Page 1 of The Foul Out

PREFACE

KYLE

It doesn’t take long for life to do a complete one-eighty. Trust me, I know.

Three months ago, I ran away as fast as I could, because the last thing I wanted was any responsibility outside of baseball. Now? I wish I could go back and do things differently.

I scanned the field, my focus snagging on a shock of red hair. Lots of red hair. For one beat, utter joy overwhelmed me. Maybe everything would be okay. But as a smile crept up my face, she turned and beamed at the man stepping up next to her. The smile dropped from my face. My heart clenched, and my breath stopped. All I could think wasno. No fucking way. My world tilted too.

Mason grabbed my arm as I stumbled, but I couldn’t stop my legs from continuing toward the stands.

“Jeez, Streaks. You’re going to bust your ass,” he growled, hustling to keep up with me. “Breathe. You don’t know what’s going on.”

But I couldn’t breathe. I needed to move. Be faster. Undo the last month. Hell, go back in time and undo the last three months. Because fuck all of it. I should have made betterdecisions every step of the way. Everything that mattered—really mattered—was abundantly clear in that moment.

“Breathe,” he repeated.

I sucked in hard. Yes. Breathe. If I didn’t, there was no way I’d make it across this damn field to the three people who mattered more than I wanted anyone to matter.

Because even after everything, I couldn’t find it in me to want a life that didn’t include them. Hopefully I hadn’t already fucked it all up.

Four MonthsEarlier

Don’t let it be a heart attack. Or a stroke. Or even a broken hip. Let the reason for pressing the panic button be a dumb one.

As the director of Boston’s most reputable rehab and assisted living complexes, I couldn’t pass a resident’s emergency off on anyone else. The thought pulsed rapidly through my mind before the guilt kicked in. Dammit. I truly was the most selfish woman on the planet.

Mr. Roper, although difficult and grumpy, meant well—most days. Plus, Ishouldbe worried for his well-being, but honestly, I was terrified that his emergency would make me late to pick up my daughter.

It was Friday.

The Friday.

The day she’d been waiting for since her birthday. And I couldn’t be late.

With my seven-year-old, schedules and pickup times mattered. When anything went even slightly off plan, she didn’t handle it well. And in the moment, I feared that what should have been the best day of the year for her would turn into a nightmare for both of us.

I hardly gave the courtesy tap on the studio apartment door before I burst inside.

“Mr. Roper,” I called when I didn’t immediately see him. Rooms here weren’t big, but the area past the bathroom wasn’t visible from the doorway. Thankfully, panic hadn’t set in as I turned the corner and found him sitting comfortably in his green velvet La Z Boy.

“It’s the wrong one again.” He shook his head, his frown one of annoyance as he glared at the TV. He didn’t even look pale.

I skidded to a stop, my heart still pounding. My brain was warring with itself. On one hand, I was happy that this wasn’t an emergency. But on the other, I was irritated becausethis wasn’t an emergency.

“No need for a bus,” I said into what was basically a walkie talkie.

“Damn television box. Never plays the right show. We saw this one last week.” The eighty-eight-year-old jabbed the remote into the air, pointing it at the screen and furiously pressing buttons.

For employees in assisted living facilities like Boston Lights, technology was both friend and foe.

I sighed, my shoulders dropping. “You hit your panic button.”Again.

“Yes.” The wrinkles on his forehead deepened as he lifted his brow. “I called for help because I currently need assistance.”

When the board had approved panic buttons on wristbands for every resident, they clearly hadn’t considered all the ramifications. The ability to contact staff quickly in anemergency was great, and the GPS component assured we could easily locate everyone. However, for every one genuine emergency, there were at least one hundred instances where the button had been used as if it was a flight attendant call button.

“Mr. R?—”

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