Unforgettable: A Small Town Second Chance Sports Romance

by Melanie Harlow

  I thought about it as I drove back to the hotel—the long way, past our old house so I could see if that apple tree was still there . . . it was. Parked across the street, I stared at that damn tree and thought about the offer David Dean had made me this afternoon. I thought about the second act of my life, for which I’d made no Plan B.

  I thought about returning to my big house with its security gate in San Diego and my little cabin in the mountains. Both offered the privacy and solitude I’d craved over the last year, but was that really what I wanted for the rest of my life?

  On the way back to the hotel, I thought about buying a place on the water here, where Sadie and Josh could bring my nieces and nephews to go swimming or fishing or boating. I thought about having an influence over the next generation of players, of passing on the wisdom that had been given to me, not because they were going to make millions of dollars or become famous pro athletes, but for the love of the game. And I thought about the woman who, within the space of one week, seemed to know and understand and accept me better than anyone ever had.

  All of it was making me wonder what if.

  What if I stayed more than a little longer? What if my worth didn’t have to be measured in balls and strikes? What if the way my life had veered off course wasn’t a punishment, but an opportunity?

  What if this place started to feel like home to me?

  Late that night I was lying in April’s bed, my arms wrapped around her soft, warm body, when I realized it already had.

  “Hey,” I whispered. “Are you still awake?”

  “Yes.” Her voice was sleepy.

  “I was thinking.”

  “I thought we weren’t supposed to do that.”

  I laughed gently, nudging her hip. “Smartass.”

  “What were you thinking about?”

  “About . . . staying. Maybe for good.”

  She rolled onto her back and looked up at me. “Really?”

  “Yeah. David Dean offered me a permanent position on the coaching staff at the high school. I was thinking about maybe getting a place here.”

  “Like a house?”

  “Yeah.” I grinned at her in the dark. “Somewhere I can leave the cap off the toothpaste and not worry about it.”

  “I only scolded you about that once this week.”

  “Well, I feel like I’ve imposed on you long enough, with all my cover hogging and my dirty laundry. And I don’t really want to live in a hotel—too many people around all the time. Earlier today I was picturing a big house on the water, maybe a boat. A place where we can hang out on the deck and drink good bourbon and I’ll yell at kids to get off my beach.”

  Laughing, she shook her head. “Wow. That sounds amazing. But . . . that’s a big decision. A big change.”

  “I know.” I brushed the hair back from her face. “But I was thinking today about why I haven’t booked a ticket back to San Diego yet. And I realized it’s because I just don’t want to go. Something about being here feels right to me, and I haven’t felt that in a long time.”

  She looped her arms around my neck. “It makes me really happy to hear that.”

  “I’m happy too.” I rolled on top of her. “Can you tell?”

  “Yes. And I love when you’re happy. In fact, making you happy is my new favorite sport.”

  “Better not skip practice then.” I lowered my mouth to hers, my body igniting, my heart racing, my mind full of possibilities for the future.

  Sixteen

  April

  Thursday morning, I burst into Chloe’s office without knocking. “He’s staying!”

  Seated at her desk, she looked up at me in surprise. “What?”

  “Tyler. He’s staying.”

  A grin broke out on her face. “You’re kidding. For real? Like he’s moving back?”

  I nodded. “That’s what he said last night. He’s talking about buying a place on the water.”

  “Oh my God!”

  I put a hand on my chest. “I swear, my heart has not stopped racing since he told me. It’s so crazy!”

  “So, what did he say, exactly?”

  “He said he hadn’t booked a ticket back to San Diego yet and when he thought about why, he realized it was because he didn’t want to go. He said something about being here feels right to him.” I paused and smiled. “And then we had sex again.”

  Chloe burst out laughing. “Listen to you! First you were all, ‘Oh I’m totally not going to bang him, I’m just wearing perfume for fun,’ then you were like ‘Well, maybe I’ll bang him, but first I’m going to overthink it,’ and now you’re head over heels in love!”

  I rolled my eyes, even as my heart continued to gallop. “Stop it. I’m not in love. We’re just spending time together. Getting to know each other. Having a lot of amazing sex. I’m just happy it doesn’t have to come to an end before it even has a chance to begin.”

  My sister smiled sweetly. “You’re cute when you’re in denial. Frannie claims he never once took his eyes off you at the wedding and talked about you nonstop. Have you told her yet?”

  “No, this just happened late last night! But I’ll text her, and maybe we can all meet up for a drink this weekend.”

  “Sounds good. That way you don’t have to tell the story four times.” She grinned. “You look like you’re on cloud nine.”

  “Do I? I’m trying not to let myself get too carried away—I mean, we haven’t even talked about what this is yet—but something about it feels really good.” I chewed my bottom lip. “Am I getting my hopes up too high? It’s only been a week . . . a very intense week.”

  “Hey. Every happily ever after has to start somewhere, right?” She smiled. “Maybe this is your somewhere.”

  I thought about her words all day long and decided she was right. I’d waited so long to feel this for someone—the rush when he walked in the room, the butterflies in my stomach when he looked at me, the compulsion to get my hands anywhere and everywhere on his body, the unbelievable thrill I felt being close to him—why should I tamp down on that happiness? Opening your heart to someone was always a risk, wasn’t it?

  This was my chance to take it.

  After work, I had an appointment with Prisha.

  “How are you?” she asked, lowering herself into her chair.

  “Great.” I smiled from my usual spot on the couch. “A lot has happened in a week.”

  “Oh?” She returned the smile, tilting her head. “What’s new?”

  “Well, I did my homework—I told my sisters about the pregnancy and adoption—and you were right. It was a little scary, but I felt so much better afterward.”

  “Good.” She typed something into her iPad. “I’m really glad to hear that.”

  “But wait, there’s more.” I laughed, tucking my hair behind one ear. “I reconnected with Tyler Shaw.”

  She glanced at her notes. “The baby’s father?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how did that go?”

  “Actually . . . it’s been incredible.” I felt the bloom of warmth in my face. “Really and truly incredible.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, we ran into each other sort of by accident. And I was prepared for it to be awkward, but it wasn’t. It felt nice. So when he asked if I wanted to have dinner, I said yes, figuring it was the universe putting this opportunity in my lap.”

  “The opportunity for what?”

  “To give that chapter an ending and close the book. Except that’s not what happened.”

  “No?”

  I shook my head. “We did more than just reconnect that night. We sort of rediscovered this chemistry we’d always had.”

  “I see.” One eyebrow peaked. “Physical chemistry?”

  “Yes, there’s that,” I confessed. “But it’s more than that.” I moved to the edge of the couch. “It’s emotional chemistry too. I feel like I can really be myself around him. I hear myself telling him things I’ve never said out loud to anyone—deeply personal
things. I trust him. He makes me feel beautiful and special and deserving of the things I want.”

  “Wow. That’s certainly a powerful feeling. All that plus physical chemistry too?”

  “Yes. The physical connection is . . .” I fell back and fanned my face. “Hot. He’s still ridiculously gorgeous, and I find myself craving him all the time. And when we’re together, it’s like”—I stopped as the memory of his body on mine made my stomach tighten and the room spin—“it’s like magic. I can’t explain it. I don’t feel self-conscious or ashamed or detached or any of the other things I used to feel during sex. It just feels good. So good that I was starting to worry.”

  Prisha sat back. “About what?”

  I sat up again. “Well, about the fact that he was leaving. That all this good stuff I was feeling was just going to evaporate when he left. But then . . .” I grinned. “He decided not to leave.”

  “Oh?”

  “He says he doesn’t want to. At first, he thought he’d just stay the rest of the week and go home this weekend. But last night, he said he’s thinking about moving back here for good. He was offered a coaching position at the high school.”

  “Wow. This is a lot to process.”

  “It is.” I took a deep breath. “I also sent the letter.”

  Prisha crossed her legs in the other direction. “Did you?”

  I nodded. “The day after I was last here, but . . . I haven’t heard back.”

  “Well, that’s only, what, a week?”

  “Yeah.” I had to laugh a little. “I guess so much has happened for me in that week, it feels like it’s been much longer.”

  My therapist smiled sympathetically. “Understandable.”

  “I actually told Tyler about the letter. About wanting to meet our son.”

  “And how did he react?”

  “He was . . . supportive.” I played with the hem of my top. “He said if it was something I felt I needed to move forward, I should do it. He made me feel good about the decision.”

  “Does Tyler want to meet him?”

  “No,” I admitted. “He was very clear about that, and I completely understand. He’s never struggled with guilt over the adoption like I have. He was able to leave it behind more easily.”

  “Sounds like you two are communicating very well.”

  “I think we are.” I met her eyes and smiled. “I really think we are.”

  Seventeen

  Tyler

  At practice Thursday afternoon, I worked with a few more pitchers on their motion, ran double-play drills with the middle infield, and gave advice on different offensive situations during batting practice. For the most part, the guys were all eager to learn, receptive to criticism, and grateful for the feedback.

  There was only one kid—a right-handed pitcher with the last name Brock—who acted like he knew everything already, and I sensed him bristling when I suggested he didn’t have as solid a grasp on the mechanics as he should, but he wasn’t openly antagonistic.

  His father watched the last half of practice, though, and I didn’t like the look he gave me, or the way he stood with his chest puffed out and his jaw jutting forward, or the way he yelled at his kid through the fence, basically telling him to do the opposite of what I was saying.

  Virgil was there, sitting in the dugout, and when I was done, I sank down next to him while David finished up practice.

  “Who’s the asshole?” I asked, nodding toward the guy.

  “Brock? He’s nobody. Just one of those guys who thinks he’s better than everybody else because he’s bigger and louder. Ignore him.”

  “He was interfering while I tried to work with his kid.”

  “Yeah, he does that all the time. Always huffing and puffing about the lineup and where his son should be in it. He was on the team here way back when, long before your time. But he wasn’t good enough to be scouted for college ball and he’s still mad about it.”

  “Oh.” I took some satisfaction in that.

  “I hear David offered you a position.”

  “He did.”

  Virgil side-eyed me. “Gonna take it?”

  “I said I’d think about it.”

  “You should take it.”

  I chuckled. “And why’s that?”

  “Because it’s where you belong. And if your dad was around, he’d say the same thing.”

  I looked out at the mound and decided to give a voice to a feeling I’d kept buried far from the surface. “You don’t think he’d call me a quitter for leaving the game? He wouldn’t think I’d been weak?”

  Virgil didn’t answer right away. “Is that what you think? That your pop would’ve called you a quitter?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe. It was my choice to get out. I wasn’t fired or anything. I could have stayed and kept working on it.”

  He remained silent.

  “Maybe he’d think my real failure was giving in to the fear that nothing would land where I threw it ever again. There’s no room for fear on the ballfield. You tough it out. You try harder. You beat it. Or you don’t deserve to be there.”

  Virgil looked at me, but I didn’t meet his eyes.

  “You deserved to be there, son,” he said. “What happened wasn’t your fault.”

  “What if it was? What if I was too sure of myself? Too convinced that the game owed me, rather than the other way around? What if God or the universe or whatever is out there decided I was just an asshole like everyone else and didn’t deserve the arm?”

  My old coach had no answer ready, but he let me talk, which was maybe all I needed. These were things I’d never said to anyone. Only another ball player would understand it, but admitting this kind of stuff was not acceptable in pro sports. It showed weakness, and you had to be tough.

  “My dad was a good man, Coach. The best. Why did I get the chance to prove myself in the majors, but he didn’t? And what would he say to me now that I blew it? I can’t stop feeling like I let him down.”

  Virgil scratched his head. Shifted on the bench.

  I closed my eyes and exhaled. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to unload all that on you. But lately I’ve been trying not to keep so much shit bottled up.”

  “Yeah, that happens when there’s a girl involved.”

  I had to laugh. “Right.”

  Practice ended, and I rose to my feet. “I should take off. I wanted to try to talk to Chip Carswell about his offer from Clemson before he goes home.”

  “Good. Good.” Virgil nodded.

  I’d already started to walk away when he spoke again.

  “I know what he’d have said, Shaw.”

  “Huh?” I turned around.

  “Your dad. You asked what he’d have said to you. I know what he’d have said.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He’d have said, ‘Get up, son. Dust your ass off. The game’s not over.’”

  I wasn’t sure what he meant. “What game? My pitching career?”

  He shook his head slightly. “Your life. You’re not done showing ’em what you got, kid. But you gotta quit hiding. That’s what he’d say.”

  I thought about that for a minute. Was he right? Would my dad have been more ashamed that I’d been hiding out than the way I’d failed on the mound? But baseball had been everything to him. What could I ever do that would even come close? “I’ll think about it. Thanks, Coach.”

  “Have a good night, son.”

  Just for the hell of it, I treated the Brock’s asshole dad to my best menacing glare before catching up with Chip on his way to the parking lot.

  “Hey, Carswell, wait up!”

  He turned, shifting his bag higher on his shoulder. “Hey.”

  “Nice job today. Your motion is already improving.”

  He smiled. “Thanks. I really appreciate the help.”

  “You talk to the scout from Clemson yesterday?”

  “Yeah. A little.” He hesitated. “They made me a pretty good offer.”

  “You gonna take
it?”

  “I don’t know.” He looked back toward the field. “My mom wants me to.”

  “It’s a great place to play.”

  “Yeah.” He chewed on his bottom lip for a second. “South Carolina is just kind of far.”

  “It’s not that far.”

  “Yeah, but . . . my mom’s on her own since my dad died. It doesn’t feel right to go so far from her and my sister.”

  I nodded, folding my arms over my chest. “I get that. My mom died when I was young. When I left, I had to leave my dad and my little sister too.”

  “You did?” He looked at me in surprise, and it struck me that he didn’t have to look up—he was almost as tall as I was.

  “Yeah. I can’t say that I felt as guilty as you do at the thought, but—”

  “But you got drafted.” He shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips. “In the first round. You had to go.”

  “I did, because I felt in my gut that it was what I was supposed to do,” I said. “A good pitcher trusts his gut.”

  He nodded, chewing on his lip again.

  “What’s your gut telling you?”

  “To play baseball,” he admitted. “To go. To take the chance, because I might not get another one.”

  “Then you should go, not because your mom or your coach or even I tell you to, but because your instincts are telling you to—you start ignoring that voice, it’s gonna stop talking to you.”

  “Yeah. I hear you.” His eyes dropped to the ground. “I think my dad would’ve wanted me to go too.”

  “I’m sure he would have, especially if he liked baseball.”

  Chip smiled. “He loved baseball.”

  “There you go.” I clapped him on the shoulder. “Think it over. I know it’s a big decision. I’m around if you need someone to talk to.”

  “Thanks, Coach.”

  Coach. It was the first time anyone had called me that—and I liked it.

  “You’re welcome, Carswell. You’re a really fucking talented player. Oh, shit—sorry.” I grimaced. “I’m not used to being around kids.”