Page 43 of Big Pitch Energy

“We talked about how hard the season is at Leo’s wedding. We haven’t talked about specifics, sure, but I figured we’d just…” I searched for the words. “…make it work.”

“It’s not that simple, Sammy.”

I thought back to the way the women had swapped stories about the grind of the season, and how somehow, it all worked out. Hope had jumped into the conversation, listening intentlyand asking thoughtful questions. She didn’t seem overwhelmed or uneasy, so I assumed we were on the same page. But maybe I shouldn’t assume.

The truth is, I’ve never had to think about this before. The only person I ever had to factor into my schedule was Mom, and she adapted to the rhythm of my life a long time ago.

I’ve never dated someone I actually wanted in the stands, on the road, in the day-to-day mess of it. Until Hope.

“I didn’t realize…” I started, then shook my head. “I’ll talk to her.”

Her expression softened.

“You’re a good man, Sammy.” She stood and pressed a quick kiss to my cheek. “Just don’t wait too long. You leave for spring training in a couple weeks.”

That said, she turned and walked out the front door. I stepped back to the stove and carefully lifted the chicken out of the pan, setting it onto a warm platter. The skillet sizzled as I poured in a healthy dose of white wine. I stirred, scraping up all the caramelized bits stuck to the bottom, then let it reduce until the aroma filled the kitchen. Next, I added heavy cream and a handful of parmesan, mixing it all together into a silky sauce before lowering the heat. Just as it started to thicken, the doorbell rang. I wiped my hands on a towel and headed to the door. Hope stood on my doorstep looking absolutely beautiful in a soft blue sweater that made her eyes look even more incredible than usual.

“Something smells good.” She stepped inside. “What did you make?

I pulled her in for a quick kiss and shut the door behind us.

“My nonna called it Sunday chicken,” I said as we walked into the kitchen. “I hope you’re hungry.”

“Famished.”

After draining the pasta, I added it to the pan with the sauce and gave it a good toss until every noodle was coated. Then I grabbed a handful of parmesan and scattered it over the top, watching it melt into the sauce like the final layer of comfort on a dish that already felt like home.

I made up two plates, piling each high with pasta and topping it with chicken. Hope followed me into the dining room, and we settled next to each other at the table.

“This looks like something out of a restaurant.”

“Thanks. I hope you like it.”

Hope sliced into the chicken, then twirled pasta onto her fork, stacking it just right for a perfect bite. She slipped the bite into her mouth, and a low, satisfied moan followed almost instantly.

“This issogood,” she said, after swallowing.

Before I could even thank her, she was already going in for another bite, smaller this time, but just as enthusiastic. Watching her enjoy it lit something warm in my chest. My effort had landed exactly where I’d hoped it would.

As we ate, we settled into quiet conversation. But something felt different tonight. She was laughing at the right moments, asking the right questions, but there was a distance in her eyes.

“Hope,” I said. “Is everything okay?”

She looked up at me, and I saw something flicker across her face…uncertainty, maybe, or resolve. She set her own fork down, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

“There's something I want to talk to you about.”

Hope

“What's wrong?”

I took a sip of wine, buying myself a few seconds.

“I've been thinking about the season. About what happens when you leave in February.”

“Okay.”

He leaned back in his chair, waiting.

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