Page 215 of Waiting Game

There are someoldcards in here.

My brows lift higher and higher when I see most of Marty Charles’s teammates have cards. That they’re signed tells me he wasn’t afraid to hit them up for signatures like I’m not.

My grin turns goofy at the parallel, but mostly, glee crash-lands deep in my gut because this collectionisburied treasure.

“Mia!”

“Yeah, babe. Nearly done. I’ll be there in a sec.”

When I lean down to grab my beer from the floor, that’s when the stupid recliner decides that it no longer wants my butt on it. The left armrest literally drops to the floor, knocking over the bottle. The loss of balance almost has me tumbling alongside it, but my desire to save the album is greater than the desire to spare my ass from plunking on a carpet that saw better days ten years ago.

That’s how she finds me—in a puddle of beer and broken bits of spring.

“What the hell are you do— Cole! Are you okay?” She runs toward me, and I can’t stop myself from chuckling as I tilt my head up, noticing she turned off the lights in the bar behind her because nothing spotlights her path from the doorway.

“Jesus Christ, Mia. I don’t think Chuck’s spirit approves of me if his fave recliner is out to kill me.”

She tries to haul me up, but I know I’d bring her down with me if I gave her my full weight. Still, the thought’s sweet so I let her help me some.

“That chair’s a death trap,” she excuses.

When I’m on my feet, I grimace at my wet pants. “No shit.”

Mia studies the recliner. “Last time, it was the other armrest. I guess I’ll have to toss it.”

Her sorrowful tone has me curving an arm around her shoulder. “I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t realize…”

“How could you have?” she reasons, patting my abs again—that’s becoming a signature gesture of hers.

I don’t know if she likes touching me or if she needs an excuse to feel me up. Whichever, I’m a happy man.

“Anyway, why did you call me?”

With a half-bow, I wiggle the album in front of her. “This is gonna save your bacon.”

“My bacon, huh? That one of your mom’s sayings?”

“Yup. But this is Canadian bacon. Better than US bacon.”

“If you say so.” She squints at the folder. “What about it? My grandad’s collection of cards?”

“Your granddad? Huh. That makes sense.”

“What does?”

“Why all of Marty Charles’s teammates signed their cards. He must have gotten them autographed for his kid. You can sell these.”

She frowns. “Oh, I don’t know?—”

“What use are they in this album, Mia?” I demand. “It’s not like they’re even displayed. They could help lighten your load.”

“You think?” Her nose crinkles. “I’m sure they’re not even worth that much?—”

“Not worth that much?!” I sputter before I drag open the first page and show her. “See this fella here? He was a Yankees pitcher. Ralph Terry was named MVP after they won the 1962 World Series.”

“So, his card is worth something?”

“We need to take this to an independent appraiser. I’m telling you—” Something about the corner of one of the cards has me frowning as I lift it to the light. That’s when I realize some of the slots are doubled up. "Huh. That must have worked loose from when I fell.”

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