Page 147 of Triple Play
Eighteen months.
That’s how long we’ve been doing this long-distance thing—eighteen months of video calls, plane tickets, and counting down the days until off-season.
Eighteen months of missing her.
I’m sitting in a hotel room in Philly, staring at my phone as if it might spontaneously combust.
The group chat is going insane.
Jordie: Did you tell her yet?
Me: No.
Wyatt: You’re supposed to tell her.
Me: I know.
Jordie: Then TELL HER.
Me: I’m waiting for the right time.
Wyatt: There is no right time. Just tell her.
Jordie: He’s scared she’ll say no.
Me: I’m not scared.
Wyatt: You’re terrified.
I am. I’m absolutely terrified.
What we’re about to do—what we’ve already done—is insane. It’s the kind of insane that either ends in happily ever after or complete disaster. No middle ground.
My phone rings. Jordie. Of course.
“What.”
“You’re spiraling.”
“I’m not spiraling.”
“You are. I can tell from your text cadence.” He sounds way too pleased with himself. “Three-word responses. Defensive. Classic Grant panic.”
“I’m not—” I stop and take a breath. “Okay. Maybe I’m a little nervous.”
“About which part? The trade, the house, or the fact that we’re about to upend our entire lives?”
“All of it.”
“Too late now. I signed my contract yesterday.”
“I know. I was there.”
“Still weird that we’re teammates.”
“So weird.”
There’s a pause. Then he says, “She’s gonna say yes, you know.”
