by Shey Stahl
With a final hug from Tatum, I pull away from them, the desolation in my heart hurting worse than I would have ever thought. I’ve known these two a few months, yet it feels like a lifetime of memories with them and a bond time can’t destroy.
An inning in which a pitcher faces only three batters, none of whom successfully reach base. Also called a “three up, three down” inning.
CASON
2 MONTHS LATER
Two months into playing in the minors, it’s August, I’m playing for the Salt Lake Bees, and I’m miserable without them. Absolutely fucking miserable. I hate Salt Lake City, and I don’t want to be here any longer. I hate living in a house with five guys, and get this… they ate my fucking jelly beans.
Yeah. I know. Bullshit, right?
Constant motion. It’s what gets me through the days. I make a lot of appearances on the mound and pitch a no-hitter even. Career-wise, it’s amazing. I’m the most talked-about player in the minors.
Emotionally, I’m a wreck. I miss my girls. I facetime Tatum every night. I’ve seen her three times. They came to visit. She’s getting bigger every day and said my name right for the first time. I’m no longer Boy. I’m Case. I nearly cried. I want her to go back to calling me Boy.
After a series win in El Paso, I get called up to play in the majors to relieve a pitcher on the DL. I call Sydney the second I’m out of the clubhouse and heading to the airport.
At first, it’s like any other call after a game. She watches every single one of them. “Ten strikeouts, not bad.”
I sigh into the receiver. “You know what’s even better?”
She laughs. “Talking to me, of course.”
“Well, that, but I have some news for you.”
“That you’re coming home?”
I love that she refers to her house as home, but still, I can’t wipe the fucking smile off my face. “I’m actually heading to the airport.”
“Seriously? Are you coming home? I need to shave my legs if you are.”
“I’m actually heading to Anaheim….” I let my voice trail off.
It takes her a minute before she screams. “You got the call?”
A chuckle leaves my lips. “I got the call, babe.” Yep. I call her babe now. And every time we hang up, she tells me she loves me. How’s that for making it work long-distance? Guess what else? I haven’t looked in another woman’s direction since the day I left Sydney. Or, I suppose, last month when I saw her in Vegas.
“Oh my God. They’re playing a home game this weekend, right?”
“Yeah. They’re on game two of the series.” I pause, my smile never fading. “The team gave me some seats. Can you and Tatum come?”
“We’d love to!” she says without missing a beat.
A sigh of relief washes through me. “Thank you.”
“If I get there and you have a mustache, imma be pissed.”
I snort, closing the door to the car and reaching for my bag. “You see my face every night on FaceTime.”
“I know, but still. Tatum is going to freak out when I tell her.”
I swallow over the lump forming in my throat. “Can I tell her?”
“Oh, yeah, totally. Let me get her.” There’s a pause before she gets on the phone, her soft voice so innocent and sweet.
“Boy!” Okay, so we’re back to “boy.” Great. I like that better.
“Loretta,” I sigh. “I’m missing you, kid.”
She sighs herself. “I miss you more. I see you soon?”
“That’s why I’m calling. I get to see you tomorrow night.”
“Really?”
“Yep. You wanna come to my game?”
“I’d love to!” she squeals. “But I don’t wanna see Olaf again.”
I laugh. That damn talking snowman in real life really fucked with her. “We won’t go to Disneyland again.”
“Good. I love you, Boy.” And then she drops the phone. Can’t expect much from a three-year-old on the phone.
You know what I dream of now? Tatum in the stands, wearing a jersey with my name on the back and cheering me on as the guy who showed her what a dad could be like. And I’m one step closer to that. Oh, and marrying her mom, but that’s going to take some time to achieve.
The second half or “last half” of an inning, during which the home team bats, derived from its position in the line score.
SYDNEY
What do I wear? Slutty? Conservative? Fuck, I don’t know.
I decide on the Angels sweatshirt Cason sent me along with a pair of skinny jeans and tennis shoes. Simple is always better, in my opinion.
Tatum wears her usual crazy attire. Dress, cowgirl hat, and boots. Over the dress, she throws on her Angels shirt. “How me look?”
I smile down at her as we get into the van to head to the airport. “You look adorable.”
“I miss our boy so much.” She grins, her cheeks pink with excitement. “I can’t wait to see hims.”
I lift her into the van. “Me too.” I haven’t seen him in person in thirty-nine days, and it’s been torture. Even with our late-night naughty FaceTime calls. If I ever had a doubt on how I felt about Cason, our time away has put all that to rest, and I’m basically obsessed with him. I watch every game, follow him on Instagram just waiting for updates and stalk his location on my phone. That’s right. He set up location tracking on my phone so I’d always know where he was. To be fair, I did the same and it’s a whole new level of trust I didn’t know I wanted until I had it.
I’d say Tatum is too, judging by the way she doesn’t stop talking about him on the way to the airport. “Do you think hims remember me?”
“I’m sure he will. He loves you.”
Her cheeks flush. “I love hims.”
Life looks a lot different for Tatum and me now. Not only do I have a shop in Scottsdale again, I’m—hold your breath on this one—sharing a space with Remi.
Did your eyes bug out? Oh, believe me, when the offer came about, I did too. Remember when I told her to do something great with the life-insurance money?
She did. She opened up her own child’s boutique inspired by my daughter’s gypsy personality. Let’s just say Tatum spends most of her time at work with me, modeling all the clothes—in the same space as my art.
My head may have had a plan for my life, but my heart wants something different. And that’s fine too. That’s what I’ve been telling myself these last few months.
And this is one time I should listen to it since guys like Cason Reins don’t come around very often.
I DON’T REMEMBER much about the game—other than a million bathroom breaks and Tatum trying bites of everything at the concession stands. Cason pitches four innings with five strikeouts and makes history. First game in the major leagues, and guess who officially breaks the major league world record for the fastest pitch thrown in a game?
Cason Jarrett Reins. 105.9 miles per hour.
It’s hours after the game before we’re able to see him, and his first words to me as Tatum sleeps in my arms are “Do you believe me now?”
“I got my proof, didn’t I?” Tears roll down my cheeks, and I practically drop my sleeping daughter at the sight of his beautiful face. Thankfully, no mullet or mustache.
He takes Tatum into his arms, sighing as he holds her head gently. “Fuck, I missed you both so much.”
She doesn’t wake up but wraps her arms around his neck.
I reach out and touch my hand to his stomach. He sucks in a breath, his lips clamped together, his jaw firm but his eyes carry so much love. “Not as much as I missed you,” I tell him, watchful of the players exiting the clubhouse. I’m nervous how he’s going to act with all these people around us.
To my surprise, he reacts in true Cason fashion. No hesitation.
Yanking me forward and to his side, his lips press to mine. It’s gentle at first, then his mouth opens to mine and that overpowering urge he provokes inside me takes over. Pulling back, I’m reminded that Tatum is as
leep in his arms. He smells like soap and cedar and makes my damn knees weak. “See? I can’t even control myself. I missed you more.”
“I’m barely hanging on here,” he says with a laugh against my lips, nibbling on my lower lip. “But before I show you how much I’ve missed you, I’m starving.”
“I imagine you are.”
We end up going to a late dinner, where Tatum wakes up. She talks constantly to Cason. I swear, I can’t get a word in with her and her boy.
And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Naturally, through dinner, he’s recognized by half a dozen people congratulating him on his first major league appearance. My heart bursts when a younger woman approaches for an autograph, and he kindly gives her one.
Tatum clings to his side, refusing to allow any space between them. That’s when the woman’s eyes drift to Tatum and then Cason as he hands her back the napkin he signed. “She’s so cute. Is that your daughter?”
Cason smiles, his eyes darting to mine, Tatum, and then he lets out a relieved breath. “Yeah.”
Did your heart explode into a million pieces like mine? He didn’t have to say that, and maybe he did to not make it awkward, but whatever the reason, I love him even more.
He’s bombarded with fans after that and we end up leaving dinner early. I knew it’d be like this though. You can’t break the world record and have a peaceful evening out after that.
AT THE HOTEL, we tuck Tatum into bed. “It’s a good thing there’s two rooms with a locking door,” Cason adds, locking the door behind him.
I lay on the bed, stripping off my clothes. No sense in wasting time. “You didn’t have to say that she’s your daughter,” I point out now that Tatum’s not in the room. I don’t need to say anything, but I want him to know I appreciate that he claims her.
He stops, mid-undressing, and stares at me. “She might not be mine biologically, but in here…” His hand touches his chest over his heart. “You’re both mine already.”
A smile flutters on my lips as he shreds his jacket first, then his button-down shirt, and begins working on his jeans, the intensity behind his eyes causing me to squirm on the bed. I wanted to jump him the second I spotted him on the field during the game and now my want had turned into I-have-to-have-him-now sorta feeling that left me vibrating. Literally freaking vibrating, waiting to have the weight of his body on mine.
“This feels like a dream,” I whisper, watching him crawl onto the bed. His hands seek me out, prying my thighs apart.
“I know what you mean.” He laughs, low and throaty, sweeping my hair aside to kiss the curve of my neck. “I keep blinking to make sure it’s real.”
“My heart tells me it’s real. If not, I’m having a damn heart attack.”
“Don’t do that,” he mumbles, kissing my chest, neck, then my lips. “I have plans for you tonight. And I need you alive for it.”
A breathy laugh leaves my lips. “I’ll try not to.”
“But I do have to warn you.” His chest meets mine soon after. “This won’t last long,” he teases, working himself between my legs, his lips crashing to mine with a devastating warmth I missed so much. His kiss is possessive, demanding, and so familiar. Deepening the kiss, he devours me, heated, sexy, and everything I knew him to be.
I hold him close, whispering as he enters me, “We have all night.”
I feel his smile on my lips as he slowly eases into our lovemaking. I don’t care if he lasts five seconds or five minutes. All I care about is this white-hot desire washing over me.
I know the life of a major league player is unpredictable. But guess what, so is life. You never know what you’re going to get or who’s going to show up at your door.
Or buy you coffee when you need it.
A game in which one team does not get any hits; a rare feat for a pitcher, especially at the major league level. Also called a “no-no.”
SYDNEY
2 YEARS LATER
You know in the movies when the final credits start and then pops up details about how everyone’s life goes after the movie ends? I love that because you don’t have to wonder that way.
I’ll give you a rundown of the last few years. It’s been crazy, so hang on tight.
Emmie, she’s sixteen now, and driving! Can you believe it? So, fetch. Ha. That’s not actually a word she uses. She’d say something along the lines of, my car is so totes lit. Or something like that. I’m probably fucking it up. Anyways, she still comes over and watches the kids for me when I need a break.
Kids… you noticed I used the plural version, didn’t ya?
Hold on, I’ll get to them.
First, Ez finally scored with my sister. After a year of trying. Not sure if that surprises you or not, but I figured you might appreciate his efforts there. He’s also playing for the Pirates and talks to Cason at least once a week. And, Emmie has a huge crush on Ez. Don’t tell her I told you. She’d no cap, be so mad at me.
Remi is dating a man her own age, and no, he’s not Cason. She made me meet him the day they went out just to be sure I didn’t know him and had Nahla do a background check on him.
Speaking of Nahla, she’s great and successfully avoided Forest and his attempts to bag her, as he called it. I don’t know what happened to Forest, but from what Cason says, he’s playing triple-A ball in Alabama.
Nahla and Kenneth welcomed a little boy after eight years of trying to get pregnant. Nathan Grayer. With black hair, blue eyes, creamy olive skin, he looks just like Nahla, and he’s the sweetest little boy you’ll ever meet. I’ve tried to kidnap him twice. Both times they asked for their kid back.
And for my own baby, she’s five now. Turns six in a month and is no longer obsessed with Olaf. The character, that is. After the Disney incident, she never watched that movie again. Now she’s into Fleetwood Mac, begs for dreadlocks, and started playing the guitar last month. My sweet little gypsy girl. We still have the snow-white cat we call Olaf, and he’s an asshole.
Let’s see… what else?
Oh, uh, we had a baby! Like how I casually threw that in there?
Kinda like how Cason knocked me up. Game two of the series against the San Diego Padres. Nine months later, Alston Lucas Reins made his appearance. Our rambunctious one-year-old is the spitting image of his father and more than I can handle most days. He’s also the best thing that’s ever happened to our unconventional family. Tatum treats him like her doll, and he lets her. Goes with anything she wants him to do.
Also, my baby daddy is a major league pitcher for the Los Angeles Angels and still holds the world record for the fastest pitch ever thrown.
And guess what else?
He’s fucking faithful.
Do I worry?
Nope. Never. I don’t need to. Just because you’ve been wronged in the past doesn’t mean you need to put up a cage around your heart and swear off love and trust.
We’re not married, yet, but this time it’s different. I have no expectations, and it feels good. I know the drive on I-10 between Phoenix and Anaheim like the back of my hand and when Cason is missing us, he makes the drive in four hours and thirty-six minutes. For the past couple of years, through countless games and late-night calls, and one very determined little boy making his entrance into the world while his daddy was two thousand miles away, we’ve made it work.
You know in romance movies when the couple gets together, everything’s great, and then bam, dick to your face, cockblocked? Shit went south? They’re suddenly disagreeing over something like who left the ranch out after pizza? By the way, if you don’t eat your pizza dipped in ranch, you’re missing out. If you’re frowning at me, we can’t be friends. But my point is, suddenly the couple—let’s call them Jack and Jill—that perfect couple Jack and Jill were portrayed to be are suddenly fighting over something so incredibly trivial, but it brings them to this point.
They’re human. You can’t sleep in the same bed with someone every night and agree on everything all the time. An
yways, back to Jack and Jill fighting. Sometimes during their fight, it gets brought up that Jack’s pissed that Jill didn’t give him head last night. Jill was taking care of Johnny and Jane. Yes, so they got kids too. Don’t get lost on me. Follow along.
So, there they are, fighting over the ranch, and Jack suddenly brings up the fact that he’s pissed about her not spending time with him, and Jill’s just trying to get through the fucking day without losing her shit on the kids and CPS being called. She doesn’t have time to suck your dick, Jack. So back the fuck up here.
In romance movies, this is what they call the arc. The pivotal moment in the movie where the music changes, your popcorn is gone, and there’s nobody chewing in your ear, and here you are wondering why Jack can’t see that it wasn’t because Jill didn’t want him. It had nothing to do with that. She was simply tired.
He tells her she’s not herself anymore, and he feels like she’s pushing him away. She had no idea he thought that, and part of her, deep down, knows he’s right. They go to bed, neither speaking, and the silence turns to days. He starts rebelling, she withdraws, and then something sparks inside them, and they suddenly have this lightning bolt hit them, not literally, let’s hope, and in the middle of the night, their feet touch under the covers, and a silent conversation plays out between them. He confesses he’s sorry; she admits life is hard with Johnny and Jane. I mean, they’re teenagers, and teenagers are assholes. Nobody likes them. They don’t even like themselves.
Regardless, the ranch started a ball rolling, got their damn feelings out, and now they’re good. All’s better. They’re having sex as the credits roll, and you leave the theater thinking, did I leave the ranch out? Because it’s got you concerned. It’s after, maybe when you’re in your car driving home, that you think about that movie and its true meaning.
