I IMAGINE THIS IS WHAT Graham feels like. Tucked in a shirt that buttons up the front and threatens to choke you, uptight as hell as you walk into a meeting. Only difference is that my brother likes this shit. I hate it.

Give me a bat and a ball and I don’t care who watches or who I have to talk to about it. I can dissect numbers and stats all day. Need someone to study a batting stance and give you a dissertation? I’m your man. Hell, I’ll even wear a suit and tie and charm voters or patrons of a charity and I’ll make you a ton of money. But make me talk about money? I’d rather play basketball.

Coming off the best couple of days of my personal life, I’m swinging open the doors of the Arrows building with a whole lot of nerves. I think it’s worse because I’ve been so relaxed lately.

Just like that, I’m grinning.

Now this, this must be what Barrett feels like. Happy. Content.

Excited about the future.

Greeting the receptionist and ignoring the eyes she makes at me, I hit the button on the elevator. Even this reminds me of Dani. As if on cue, my phone rings and I see her name lit up on the screen.

Dani: If you didn’t mean for me to use the key, too late. I’m sitting on your sofa with a pink mug of coffee and hazelnut creamer. ;) Can’t wait to see you. Go get ’em, tiger.

Me: Tiger, huh?

Dani: I like when you growl.

Me: I like when you scream my name. And when you whisper it. And when you think it.

Dani: I hope to do all three within a few hours this evening. Hurry your ass up, Landry.

Me: Going in. Phone off. Talk soon.

Flipping my device off and shoving it in my pocket, I take a deep breath and push open the door to the General Management office. The secretary sends me through.

The carpet silences my steps as I take forty-six to the back conference room. Billy Marshall and my agent, Frank Zele, face me. They stand as I enter and shake my hand.

“How are you, Lincoln?” Billy asks “Good. How are you?”

“Doing good, thanks.”

Frank and I greet each other and we all take a seat. “How was your holiday?” Billy asks.

I grin. “Excellent. Went home to Savannah.”

Billy doesn’t look at me or acknowledge my response and that concerns me. Greatly. He’s always so talkative—the guy could talk for two hours about a bright, sunny day. Now he won’t look at me? My shoulders stiffen as I clasp my hands in front of me and await the verdict. Frank gives me a look, one that further chills my hopes.

“So,” Billy says finally. “I’m just going to get down to business, if that’s okay with you?” He looks at me and his features are hardened. This isn’t the guy that threw a Fourth of July party last year on Tybee Island and let me take out his brand new fishing boat. This is Billy Marshall, General Manager. I’m just not sure what I am today and that scares the ever-loving fuck out of me. Glancing at Frank, he’s poring over a stack of papers in front of him.

Billy clears his throat. “We’ve been going over next year’s forecast and roster. We really believe we have a shot at a title.”

“I agree. We were the best team in the league this year,” I say with enthusiasm. “I really believe we’ll nab it next year if we can just stay healthy.”

“That’s the thing—staying healthy.” He pushes a paper towards me. My name is at the top, followed by a list of items and numbers and dollar signs and percentages. “This,” he says, indicating the first column, “is our win percentage with you in play. It’s great. But this one is the percentage with you out.”

I look at the numbers and feel a ball tightening in my gut. “I’ll be ready,” I promise him.

“Lincoln,” he says, blowing out a breath. He rests back in his seat and takes his glasses off. “While we don’t have a salary cap, as you know, we do pay a luxury tax. The higher our payroll is, the more we pay. This year, the organization paid the highest tax in the league.”

“Let’s talk numbers,” Frank says, as I swallow a searing breath. “Let’s see if we can get to a place where we are all happy.”

Billy watches me for a long moment before sitting up, his hands folded in front of him. “You are the highest paid player, by far, on the team. You’re worth it, I’m not saying that,” he says. “But when we calculate how many games you missed this season along with the report on your shoulder, you just aren’t worth it to this team.”

“What?” The room could explode into a fiery inferno at this exact moment and I wouldn’t be able to move. I’m frozen in my seat, trying to convince myself I misheard him. “Say that again.”

“I’m sorry, Lincoln. You know I love having you on staff and I think you have a lot of baseball left in you. But that specific injury coupled with the pressure I’m getting from the top to get our payroll down and manageable . . .”

“What’s this mean?” I utter, looking between the two men in front of me. My hand shakes as I place it on my lap and look at the Arrows logo on the paper in front of me. It’s my team. My brand. A part of me. But is it? Now? Oh God . . .

“It means we can offer you less, significantly less. Let’s face it— even if we get you back one hundred percent, the odds of re-injury sometime in the next five years is pretty much a guarantee. That means I’m looking at this win percentage,” he says, tapping that fucking paper again, “and I can’t swing that. It doesn’t work, Lincoln.”

“How much money we talking?” Frank asks.

“Less than you should or would agree to,” Billy sighs heavily. “We also have negotiated a trade with you to the San Diego Sails. Their payroll is one of the smallest in the league—”

“As is their winning percentage,” I scoff.

Billy shoots me a look. “You can stay here. This is the number you’re looking at.” The page flips and I see a salary I can’t believe is real.

“This? Are you serious?”

“Yes. Or you can agree to San Diego and look at it as rebuilding, restructuring, extending your fan base,” he says, trying to make it sound appetizing, “and take this one.”

“You know that’s unacceptable,” Frank insists.

The number Billy shows me on another sheet is much better. But still. “Billy,” I say, laughing in disbelief, “you’re really letting me go?”

“This is business. You know that. It just happens to be a business where we play baseball for a living. Think about that. You’re still playing a damn ballgame for a paycheck. That’s a good thing whether it’s here or in San Diego.”

My head hangs, my heart skimming the floor. Never did I dream they would trade me. Is this even happening right now?

“Take some time,” Billy says. He stands and puts his hand on my shoulder. “Go home and think about it. Discuss this with Frank. Figure out what you want to do. You know I’m happy to pay you to stay here. I just know it’s probably not feasible.”

My entire body feels the weight of the world and my brain is a freeway full of racing thoughts and colliding ideas. It makes me want to vomit . . . which I do once I’m out the door and find the nearest bush.

The drive home took three times longer than it should’ve. I spent a good hour sitting outside of Arrows Stadium, trying to get my head wrapped around the situation before going home. To Dani.

I grip the steering wheel as I wait for the gate in my subdivision to lift. Every muscle in my body is sore. My jaw hurts from clenching it. My knuckle aches from slamming it into my steering wheel.

I might be coming out of shock. I don’t know. Things are starting to fill the void that seemed too deep to get across until now. I can only make sense of some of it if I block out what the media is going to say and the articles that will be put out as soon as this comes to fruition, one way or the other.

Swallowing this is so bitter I can barely manage to deal. How did this happen to me? I was king of the world only a few months ago. How did I fall so far so fast?

Taking the money the Arrows offered would be a joke. It would make me a joke. I think I make more money than that off of Graham’s investments every year. A player like me can’t play for that; I wouldn’t be taken seriously. No one would hire me as a spokesman. My jerseys would stop selling. It would be one, big disaster. They know that, which makes it even more humiliating that they even bothered to offer it.

San Diego is the only answer. Not one I like and not one I want to make, but I don’t have another choice. The money is generous and maybe they can build something around me. I grin, thinking about how awesome that would be—to win a championship with another team. One that didn’t really exist before me.

Pulling into the driveway and jumping out and locking the door, I’m in the foyer before I know it. “You here?” I call out.

She comes around the corner of the kitchen in a pair of yoga pants and a red t-shirt. “How’d it go?” she asks cheerfully. Her smile drops.

“You okay?”

“I’ve been better.” My keys drop into a little dish on the table. I take her hand and pull her into the living room and onto my lap as I sit on the sofa. She returns my embrace and I take a deep breath, letting her settle over me and calm the turmoil within.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

“I got traded.”

She stiffens in my arms, but doesn’t pull away. I go over the numbers, and still, she doesn’t respond.

“How do you feel about San Diego?” I ask.

She pulls away. Then stands, straightening her shirt. “Why do you ask?”

Her voice is eerily calm with just a hint at the end of something vulnerable. It’s the Danielle I met in the hallway: a tough front with a sweet interior she works hard to protect. But why now?

With a dose of unease, I say, “Because that’s where we’re going.”

Her back turns to me, her head bowed. “I’m not going with you.”

“What?”

“I’m not going.”

Scrambling off the couch, my brows pulled together as my heart misfires, I stand behind her. “I . . . But. . . . Dani?”

“Don’t go, Landry.”

The way she says my name, like a plea that she has no faith behind, hits me like the third strike. It wallops me. Breaks me. Leaves me looking and wishing I could do something different, but I can’t because that pitch has been thrown.

“I told you,” I say carefully. “I have to. San Diego is where it’s at right now.” When she doesn’t respond, I feel panic setting in. “I have to go where the work is. I’m not a carpenter or something with ten jobs to choose from and another forty years to work. I have maybe five years, Dani. Five years to do what I do. Baseball is what I do. You have to understand that.”

My trembling hand cups her shoulder, and with the care I’d give a wild grounder, I turn her to face me.

To my surprise, there are no tears in her eyes. Just a steely resolution that feels like a bucket of ice water.

“I do understand,” she says evenly. “I understand better than you’ll ever know.”

“Good,” I sigh, relieved. “Then come with me. Let’s do this together. Let’s pick out a house, on the beach if you want. Let’s—”

“Landry . . .”

“What?” Irritation nudges ahead in the battle of my emotions. Why is she making this so hard? It’s not like I want this, so why is she acting like I have a choice? Taking a deep breath, I try again. “Let’s start over. New city. New relationship. Think about it.” I reach for her, but she takes a step back. My hand hangs in the air.

The tears I expected earlier fill her eyes as she takes another step back. “I have thought about it. I’ve thought about it before I even met you,” she sniffles.

“What are you talking about?”

“This,” she laughs through the tears trickling down her face. “Your passion for the game is what makes you so incredible, both on the field and off. You’re right, Landry. You have a handful of years left and you should play. Absolutely. And if that’s in San Diego, then it is.”

“You know I’d rather be here, right? I love Memphis. And it would be so much easier on you to just stay here. I hate even fucking asking you to leave, baby, but there’s no other way. I have to play. It’s who I am.”

She nods, wiping the tears off her face. “You’re right,” she chokes out. “It’s time for new beginnings. Go to San Diego, Landry.”

“Where are you going?”

“Home.”

She turns her back and covers the distance to the front door faster than I can process it. The cool, wintery air is gushing in the house when I reach it and Dani is almost to her car.

My heart in my throat, my blood soaring through my body, I race through the open garage door and make it to the side of her car as she slides in the driver’s seat.

“Dani!” I call, wedging myself between the door and the frame. “What are you doing?”

Her face is soaked, her lips trembling. “I’m going home.”

“Why? I don’t understand.”

“Let me ask you one question.” She looks at me, taking a deep breath, steadying herself. “Are you going to San Diego no matter what?”

“I have to,” I whisper.

She nods and seems more confident in her decision, which terrifies the fuck out of me.

“My father is the General Manager of the San Diego Sails.”

My world is twisted on its head and spun a hundred miles an hour.

Nearly dizzy, I grab the doorframe. “What?”

“Yeah,” she smiles through the tears. “My dad, the one and only Bryan Kipling, is your new boss.”

As I try to process that, she continues talking.

“It’s why I knew this was coming. I’ve seen baseball take over his life. Take over my mother’s. It’s their love for the game that trumps any love for me, Landry. If it can be that way for a parent, there’s no way it won’t be that for a boyfriend. I knew this before I met you, so I can’t blame you.”

She tries to shut the door, but I don’t budge.

“Why didn’t you tell me this?” I ask, still in disbelief. “That motherfucker is the GM? Of San Diego?”

“What do you want me to say? Everyone loves him. He’s on television, smiling and playing Mr. America. Of course it’ll look to you like I’m some kind of weirdo . . . unable to even win my parents’ love.”

My heart cracks, breaking in two jagged pieces. I reach for her. She swats my hands, but eventually relents and lets me pull her into me as I kneel by the side of the car.

Her body racks with tears as her life comes full circle again. Tears lick at my lashes too because, without a doubt, this is nonnegotiable for her. She won’t go with me. This will be the end of us.

As if she reads my mind, she pulls away and gives me a soft smile. “Go, Landry. Go play ball.”

I plead with her without words. I can’t ask her to go near her parents, not to the people that hurt her so badly. I can’t even figure out how I’m going to do that, but I also can’t think about going without her.

“Lincoln,” she says, the ring of my first name, the one she never uses, pierces the air. “This was always going to be the way this ended. I knew it before it started.” She wipes away a tear. “I’ll always be thankful for the time we did have together, and I’ll always root for you.”

“This doesn’t have to be the end.”

“No, it does. You live a life I can’t,” she says, a hint of a laugh in her voice. “If you’re ever in town . . .”

“Dani, don’t leave,” I say as she shuts the door. The car lurches backwards as she puts it in reverse. I pound frantically on the window because when she’s gone, she’s gone. My throat tightens and I fight myself from screaming in the middle of the fucking driveway. “Roll down your window. Please, give me that.”

She looks away, like it pains her to look at me before she concedes.

Her eyes flicker to mine, and we both smile at the same time.

“I need to say something,” I say, a break in my voice. “I don’t know what it is, but I need to figure out how to rewind the last few hours and stop this from happening.”

Her hand falls over mine on the ledge of the window, her thumb stroking the side of my hand. “If you think of it,” she says, “mail me the pink mug you bought me. I’d like to keep it as a reminder of you.”

“I can bring it to you. I won’t leave for a week or so.”

Her head swishes side to side. “I can’t see you again. It’ll make it worse.”

She’s right. This isn’t a girl I can be friends with. It’s a girl I want to fucking crawl inside and never leave. It’s all or nothing with this one, a grand slam or a strike out, and right now, I’m watching the ball hit the catcher’s mitt.

“Goodbye,” she whispers, her eyes filling again as the car rolls backwards.

Panicked, I jog alongside it. “I love you, Dani. Okay?”

“Okay, Landry,” she chokes out. Her chin bowed, she hits the road and drives right out of my life.