Page 90 of Wait For It

He flinched at my raised voice before taking a deep breath. “I was like you with baseball. It was the one thing that always made sense to me and kept me sane. When I lost it, I spiraled. It was like I didn’t know who I was anymore. When I got sober, I thought it fell to me to keep you from making the same mistake. Instead, it just pushed you away.”

I studied my father’s profile, seeing myself. The similarities ran deeper than physical traits. He and I were like two halves of a coin—forever on opposite sides yet made of the same stuff.

Maybe it wasn’t a coincidence the woman he’d described reminded me of Ari.

Maybe it took a certain kind of woman to make men like us want to be better.

Sensing my stare, he glanced over to me with a wry smile. “You’ve got that look in your eyes—it’s the same one you have when you’re up at the plate, trying to read the pitcher. Does this have anything to do with that broken heart Conor mentioned? Or are you just trying to decide where to sock your old man?”

I rubbed my eyes as thoughts of Ari took over again. My buzz and what remained of my resolve had worn off sometime during the car ride home, but Bailey’s impromptu sermon was like an energy drink, bouncing off the walls of my brain. “He gets a few too many in him and—you know what? Doesn’t matter.”

He stretched out, placing his feet up on the coffee table and settling against the back of the couch. “I know I’m not your teammate or your mama, but I’m a good listener, and I’ve got all night.”

I shook my head. “Nah, it’s not worth getting into again. I just need to sleep it off. In the morning, I’ll be good as new.”

The side of his mouth tugged up into another grin. “I see. So, what is it that’s holding you back from this girl?”

“What makes you think something is holding me back? It didn’t work out. Game over.” I sounded like Bailey when he’d been describing his one-night stand.

My father laughed to himself. “If there wasn’t something standing in your way, you would’ve been out with her, not Conor.”

“It’s not like—” My nostrils stung in warning, but I clenched my jaw and shook my head, fighting to keep it together.

“Killian.” He cupped the side of my head in his palm. “Let me in—not because I deserve it, but because you do. I bottled up my emotions for too long, afraid you’d see me as weak. But sometimes, the strongest thing we can do is make ourselves vulnerable. So, you wanna cry? Cry. You wanna punch something? I’ll grab you a pillow. But, for the love of God, be better than me, son.”

With that, the wound in my chest tore open. I didn’t fight it, letting the pain and grief strip me down to nothing.

Only this time, I wasn’t forced to go through it alone.

My father’s arms came around me, holding me through the broken sentences and soul-crushing sobs that made up my story. Eventually, my words and tears tapered off in a rough exhale. We were left with silence. He stayed quiet for so long that I’d started to doze, only to jerk myself awake when he finally spoke.

“What is it you want?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted as I pulled away.

He nodded. “Yeah, you do. I look at you, and I see a kid who’s never settled for anything in his life. Remember those exercises we used to do before your games in high school?”

“Dad, no,” I pleaded, running a hand across my eyes. “I’m not visualizing—”

“Close your eyes.” His lips pressed into a thin line. I obeyed, but only because I was too tired to argue.

Closing my eyes… playing in the limes—what did a man have to do to get some real advice around here?

“Here it is—five years from now, the Hurricanes have just won game seven of the World Series. You’re standing on the field, surrounded by your teammates and reporters, but you’re not looking at them. You’re looking up into the seats. Who are you waiting for? Who’s rushing down to the field to get to you?”

I envisioned it—the deafening roar of the crowd, the stadium lights shining down on me, and a flash of red hair moving through waves of people. The woman who saw the man beneath the player.

“Ari,” I whispered as I turned back to him. “It’s only ever been Ari.”

“You’ve never wanted something handed to you. Even when you knew it would be harder, you wanted to earn it yourself. Why should this be any different? If you can visualize it, you can make it happen. But first, you need a plan.”

Chapter Eighteen

Ariana

“He’s more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made out of, his and mine are the same. If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger.”

-Emily Brontë,Wuthering Heights

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