OUR MEAL CONTINUED with lots of light chatter and relaxed laughter. Connor was easy to be around and I found myself telling him funny stories about Jenna, Kasey, and Kasey’s friend Jayne who we’d all basically adopted. He wanted to hear more about Franklin and wove us around danger zones that would make me sad.

He told me about his brother Gavin moving out here and getting a house a few blocks from him while claiming it was to keep him under control. Connor said it was probably so Gavin could live it up with him.

I suspected it had more to do with them being inseparable for so long that living five states apart didn't work for them...and he just plain missed his brother.

I was trying to convince myself to say no to dessert when a squeaky voice behind me interrupted my chocolate-focused concentration.

“Mr. Ryan, my mom said it wasn't you but my dad said I could come ask if it was. And I knew it was you.” The boy gave Connor a smile that screamed hero worship. “I was wondering if you'd sign my menu. I asked the waitress if that would be okay.”

“Sure.” Connor borrowed my ever-present pen and turned back to the boy. “What's your name?”

“Jeremy.” The little boy breathed his name out like it was a prayer, a crazed hope that this was real.

I'd seen it before. The magic of meeting your hero. My friend Jenna had a huge following and I watched again and again as girls came up to hug her and take pictures. They talked about her character Chloe as if she were a friend they'd grown up with.

“So, Jeremy, do you play baseball?”

“Yes. On my town team. We got to play a team from one town over for the first time last week.”

“Wow. You’re already playing other towns? What position do you play?” Connor hadn't even picked up the menu he was supposed to be signing yet. It was as though he was having the most important conversation in the world and couldn't have any of his focus split.

“Catcher.”

“Catcher?” Shock and awe. “They always amaze me. How do you keep your balance down there all the time?”

The boy giggled, but I guess it was a good question because he went on to explain his squat to Connor, the boy talking, the man nodding.

“Well, let me sign this for you. I don't want to keep you from your meal.”

He picked up the menu and spent some time over it before handing it off to Jeremy. While he was writing, a man wandered over.

“Jeremy, I said there and back. I'm sure they'd like to get back to their meal.”

I laughed at the accidental echo, both used to politely send a child in the right direction. Amazing how some adults didn't realize hero worship always outranked lasagna.

“It's not a problem.” Connor stood and offered his hand to Jeremy’s dad. “Jeremy was telling us about the difficulties of being a catcher. Lots of balance needed for that.”

The father looked grateful as Connor handed over the menu—and a little surprised.

I'd never thought about what that playboy image might do to his relationship with his younger fans. Obviously, it was something Connor took care to work against.

The dad smiled then, with a quick glance over toward his wife, he lowered his voice and asked, "Do you think we could get a picture? I'm sure Jeremy would love it and the guys at work would get a kick out of it. We're all huge fans. We were even rooting for you when that thing went down with Ackerman's girlfriend a few...”

Jeremy’s dad glanced my way, suddenly realizing it probably wasn't the best topic of conversation.

“Oh, sorry about that.” Connor rose and came around the table as I stood to say hello. “Guys, this is Hailey. We'd just started seeing each other then. You can see the Ackerman thing got blown way out of proportion.”

“This is your girlfriend?” Jeremy eyed me like there was a chance I was an Imperial Stormtrooper.

Connor laid a hand on my shoulder. “Yup.”

Now Jeremy’s dad was eyeing me too.

“Isn't she a little short?” Only a child could say something like that as a fact instead of an attack. “All those pictures have you with really tall, skinny girls.”

It took everything in me to not blurt out, I am not fat. But I held it in and gave myself mental permission to have dessert as a reward for being polite to a seven-year-old boy.

“Well, a lot of them were. But then I met Hailey. She's smarter, funnier, and more fun than those other girls. Plus, I think she's pretty.”

I grinned. Even knowing it wasn't the truth, it was nice to be upgraded to pretty.

“Does she play ball?”

“Nope. She tells stories.”

“Like lies?”

I love children. He was on the younger side and I really did envy their ability—and willingness—to ask anything.

“No. Like fairy tales...or horror stories. Depends on how you look at it.” Connor winked at me, letting me in on the joke about my own happy, romance'y books.

“Did you want me to take the picture?” I asked, trying to get the attention off me. “That way you can all be in it.”

The dad looked so excited he didn't have to figure out how to ask, that I thought he was going to hug me. Connor seemed a pro at this too. He angled everyone so they'd be tight in the picture and wouldn't look awkward with the height difference. Then he asked to take one just him and his buddy, Jeremy.

You would have thought by the time the father and son headed back to their table they'd been doing Connor a favor.

I watched him over the candle flickering on our table, trying to add one more piece to the Connor puzzle.

“You're really good at that.”

“At the pictures? My agent made me take a class.”

Oooookay, but no.

“I actually meant the whole thing. The kid. The dad. Keeping them on track and comfortable and then sending them on their way. You let Jeremy teach you about how to be a catcher as if you were going to try it out in your next game.”

“Well, no matter what they tell you, baseball is about the fans. We make a ridiculous amount of money to get to do something we love. A team keeps you if you're talented or if you're talented enough but their fans love you. You don't see a lot of guys get traded if they're hometown favorites.”

That didn't sound like your typical jock reasoning.

“Then why were you traded?”

Oh. Wait. That didn’t come out right.

“Sorry. I meant…well, after seeing you in action, I’m surprised you were traded.”

“Yeah.” He shook out his napkin, his gaze sliding away. “I was.”

I felt horrible. I’m not sure where I went wrong. He was supposed to be one of the top players in the league, but… “I thought you were really talented.”

“I was young and stupid when I joined my last team. I burned a lot of bridges. When I got hurt last season and the doctors reported I could be 100-percent or I could stay at half-power, management wasn’t willing to risk it.”

“How’d you get hurt?” I didn’t want him to tell me he was doing something else reputation-damaging. But, any way you looked at it, hurt was hurt. And hurt was a career killer for him.

“I went to cover second during a play that pulled our guy into a weird spot. When the runner slid into the base, I moved to jump out of the way, but got caught on his cleats. The tangle wasn’t bad, but I landed wrong. The momentum with the runner dragged me just enough to do some tearing.”

“But you got back to one-hundred percent?”

“Yup. And I learned a lot of lessons. One of the captains, a guy I completely disrespected when I'd first gotten there, pulled me aside before I left. Gave me this lecture. Told me he'd seen me smarten up, but not enough. Hoped I'd learned a lesson getting hurt. No one knows everything. Listen to the coaches and the vets. Go with the flow of whatever team I ended up on. Work harder than anyone else. Stay out of trouble, keep my mouth shut, respect the fans.”

“That's a lot of advice.” Where were the author advice guys? I could use some of them.

Of course, Becca was so good at clothing advice. I bet she’d be willing to do that too.

“I needed it. He said a lot of guys start out young and stupid, the measure is if they get less stupid as they get less young. Then he looked me in the eye and said, 'Dude, you're thirty. This is a young man's game.'"

I'd been told the same thing about writing Young Adult books, but the longer I was in my game, the more I saw it wasn't true. Tamora Pierce had been writing when I was a kid and still kicked butt. It wasn't about being young. It was about understanding what was important to your readers.

And thank goodness for that, or I'd be worried about my career ending soon too.

I watched Connor pay for the meal and wondered what that was like. What would it be like to know your career had a shelf life shorter than what it took most people to become competent in their fields? And how strong was the fear? Was it constant?

Did it mean that you did everything a guy would want to do knowing it was all going to come to a sudden halt one fall, maybe sooner if you got hurt?

Talk about pressure.

He rose and held out my coat for me to slip on.

I managed not to jump this time as he placed his hand on my lower back and steered me toward the front door. The air outside had started to change, to catch the damp crispness of late fall.

It was my favorite time of the year. When I'd typically be out and about trying to squeeze in all those last minute enjoyments before the snow came. It was my reset time. I think it was part of the internal clock of my YA brain. When others considered New Years their time to hit the mental, emotional, and spiritual reset buttons and others looked at spring as a rebirth, for me it was always fall.

I'd been known to go back to school shopping...even though I didn't go back to school.

How was I expected to deny myself the pleasure of new pens and notebooks? And those colored binder clips I'd gotten this year? Please, those were a no-brainer.

“Do you want me to flag down a cab?” Connor asked, glancing down the street toward the busier intersection.

“It might be easier to catch one here than in front of my house.”

All heads turned when Connor laughed. It wasn't just that it was Connor Ryan. It was the infectiousness of the sound, like it wasn't being held back and was inviting everyone to come join it.

He leaned in, his arm draped around my shoulders again as his nose brushed one of my curls. “I think you forgot where I'm sleeping tonight.”

Oh. Yeah. I had.

“Well, I hope you didn't forget what that couch looks like. I think it's a good three inches shorter than you are. Hope you don't mind waking up with a crick in your neck.”

“We'll see.”

I don't think the crick was what he was talking about.