Page 88 of For The Ring

“Yeah?”

Okay, here goes nothing.

“Can I be honest with you about something?”

“Of course.”

Of course, she says, like what I’m about to do isn’t the scariest fucking thing I’ve done in a long time.

“It’s been a while since I’ve felt any kind of way about a woman. And I know what you said, how you feel about something happening between us, but I just need you to know that if that changes, if you decide that you can . . . I’m here.”

“Charlie, I . . .”

“You don’t need to say anything. It’s . . . well, it’s not fine, but it is what it is. I just needed you to know that. Right now, you’re it for me. You and this team. And, for the record, if it’s just the team, if that’s the only thing we have together, then I promise you, that’s enough. I think we can be great, you and I, on the field, even if we can’t be together off it.”

The silence is louder than the roar of any crowd I ever played for and, when I finally have the courage to look at her, there are tears in her eyes.

Shit, I made her cry.

Then she sniffs and shakes her head, somehow pulling them back and, a second later, her eyes are clear and the emotion entirely washed away from her face.

That’s impressive as fuck.

“Are we okay?” I ask, afraid I might have ruined everything, or made it worse somehow.

“Yeah, we’re okay.”

“Good, that’s good.”

“You were honest with me, so I should be honest with you, at least about this one thing.”

She’s smiling now, a little sadly, so it doesn’t give me much hope, but, despite that, I match it with one of my own.

“Okay, what is it?”

“There was a time and, it was not brief, where your poster was on the back of my bedroom door.”

“I knew it.”

“Don’t let it go to your head. My bedroom was basically wallpapered with baseball players.”

“Yeah, but you were a catcher and anLAgirl, through and through. I bet I was your favorite.”

“You were up there and that’s all I’ll admit to.”

Okay, that’s better. Her humor is still there, but it doesn’t seem like she’s using it to hide anything anymore, at least not anything beyond what’s happening in this room right now.

Mission accomplished.

“C’mon. Time to go dazzle Nakamura, and I promise I’ll buy you a new poster for your bedroom wall.”

“I’m never gonna live that down, am I?” she asks, taking my hand as I pull her to her feet.

“Never.”

And I know what she did. I bared my soul, made myself vulnerable, and she couldn’t meet me there, so she gave me something else, something to break the tension and to keep us okay despite everything.

When they arrive, it’s deceptively unimpressive. Two cars, one carrying Nakamura and Dan Wilson, the other a security guard and a guy I recognize from my playing days. Nelson was an interpreter for the Dodgers, fluent in Spanish, Korean andJapanese, since it was easier to have one guy around that could translate for anyone on the team at any given moment.

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