“Admit it, you miss me.” Dustin cradled the phone between his jaw and shoulder as he gathered his clothes from where he’d dropped them around the hotel room in St. Louis. The All-Star break was the best week of his life. He helped Zander in the morning, which didn’t feel like a burden because Zander worked right alongside him. It was like old times. He had workouts and practice in the afternoon with the team, which meant he got to play baseball every day. And his evenings were filled with Clover, which made leaving town difficult.

Clover laughed. “More like I’m relieved you’re gone. I can finally catch up on the important things in my life. You are sooooo high-maintenance.”

He grinned, almost dropping the phone in the process. High-maintenance my foot. They’d fallen in love with a crepe place and ate there at least three times in six days. He’d watched a movie on her lumpy couch, not even caring that a spring jabbed him in the thigh, because Clover was in his arms.

“What’s so important that you had to kick me out of town?” he joked. Knowing Clover would be in St. George when he got back made being here seem almost futile. Almost, because he was playing ball, and next to playing at home, playing ball anywhere was awesome.

“My jobs. Laundry. The dishes you left in my sink …”

He snorted. Both times they’d shared a massive banana split at her apartment, he’d washed the bowl.

“The Lean Cuisine in the freezer isn’t going to microwave itself,” she added.

“One demanding moment after another.” He scanned the bathroom to check for his wallet before he headed down to the bus that would take the team to the field.

“Well,” she sighed into the phone, and he was reminded of the other types of sighs she made—the kind that came out when he kissed her slow. “Someone has to live my life, and I am the most qualified.”

“Did you notice how I didn’t take a swing at that sinker you threw out there about me being high-maintenance?”

“I thought for sure you’d chase that ball.”

“Naw, I saw that one coming.”

“The truth is easy to spot.”

He grabbed his wallet off the counter, tucked it into his back pocket, and headed for the door. “I’m still waiting to hear how much you miss me.”

“Aren’t you late for your bus?”

“You miss me and you know it.”

“I know no such thing. I do know that you have four games in St. Louis and your first one starts in three hours.”

His grin could have stretched from St. Louis to St. George, it was so wide. He loved that she kept track of him. “Yes, I do. And when I get back, I’m planning on taking you on a real date.” He wanted a reason to see her in that a dress again, and his sister-in-law’s advice on wooing a woman wasn’t too bad.

“Have we been pretend dating so far?”

“I’m talking about a paint-your-toenails kind of date.”

“Will you wear red or pink?”

He shook his head. She was on one today, giving him a hard time and being all sassy. He made sure the hotel door shut behind him and headed for the stairs. “You’re going to paint your toenails, and I’m going to admire them.” And your legs and …

“That doesn’t sound like a very exciting date.”

He laughed. “You worry about your toes, and I’ll worry about the rest.”

“Maybe we should reconsider this idea if there’s so much worrying involved.”

“Are you always this difficult to ask out?”

“Pretty much. I like to think of myself as an intriguing challenge.”

“You’re a pill.” He borrowed a phrase from his mother’s playbook.

“That too.” He could see the satisfied grin on her face. “Gotta go. I just pulled into work.”

“Me too.”

“Have fun being eight years old today,” she teased.

“Always. Hashtag blessed.”

There was a pause.

“What?” he asked, wondering if they’d been disconnected. The staircase wasn’t exactly cell friendly, but he hadn’t lost a signal before. His steps slowed.

“When I’m with you, I feel overly blessed. Like—”

“Like it’s almost too much,” he finished for her.

“Yeah,” she breathed.

He knew exactly how she felt, like what they had between them was fragile. One wrong move and it would shatter around them. “Clover, life isn’t always like this. The feeling will run out eventually. I want to hold on to it as long as we can.”

“Me too.”

He shoved the door opened and raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. “Call me when you get off work?”

“Yep.”

The sound of automatic doors opening whooshed through the phone, and he knew she had to go. They said goodbye and hung up. Disconnecting the phone was as much a physical experience as it was an emotional one.

Pregame went fine. St. Louis had decent facilities for visiting teams. They didn’t get batting practice in today, which meant they’d hit after the game. That put a damper on answering Clover’s call. Hopefully she’d still be awake when he dragged himself into the hotel room. Funny that all the late nights he’d spent with her, sharing French toast after midnight, hadn’t worn on him like the idea of staying at the stadium until all hours did.

The stadium filled to three-quarters capacity. Not bad for a weekday evening. They needed a fan base like this in St. George.

Walking up to the plate for his first at bat, Dustin couldn’t help but wonder if Clover was watching. He wanted her to see him do well, wanted to share this moment with her.

He rubbed his gloves together, gripped the bat, then re-gripped it. The first two pitches were balls—outside and laughable. The pitcher squinted at the catcher to get the sign and laid one low, right over the plate. Dustin watched it fly by and stepped out of the box with a curse.

Caught looking. That sucked!

He stepped his right foot in the box. Man, that was his pitch. He wasn’t going to see another one of those at bat, and he’d missed it. He dragged his left foot into place, signaling to the ump that he was ready to bat, and loading his swing. The next pitch was on the outside edge of the plate, and he fouled it off.

So, two balls way outside, the golden pitch that he missed, and then shaving the outside edge. The next one would be inside. A ball. He loaded and waited for the pitch. The pitcher walked around the mound before scraping his foot against the wood. He executed his windup in record time and sent a fastball right down the middle.

“Strike three!” called the ump.

Dustin barely resisted throwing his bat against the fence. There was no excuse for a miscalculation like that. He’d decided not to swing before he’d even seen the pitch. The batboy took his bat, and he stripped off his gloves, throwing them against the wall. Brayden looked at him out of the corner of his eye but wisely chose not to comment.

The only thing that kept Dustin from losing it was the thought of Clover seeing him throw a tantrum. Cameras were all over the field and the dugout. She’d teased him about being a kid—good-naturedly now that they were no longer at one another’s throats. He didn’t want to give her any ammunition, nor did he want her to think less of him.

He settled onto the bench, as far away from Gary Betts, his backup, as he could. He didn’t need the reminder that he could be the one warming the bench during every game. The word slump followed him around like toilet paper stuck to his cleat that he couldn’t shake off. Everyone could see it there, and he hated it.