Page 97 of The Perfect Love

“He played too, right? What position?”

My eyes drift to the outfield. “Right field. He tried and tried to get me to play outfield. He told me how underrated of a position it was, but I hated waiting to track down a fly ball or hope for a double to get out there. I loved the intensity of the infield, and third base called to me. Once he saw how well I took to it, he never pushed me toward the outfield again. He helped coach my little league teams, and loved being a part of the game, even when he wasn’t playing anymore. I understand why now. He just loved it. He knew so many baseball stats and that translated into a deeper love of the sport for me. And I think that’s the difference in players. Some people play because the sport is fun and they enjoy it. But then there are those of us who have a piece of baseball inside us. We know years and years worth of stats, analyze games, and will keep baseball in our lives any way we can have it.” I blow out a breath. “Sorry. I jumped on my soapbox.”

But then I glance at her and find her staring at me with a giant smile on her face.

“That’s what I wanted. You light up at the mere mention of baseball, and I don’t want you to hold that back. That fire inside you—the passion for the game you love—I want to see more of that. I know you were worried about how I would feel, and maybe I was a bit too, but after seeing this through your eyes, I can’t imagine not feeling the same happiness I do now.”

“Even if I’m not playing?”

“Whether you’re helping with the team or sitting next to me watching, I know it’ll bring you joy, and when you smile, it’s impossible for me not to smile too.”

“Baby…” I pull her into my arms, holding her tightly and playing with her long, wild hair. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

There’s a heavy pause, then she whispers, “Happy birthday, Trevor.”

And even though I probably shouldn’t, what I hear in her voice and the emotion behind those words isI love you. Or maybe I’m projecting because with every passing day, I’m becoming more and more certain. She’s not just my dream girl. She’s the love of my life.

We’re laughing and chatting as we sit on a picnic blanket behind third base. Chelsea brought Loganberry and sandwiches from The Lake Shack, the place I took her on our first date. Which is when it hits me…

“It’s been a month since our first date.”

“You’ve put up with my crazy for four whole weeks. You mustreallylike me,” she teases.

“Didn’t I tell you something that day about not being self-deprecating?”

She shakes her head. “Not self-deprecating if it’s true. I’m not saying it in a bad way. You’ve seen most sides of me now—except for my wildest one. Then you’ll learn howcrazyI can be.”

“I prefer the other word you just said.Wild. Everything about you has a wildness to it. Your eyes, your hair, your smile, your mouth.” She laughs at that. “You’re wild and free. I love that about you.”

She leans in, thosewildeyes dancing, and kisses me. It’s surprisingly soft and sweet, and when she pulls away, she looks out at the field.

“So, we covered baseball. Tell me about your best birthday ever… though at this point I’m expecting baseball to be a part of it.”

I laugh at that because it’s true. “You called it.”

That same wistful feeling sweeps over me. My eyes go to right field again, and as I stare beyond the wall, warmth surrounds me for a moment, and I feel like my dad is here with me. It might be all internal mind-games, but it’s comforting to feel that connection to him today.

I clear my throat and look at Chelsea. “It was my ninth birthday, and the minor league team in Binghamton was playing in the minor league championship down in Pennsylvania. So my dad organized a trip for us to go down there—I had no idea where they were playing, so I thought we were just going to Hershey Park. Which we did. We spent a day there, him, my mom, me, and Hyla. We did the chocolate tour and went on rides for hours. The next morning, we had this fancy breakfast, then left early and drove to Allentown, where the game was being held. I was so excited when we got there, but then my dad pulled out the showstopper. A meet and greet with the team. To this day, I have no idea how he pulled that off, but he laughedwith the GM like they were old friends, while the players signed jerseys for Hyla and me. Binghamton won, and we celebrated with dinner at Waffle House—and I had candles in my waffles. It was amazing, and I will never forget the unending joy on my dad’s face for all of it. Never a complaint. When we got stuck in traffic, he turned up the radio. He made every birthday special, but that was one for the books.”

Chelsea leans against me and looks up at me, eyes rimmed with tears. “That’s why you don’t like to make a big deal about your birthday.” Her voice is hushed, as if in awe of the story I just told.

I let out a sigh.

I shouldn’t be surprised she figured it out.

She sees me. Even when I try to hide and say I’m all good, she sees right through me. I kind of love that.

I rub my hand down her back, twirling her hair around my finger. “Yeah. But today has reminded me why celebrating it is important.” I brush my lips over her cheek. “Thank you.”

“I still have one last thing for you. It’s not big or fancy because I know you can get yourself whatever you want, but I hope you like it.”

She pulls a small box from her purse and hands it to me.

I lift the top off the black box and pull out a keychain. It’s shaped like a baseball jersey and is gray and red—Ida’s colors. When I look closer, I see my last name and high school number on it—twelve.

“Flip it over,” she whispers.

And when I do, I see my last name again, but this jersey is white with red pinstripes, and the number is my dad’s—number six.

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