweet, lingering kiss that he hoped conveyed even a little bit of what he was feeling.
“Thank you,” he whispered against her lips, and he felt her smile.
“Always happy to tell you to get your head out of your ass, D.”
He chuckled softly and leaned back against the sofa, pulling her against him. She settled her head on his chest and rubbed her hand in a circle over his stomach.
“I was just trying to make something happen,” he said. “I felt like I could turn it into a double. I got greedy, and fuck, I shouldn’t have slid like that. I just…I didn’t think. It was on the fly and I was in the moment and I went for it. So stupid.”
“Not stupid. Trying to win is never stupid.”
He sighed, stroking his hand through the silky strands of her hair. “We’re so close to .500 now. I was just pushing hard. Every win gets us closer to where we wanna be, and I need to contribute to that.”
“I get that. Because you’re Dylan freaking McCormick, and no matter what that MRI shows tomorrow, it’ll still be true. You’ll still be that fighter. That winner.”
He closed his eyes, a peacefulness he hadn’t been expecting to feel tonight settling over him. Maggie nestled in closer against him, holding him tight. Whatever tomorrow brought, he knew he could face it because of her.
Tucked away in a semi-private corner of St. Martin’s Wine Bistro for her official date with Dylan—the one she’d lost at blackjack on purpose to ensure—Maggie took in her surroundings, marveling at the gorgeous scene around her. Creamy brocade wallpaper decorated the walls, contrasting sharply with the elegant black wood trim and wainscoting. Candles flickered on the table, giving their little corner a soft, romantic glow. The air smelled like steak and wine and garlic and muted jazz floated through the speakers hidden away somewhere. But the element that really took her breath away was the man sitting across from her. He was mouthwatering in his simple blue button-down shirt that emphasized his broad shoulders and muscular chest, and black pants that did his ass all kinds of favors—not that it needed the help. God, having Dylan back in her life felt like a fairytale. Like a wish come true. He’d probably think she was crazy if he knew how many times she’d pinched herself over the past week.
Maggie raised her glass of champagne and clinked it against Dylan’s. “Congrats on your MRI results, babe.”
He smiled and took a sip of his drink. His left hand was still in a brace and would be for the next week or so while his sprained thumb healed. “Never been so happy to have a sprained thumb in my life.” He set his glass down and took her hand, his skin warm against hers. It was amazing that something as simple as a touch could be both calming and exhilarating at the same time. “Never been so happy in my life. Except maybe that summer ten years ago.” He smiled wistfully, and Maggie felt her heart pick up speed. She traced her thumb over his knuckles.
“It was a pretty good summer.”
“If you could go back and relive one day of it, which one would you pick?”
She licked her lips, thinking. It felt weird to talk about that summer so easily and casually, but it also felt good to look back on it without the sense of loss that had always come with it. “Hmm. Well, I think it’s a tie between the first time we had sex, or when you told me you loved me. What about you?”
He answered quickly. “The night we broke up. Hands down.”
Her eyebrows rose and then she frowned. “That’s the night you’d revisit?” She could think of about a hundred different nights she’d pick before going back to that one.
“Yeah, so I could change it. I’d take that break up back in a heartbeat if I could.”
“Oh.” That one syllable carried the weight of everything she was feeling. The longing and the tenderness. The love.
“I can’t undo it, but I can give you this,” he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small velvet pouch.
“What…?” Her voice trailed off as he handed it to her, the velvet soft against her skin.
His eyes twinkled, and he took another sip of his champagne. “Open it.”
Her fingers shook a little as she pulled at the strings. Inside, she felt something cool and delicate. She fished it out and gasped when she saw what she was holding.
“My M pendant,” she said quietly. She let the chain slide through her fingers as she studied it, unable to fully believe what she was seeing. “You kept it?”
He nodded. “I couldn’t get rid of it. It was the only part of you I had left.”
Her throat clogged, swelling with emotion and her eyes actually stung a little. “Dylan.” She didn’t know what to say. There weren’t any words big or bright or heavy enough to tell him what she was feeling. “I can’t believe you kept it.”
He rose and moved around the table until he was standing behind her, taking the pendant from her and fastening it around her neck. His movements were fumbling and clumsy thanks to the brace, but her hands were shaking too much to have been much help to him, anyway. As he sat back down, she wrapped her fingers around the small, delicate M.
“I never stopped thinking about you, Magnolia.” His eyes were bright, shining, and for a second she thought he was going to tell her that he loved her, but he didn’t. And that was fine. She needed a chance to catch her breath. Everything was happening so quickly. “So, listen, I have a question for you. And it’s up to you, either way, whatever you’re comfortable with.”
“Okay…” she said cautiously, wondering what else he might be about to throw at her.
“Once I’m back on the field,” he said, gesturing to his injured thumb, “do you think you might come to the game?” His eyes darted down to the pendant around her neck and back up again, and she realized that he saw that M as a symbol of hope for them.
“And sit with the wives and girlfriends?” she asked, just to be sure they were on the same page.
He shrugged. “Well, yeah. If you’re okay with that.”
“So we’d be going public.” They hadn’t really discussed what the next step in their relationship was now that they were officially, truly dating again.
Dylan leaned forward. “Yeah.” His eyes searched her face. “Again, if you’re okay with that.”
She fingered the pendant and smiled. “Yeah, D, I’m okay with that.”
A slow smile spread across his face, lighting him up from the inside out. At that moment, the waiter came and took their order. Once he’d gone, Maggie settled back in her chair. “Can I ask you something? Something I’ve always been curious about.”
“Shoot.”
“When you’re going up to bat, you write something in the dirt with the end of your bat. What is it?”
The tips of his ears turned red. “You’re gonna laugh at me.”
She drew an X over her heart. “I swear I won’t.”
He shook his head, hesitating for a second. “I started doing it the summer you and I were together. I felt like I needed a little extra luck, so one day I wrote DM+MJ in the dirt, and that day I hit three home runs. So, I kept doing it.”
Her mouth fell open. “And you’ve been writing that all this time?”
“Athletes can be superstitious, Mags. You don’t mess with something that’s working.” He paused, took a sip of his drink, and then continued. “And it reminded me of who I was with you. Who I could be. It felt…good. I don’t really know how to explain it.”
Maggie played with her napkin, her fingers folding and unfolding the edge, as she absorbed what he was saying. “Okay, so then I need to ask you something else and I need you to be honest with me.”
“Okay.”
She tried to think of how to word the question that was bouncing around in her head. It felt slippery, like every time she tried to grab hold of it, it slithered out of her grasp. “When we broke up…when you left, you
said that you didn’t want to do the long-distance thing, and that it was better for both of us. And now, you say you regret it and that it was a mistake. That you were immature and you wish you could take it back. But I keep thinking…” She stopped and took a breath. “Thinking that there’s more to it than that. If you felt about me the way you…you say you did, I don’t understand how it could just be that you were immature or whatever. So tell me straight—did your dad have a hand in it?”
Dylan went still and his eyes flashed in a way that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. He cleared his throat, licked his lips and then met her gaze. His blue eyes were filled with regret. “Yeah. He did.”
“And what about now?” What if the man that had pulled them apart in the first place could do it again?
“I’m not eighteen anymore, Mags. He doesn’t have that kind of influence over me. He’s still in my life—barely—but I know now what a manipulative bastard he is. Believe me, he doesn’t yank my puppet strings around anymore. I’m sorry that I ever let him.”
Maggie nodded, taking his words and examining them. Biting her lip, she wondered why he’d been reluctant to come clean about his dad’s involvement in the first place, but then again, they had a family dynamic that she’d probably never understand. Dylan took her hands, and she looked up.
“If I had to choose between you and him, I’d choose you. I should’ve chosen you ten years ago, and I’m sure as hell choosing you now.”
“Okay.” She nodded, and he lifted one of her hands and brought it to his mouth, dropping a kiss on her knuckles. Just then, the waiter arrived with their salads, and with a rueful smile, Maggie took her hands back so she could eat.
By the end of the meal, she was completely full, not just of delicious food and expensive champagne, but full of hope that things really could be different with Dylan this time. She’d fought so hard to keep him out that letting him in, giving in to the second chance they both wanted, felt like a relief. It was lightness after carrying around so much heavy for so long. She thought the meal was over, but apparently Dylan had yet another surprise in store for her, as the waiter arrived with a generous slab of white chocolate cheesecake adorned with a single candle.
