Page 112 of Home Safe

He switches into sports commentator mode, filling me in on the Crowns’ latest games so I’ll be fully briefed going into tomorrow night. His commentary churns up conflicting emotions in my gut—emotions I need to share with Danae.

“Hey, Fireball, Adrian came by earlier and set up that new rebounder net in the backyard. You could grab your glove and go out to get some fielding practice in—get in shape to start playing next spring.” I add that last thought with a wink at Danae, who rolls her eyes.

“I already agreed to try it out in the spring. Adding in practices and games on top of everything this fall was too much,” she says. I wink at her again to make sure she knows I’m on her side.

Jason gets up from the table and starts to run off, but Danae reminds him to throw away his trash first. He goes the extra mile and takes all of our trash, which brings a shine of pride to Danae’s eyes.

“Why don’t we sit out back so we can keep an eye on him?” I suggest. The patio is raised high enough that we can still have a private conversation while keeping Jason within our line of sight.

We take a seat on the porch swing, and I pull Danae close, wrapping my right arm around her. I’m not sure how to go about easing into such an emotional conversation, so I throw us straight into the deep end.

“I’ve decided to retire from baseball.”

Danae launches herself back, the jolt of movement sending a flare of pain through my shoulder. I try to hide my grimace, but her effusive apologies must mean I failed.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to move so quickly! Are you okay?” she asks, face stricken.

“I’m fine,” I assure her. “Pain is part of the process. I can handle it. I don’t like you sitting so far away from me, though.”

She scootches closer to me but remains sitting upright, peering at my face. I point and flex my foot, gently rocking us on the swing, needing the soothing movement.

“Why would you say that, Griff? We’ve talked about this with the doctors, the coaches, the trainers. You should be back in shape to join spring training—you might not even have to spend any time playing for the farm team if camp goes well. I have your entire rehab schedule organized and color-coded. We’re doing this,” Danae says, voice firm, eyes blazing.

I reach my hand up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, savoring the silky texture between my fingers. “I don’t want to do it anymore.”

Danae’s eyes bounce back and forth between mine. The thought factory is in overdrive, but I know her well enough now to know what’s churning in there.

“I’m serious,” I say. “I know that you’re supportive of me continuing to play. But I don’t want to do it again.”

Tears sparkle in her eyes, and as much as I don’t want her to cry, I’m ready to drink in the emerald green show that’s coming.

“Griff, this is your dream. You love this game. I know you do. You love everything about it, and you’re amazing at this,” Danae says, practically wringing my hand in hers. “I know that some of the guys could get traded, but Adrian and Drew will for sure still be playing next season. They want you back. Everyone wants you back. We want to keep watching you play. I know the rehab is hard, but I also know thatyou can do it. You’re the most determined man I know. Why are you second-guessing yourself?”

“It can’t be second-guessing if it was my first thought,” I confess. Danae’s eyes narrow in confusion. “I know we’ve talked with everyone about how I could still come back. I know you have a beautiful color-coded rehab schedule all mapped out. But in that moment when you were standing next to me in the training room after my injury, my first thought was, ‘I’m ready. This could be over, and I’ll be okay.’”

The tears are spilling down Danae’s cheeks now, and I reach up to cup her face.

“I remember every detail of how hard it was the first time around. The rehab, the not knowing how strong my shoulder would be, the fears over not being good enough again. There’s zero guarantee that my shoulder recovers from a second tear and I get back to how good I used to be. And I have enough pride to not want to be the has-been who didn’t know to quit while he was ahead,” I say.

Danae sniffs and wipes her nose with the back of her hand. “But you could try. You could do the rehab and see how things go, see how your shoulder is healing. Will you be constantly second-guessing yourself if you give up on your greatest passion without seeing how it might go?”

Sitting up, I lean closer to Danae, wiping the tears from her cheeks. “Baseball isn’t my greatest passion anymore. Yes, I love it. For sure, I’m going to miss it. Will I second-guess myself? Yeah, but I constantly second-guess myself anyway. But I am one hundred percent positive that I will never truly regret it. Because I’m ready to shift my focus to the other things in my life that I love—thepeopleI love.”

Danae’s expression cracks with emotion, and I gently pull her face closer so I can kiss away her tears.

“Griffin, are you sure about this? You’re not going to lose us. I’m going to support you every step of the way through recovery and getting back into playing shape. You don’t have to give this up. Are yousureabout this?” she presses.

“I’m absolutely positive,” I say, echoing the words from the night I first asked her on a date. “I’m ready. The Wizard was an amazing chapter in my life, but it’s not the whole book. And I’m ready to turn the page.”

Danae’s stricken expression breaks into a watery smile at my book lingo. I stroke her cheek with my thumb, feeling a settled sense of peace now that I’ve spoken these thoughts aloud to her.

“You with me?” I quietly ask.

She mirrors my position, bringing her hand up to my jaw.

“One hundred percent, forever.”

Epilogue

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