Page 31 of Big Pitch Energy

But I’m not naive. I know that in a few short weeks, he’ll leave for spring training, and I’ll go back to my own routine, my own quiet world without him in it.

Still, I wasn’t going to waste a single second wishing things were different. Because this feeling, this connection, is worth it.

I tucked myself a little closer to his warmth, closed my eyes, and let myself have this moment.

Chapter Nine

Sam

Christmas in North Carolinadidn’t come with snow. Just soft blue skies and a cool breeze rolling in off the water. The kind of day where you could wear a sweatshirt and jeans and still end up warm from walking too fast.

Mom and I left early, heading into Wilmington, the truck bed full of non-perishable supplies she’d picked up to donate. Volunteering at the community kitchen had become our Thanksgiving and Christmas morning tradition. It started back when I was a teenager. We just showed up one year asking how we could help. Now we’re part of the regular holiday crew.

It’s a great, hands-on way to start the day and give back beyond the money and supplies we usually donate. There’d been years when meals and care packages from places like this helped Mom stretch her paycheck far enough to cover the bills and still keep us fed. I’ll never forget that.

By the time we got there, the place was already humming. The rich scent of brewed coffee, sizzling bacon, and pancakesfilled the air. A few regulars waved as we walked in, and someone shoved a Santa hat on my head before I’d even taken off my coat. The volunteer coordinator handed us both aprons with “Holiday Helper” embroidered across the front.

When the Waves’ public relations team caught wind that I do this, they wanted to set up a photo op, but I wasn’t comfortable with that. I don’t do it for the accolades or recognition. Thankfully, they didn’t push it, probably because Hannah Reagan, who leads PR, gets it. Her husband Jack, the team’s shortstop, supports a few non-profits quietly and prefers to keep it that way.

For breakfast, I worked the line, serving eggs and hash browns. Mom rotated between serving and sitting with people who looked like they needed more than a hot plate. She was good at that. She had this way of making anyone feel like they mattered. Like they weren’t invisible.

We stayed through lunch doing more of the same, then helped clean up. I washed dishes while Mom wiped down the tables. Before we headed home, she spoke with the kitchen manager and got a list of their immediate needs. We’ll do some shopping during the week and drop off those items and whatever else we can fit in the truck.

I settled behind the wheel and started the truck. Pulling out my phone, I texted Hope.

We’re leaving the kitchen now, heading home.

Before I shifted into drive, her reply came through.

I’ll be there around 5pm.

I smiled, already looking forward to seeing her later.

By the time we got home, it was just past three o’clock.

“I prepped most things last night," Mom said as we entered the kitchen.

“Mom, did you sleep at all?”

She waved me off.

“I'll sleep when I'm dead.”

The counter was covered with cooling racks of cookies. More traditional Italian varieties—pepper, anise cookie, pizzelle, and almond biscotti. As well as classic holiday staples—chocolate crinkle, raspberry thumbprints, chocolate chip, and festive sugar cookies. A pan of peanut butter fudge sat off to the side waiting to be cut and plated. She’d even made struffoli. My mouth watered at the thought of eating one of thetiny fried dough balls coated in honey and sprinkles. But I know if I even try to take one and mess up her perfectly formed wreath, there will be hell to pay.

Instead, I reached for a biscotti.

“Hands off,” she said, pointing at me. “Dinner first.”

I broke off a piece and popped it in my mouth before she could stop me.

Mom rolled her eyes, but a smile tugged at the corner of her lips.

“You’re impossible.”

“I’m not impossible,” I said around a mouthful of crumbs. “I’m literally standing right here. Very real. Extremely possible.”

She shook her head.

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