Page 47 of Big Pitch Energy

I’d even smudged the room, but it still felt off. Not wrong, exactly—just not mine. Or maybe not mine today.

I paused, barefoot on the hardwood, and let my arms fall to my sides. The diffuser puffed quietly in the corner, the scent of lavender and rosemary curled through the stillness. Everything was exactly where it should be.

And yet nothing was right.

I couldn’t shake the sense that something inside me had shifted, just a little. Just enough to make everything familiar feel unfamiliar. A half-step out of sync.

No amount of rearranging could fix it.

Taking in a deep breath, I let it out slowly, hoping it would calm my thoughts.

Two weeks. I haven’t seen him in two weeks, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t felt him everywhere.

He left town yesterday. Not that knowing he’s not here helped anything. The only thin sliver of relief was knowing I wouldn’t bump into him now. No unexpected heart punches. No faking a smile I didn’t have.

A knock on the front door snapped me out of my mental spiral. I turned just in time to see it creak open. Liz steppedinside, her eyes soft and familiar. She didn’t say a word, just walked straight over and pulled me into her arms.

Without hesitation I held on and buried my face in her shoulder. It was stupid, how much it helped. How badly I needed someone to say,Yeah, this hurts.Especially when that someone was his mother.

When I finally let go, I wiped the corner of my eyes with the sleeve of my shirt. Liz pulled back and gave me a look that said she saw right through me.

“You don’t need to tell me how you’re doing,” she said gently. “It’s written all over you.”

I nodded, my throat too tight to form words.

“If it helps,” she added, “he’s looked just as wrecked these past couple of weeks.”

It didn’t help. Not really. Misery doesn’t cancel misery.

Liz lifted her hand, revealing an envelope I hadn’t noticed she was holding. She held it out to me.

“It’s from Sam.”

I took it carefully, like it might burn me. My name was written across the front in bold, script. I stared at it like it might tell me what was inside if I looked long enough.

Liz touched my arm.

“If you want to talk after you read it, you know where to find me.”

And just like that, she slipped out, leaving me alone with the echo of her words and a letter that felt too heavy in my hands.

I locked the studio door, switched off the main lights, and made my way back to the office. The comfy chair in the corner called to me, and I sank into it with a slow exhale.

My hands trembled as I opened the envelope and carefully unfolded a sheet of loose-leaf paper.

Hope,

I’ve started and stopped this letter a dozen times. Maybe a hundred. Nothing I say feels big enough. Not for this. Not for you.

I love you. So much. I’m not sure I ever understood what love could feel like until you cracked my heart open. You see me—like, really see me. Not just the pitcher or the rehab story or the guy trying to keep his shit together. You see the whole mess and somehow, you still love me.

It killed me to leave without talking to you again, but I thought it was best. I’ve had a lot of time to think in the last two weeks, and I know that I want you, I want this, I want us.

I know it won’t be easy. You’ve got roots in Starlight Shores, deep ones. The community is part of you and I’d never ask you to rip them out for me. But I also know baseball won’t last forever. Ten years, maybe, if I’m lucky. And after that, we’d have the rest of our lives to build something together anywhere you want.

I don’t need an answer right away. I just needed you to know I’m not giving up. Not on you. Not on us.

There’s an open-ended ticket to Tampa in the envelope. You can use it on any flight whenever you can make it. If you can make it.

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