“Talk to me, Ty. I’m not leaving until you do.”
I rolled away, pulling the comforter over my head. “There was a key to my door in the kitchen junk drawer,” I mumbled. “You didn’t have to break it down.”
The comforter was ripped from my grip, the aggressive move bending my fingers, and I yelped, bringing my injured hand to my chest. “Ow!” I yelled. “That hurt!”
He bent over the bed, his fists biting into the sheet, his glare matching mine, twin sets of Rollins-bred anger. “What’s this about? What happened?”
I rolled back, my knees curling against my chest, needing the cover of a blanket, something to hide me. “Nothing.”
He walked around and knelt beside my bed, his face there, in the narrow view of my peek. “I’m not leaving until you talk to me.”
“You’ll miss the flight,” I mumbled.
“I don’t care.”
“You’ll get in trouble.”
“You’ve never missed a trip before.” I knew it would cause a red flag. Even more than my fits of tears. I didn’t miss games, this last week an oddity in itself, an argument every time Dad left for the field. I had blamed a stomach bug, then the flu, and Dad had called bullshit on both. He’d yelled, I’d cried more, and he’d stared at me, bewildered. Rollins didn’t cry. We cursed, we fought, we punched walls and said hateful things. He didn’t understand a teenage girl whose face became hot and whose voice broke. Hell, I didn’t understand that girl. I had become a walking mess of emotions at a time when I should be making plans, calling Chase, fighting for our relationship, our future life.
I love you.
He’d meant it, hadn’t he? Even if I had fucked up, even if I wasn’t the virgin he’d assumed me to be, he had loved me.
I’m going to marry you one day, Ty Rollins.
True Love didn’t give up because of a hiccup. Or a trade. True Love stood together and fought. But I wasn’t fighting. I was being, in the worst way imaginable, like every emotional girl I had always ridiculed. And I couldn’t seem to find a way to stop. I couldn’t find the energy to call him again. I couldn’t find the strength to meet my father’s eyes and tell him the truth.
“I’m old enough to stay here.”
“You’ve never wanted to stay here. That’s the problem. Is it the Stern trade?”
Fresh tears leaked weakness. “Why would you say that?” He knew. He had to know. Or maybe he didn’t.
“It’s convenient timing with this breakdown.”
“It’s not a breakdown.” I sat up and sniffed, a glob of mucus thick down my throat.
“Then toughen up. Whatever it is. Either talk to me about it, or stop crying and get the hell over it.”
I twisted my mouth, holding back a burst of angry words. I was mad at him, and for no good reason. We had always talked, often no one else around to bounce things off of, and his treatment of me as an adult was one I valued, my attitude and silence for the last week uncharacteristic. I didn’t blame him for being confused, or for being sharp. He wasn’t at fault in all of this. Chase was. Who punched a security guard over a slow key machine? Who told a girl he loved her, and then moved to Baltimore without saying goodbye?
“Pack up. Get on the plane. Let’s get to Chicago and you’ll feel better. The game has helped me through a lot of hard moments. Pull on cleats, smell your glove, run on the field … it’ll help with whatever you’re going through.”
It was tempting. For the first time, I considered leaving the house. Moving on. Returning to life. But how could I walk on a field and not think of his jog across it? Sit on a dugout bench and not remember his slouch against it, his eyes on me? Walk down a tunnel and not think of our collision? Every memory, every piece of my life was now tainted with him. I couldn’t turn on ESPN without hearing his name. Couldn’t go through our schedule with every Orioles game looming, eight more games left this year. Eight times we would share the field. Eight times he would stand on the dirt, just steps away.
I just wasn’t ready to smell the leather of a glove or to walk into an empty hotel room. I couldn’t handle any memories of Chase right now. But eating … maybe that I could do. I swung my feet off the side of the bed. “I’ll stop moping. I’ll try.” I gave him the best smile I could muster.
“And you’ll pack? Come with me to Illinois?”
I shook my head. “Next week,” I promised.
That was enough, and he held out his hand, pulling me to my feet and wrapping me in a hug. “You stink,” he murmured into my hair, and I laughed.
“I’ll shower too.”
“And eat something. Carla just made your favorite: chicken pot pie.”
I nodded, the smell of her cooking coming through the open door. My stomach woke up, churning to life, and I pulled out of his hug, his arm keeping me close, and he bent down to press a kiss on the top of my head. I suddenly felt hot, the scent of food overwhelming, my shove against him harder than I intended, my sprint to the bathroom barely in time, the door slamming against the wall, my knees hitting the tile, hands on the seat, my stomach heaving.
I wheezed, the action painful, each lurch of my stomach bringing up little, my forehead dotted with sweat by the time I collapsed against the wall of the bathroom, my legs weakly falling open, my eyes traveling up my father’s body and to his face. He watched me, concerned, then paled, turning ashen. Seeing it cemented all of my fears, his hand dragging over his face in the moment before he pointed a shaky finger toward me.
“You’re not … not…”
I swallowed hard, more tears threatening, barely held at bay, my mind counting over the last few weeks, trying to remember when I’d last had my period. “I think so,” I whispered. “I’m pregnant.”
I didn’t end up going back on the road.
I didn’t go to another game that year.
The next time I walked into Yankee Stadium, it was through the owner’s entrance, my journey by private elevator and surrounded by security, until I was seated in the skybox, my dinner order taken by a tuxedoed waiter, my ring shining in all the glory that seven carats brought. I sat up there, ate crab cakes, sipped hot tea, listened to my fiancé talk, and watched my boys play.
With every single play, I thought of him.