Page 75 of For The Ring

Resting back against the leather headboard in Javy’s guest room, her voice is clear and warm through the phone. The way she talks about baseball, the way she sells it, it has me ready to suit up and get back behind the plate, even with just one working knee.

And when she finally takes a breath, it’s accompanied with a soft self-deprecating laugh. “That’s the idea anyway.”

“It’s a great pitch.”

“But will it be enough?” she asks, and I glance down at the space beside me, empty, the sheets and blankets still smooth the way Javy’s housekeeper left them before I arrived. I can imagine her there, next to me. She’d be sitting up, those glasses perched on her nose to help with the glare of the laptop while I do my best to distract her from whatever numbers are flashing on the screen. I’d close the laptop and place it aside gently before pulling her into my lap, her long legs winding around me and holding tight before she flips us over, letting me press her into the mattress and lift up my t-shirt, which she routinely wears to bed.

“Charlie?”

Her voice draws me back and I wonder about that t-shirt. I never did get it back from her and I’m definitely not going to ask for it.

“Yeah, Sullivan?”

“Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For offering to kick his ass.”

“I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

And she’s right. I would have gone down there and, well, maybe not have kicked her ex’s ass, but made it crystal clear that his camera should never, ever be pointed in her direction. That’s what finally gets me, what makes it absolutely crystal clear that I need to hang up the phone right now, go toLA, like I originally planned, sell my house and get away before there’s no going back for me.

If I don’t get some distance now, I’ll be too far gone on her to ever get over it.

“I’m gonna let you go,” I say, and she hums agreement with a mumbled good night, and when the call goes dead instead of hurling my phone across the room, I use it to book a flight back out toLAtomorrow morning.

In the short time I was in New York, I’ve half fallen in love with the city, but waking up in my own bed after living out of a suitcase for the better part of three weeks felt good. I took in the familiar ocean views spanning the floor-to-ceiling windows in my bedroom and remembered exactly what I loved about living here for the better part of twenty years.

I probably should have sold this house a long time ago. After the divorce, I needed a place to live and a couple of teammates insisted that, if I was going to be a single professional athlete inLA, I needed to live somewhere that matched that persona.

Which is how I ended up with a beach house up in Malibu with a panorama of the Pacific and a commute way longer than it could have been if I’d bought in Burbank or the Valley.

Except I never actually lived that life. No late-night parties. No groupies. Just a couple of relationships that went nowhere. My focus solely on the game, never able to really stop long enough to find someone willing to put up with that kind of single-mindedness.

Still, it’s a gorgeous place, Spanish style and set into the cliff side, which made it a pain in the ass for my lawyers to insure, but money wasn’t really a concern back then.

It’s not really a concern now, though I’m keenly aware that my biggest paydays are behind me.

The amount of money we’re talking about throwing at Nakamura soon is probably going to be double what I earned in my entire career, which is why this house has to go before I buy something in New York, probably near Javy, which isonlyso I can live near my best friend and pitching coach and be able to walk to the ballpark and has nothing to do with who else lives in that neighborhood.

Shit.

Three thousand miles and she’s still the only thing on my mind.

She’s like the game, in my blood, maybe woven into my soul now.

And just like the game, I don’t want to let her go.

At least I have the real estate agent to distract me. Gregory made an appointment for one to come and look at the house and, when there’s a buzz from the gate, I don’t hesitate to just let the car through, pulling on t-shirt and basketball shorts, before heading straight for the door.

At first, it feels like maybe I’m hallucinating, that early morning cross-country flight catching up with me, but no, there she is, full armor – skirt suit, hair in an updo, dark red lipstick and aviator sunglasses the only nod to it still feeling like summer here in mid-November.

“They posted Nakamura,” she says, walking right by me into the house. “He’s taking meetings inLA. Why didn’t you pick up your phone? Also, there’s some woman right behind me and she didn’t look like a stalker, so I let her follow me through the gate.”

I want to ask what a stalker looks like and what she would have done if she thought one was trying to get to me, but she’s silent now and staring.

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