Page 45 of Big Pitch Energy

We stared at each other across his dining room table, the half-eaten dinner growing cold between us like a quiet reminder of everything we weren’t saying. I could see the hurt in his eyes, the confusion. He genuinely didn’t understand why I couldn’t just trust that we’d figure it out.

“Maybe I am scared,” I admitted. “Maybe I'm scared that I'll end up being the girl who only gets phone calls and texts for seven months. Maybe I'm scared that you'll realize it's easier to be with someone who can follow you around, someone who doesn't have their own life that conflicts with yours.”

His expression softened, and he shifted his chair closer, inch by inch, until his knees bumped gently against mine.

“Hope, I love you.”

His words hit me like a punch to the chest, not because I didn’t want to hear them, but because of the timing. Because of everything else we hadn’t figured out yet, everything still hanging in the air between us.

“I know I should have said it sooner,” he continued, his voice quieter now. “But I've never said that to anyone before, didn't think I ever would. But I love you. I'm all in with this, with us. Whatever it takes, however we have to make it work, I want to try.”

I took a shaky breath and reached for his hand.

“I love you too, Sam. I really do. I just wish we had a way to fix this, some kind of solution. Because right now, it feels like we’re just hoping it’ll work, without knowing how.”

He nodded slowly.

“I can’t say I know how to make this work, I just know I don't want to lose you.”

“I don't want to lose you either. But I also don't want to spend the next however many years wondering if what I can offer is enough for you.”

“You think you're not enough?”

The disbelief in his voice was genuine.

“I think distance is hard. I think seven months apart is really hard. And I think we're kidding ourselves if we pretend it won't change things.”

“So what are you expecting?"

The question hung in the air between us. What was I expecting? For him to magically solve this? For baseball to become less demanding? For me to suddenly be okay with seeing my boyfriend a handful of times over seven months?

“I don't know,” I whispered.

“Hope, how do we make this work?”

He sounded almost panicked.

I looked at him and saw the love, frustration, and desperation written all over his face. He'd just told me he loved me, words I'd been waiting to hear, words that should have made everything better. Instead, they made it worse, because now I knew exactly what we'd be losing.

“I don't know.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because I don't.” My voice cracked. “I've tried to figure it out, Sam. I've run through every scenario, every possibility, and I can't see how this doesn't end with one of us getting hurt.”

I didn't say the words again. But I met his eyes and let him see everything—the uncertainty that kept me awake at night, the fear that I was kidding myself, and the stubborn hope that refused to die. From the way he looked back at me, I knew he'd heard everything I hadn't said.

Chapter Thirteen

Sam

The last twoweeks without Hope had been absolute hell. Not the dramatic, fiery kind of hell you see in movies, but the slow, suffocating kind that creeps into every quiet moment and reminds you what's missing.

I missed everything about her—the way she'd scrunch her nose when she concentrated, her bright smile, and the gentle warmth of her hands during our Reiki sessions when the whole world seemed to fade away except for the two of us.

After zipping my duffel bag closed, I gave the room a final once-over. I have enough clothes that I don’t have to worry if I forget to pack something, but I don’t want to leave without my electronics and chargers. All the surfaces were empty, so I stepped out of my room, closed the door behind me, and headed downstairs. Mom sat on the couch, not even pretending she wasn’t just waiting for me.

“So,” she said, the single word dripping with accusation. “You're really leaving without seeing Hope?”

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