Page 42 of Big Pitch Energy

I blinked at her, the lump in my throat catching me off guard.

“What if he thinks I don't believe in us?”

The words tumbled out before I could second-guess them.

“What if he thinks you don't believe inyou?” she countered. "Hope, you're not some helpless girlfriend who has to just accept whatever comes. You're a partner. You get a say in how this works."

I took a long drink of beer, letting the cold liquid calm my nerves.

“When did you get so wise?”

“I've always been this wise. You just haven't been listening.” She grinned, but then her expression grew serious again. “Promise me you'll talk to him. Soon.”

The weight of her expectation settled over me, but for the first time in weeks, it didn't feel crushing. It felt like possibility.

“Okay,” I said. “I promise.”

Ava raised her glass.

“To difficult conversations and the people brave enough to have them.”

As I clinked my glass against hers, I caught sight of my reflection in the tavern window. For a split second, I looked like someone who was ready for whatever came next. The question is, will I still feel that way when I’m having this conversation with Sam?

Chapter Twelve

Sam

The garlic sizzledwhen it hit the olive oil, filling the kitchen with that familiar warmth that always reminds me of Sunday dinners growing up. I pushed the minced cloves around the pan with a wooden spoon, watching them turn golden while the smell wrapped around me like a comfortable blanket. I added the boneless chicken breasts to brown. They crackled, releasing the perfect combination of rosemary, thyme, and oregano I'd rubbed in earlier.

I was reaching for the bottle of white wine when Mom wandered into the kitchen, her shoes clicking against the hardwood. She perched on one of the stools at the island, crossed her legs and watched me with that expression I knew meant she had something on her mind.

“You look nice,” I said, pouring wine into the pan. “Where are you headed tonight?”

“Dinner with the girls from book club.” She picked up a piece of the prosciutto I'd been dicing and popped it into her mouth. “This smells amazing, by the way.”

I couldn’t help but smile at that. Mom always said cooking was how you told someone you cared without saying a word. And with Hope, there was plenty I wasn’t saying, but I was definitely trying to show it.

“Thanks. It’s inspired by Nonna’s Sunday chicken recipe,” I said. “She used bone-in thighs and laid the prosciutto over the top like a blanket. I’m using boneless breasts and mixing the prosciutto in.”

“Mmm.” Mom nodded approvingly, then tilted her head slightly. “So are you going to talk to Hope tonight?”

I glanced up from where I was sprinkling prosciutto over the chicken.

“About what?”

She let out a groan so dramatic it belongs on a stage.

“The season, Sammy. Baseball. You know, the thing that’s going to swallow your life again soon?”

The water I’d set on the back burner earlier started to boil and I dropped in a pound of linguine.

“I think we’re good.”

“Men,” she muttered under her breath. “Clueless.”

“I’m notclueless,” I said.

“If you had aclue, you’d know how much that girl values stability. Your schedule is anything but.”

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