Don’t panic.

Right.

Max is upset. He’s not answering my calls. And he told Luca to tell Henri to give him space.

“I told him we’d end this when he left for Florida.”

“I know.”

“But I don’t want it to end.”

She squeezes my arm again.

Yep.

I’m definitely going to panic.

33

Max

I should’ve just left.

I should’ve left and not tried to grab anything from the house, but I didn’t, because I wanted my pillow—yes, my damn pillow—and now Tillie Jean’s sticking her glittered head out of her door and peering at me as I close the tailgate on my SUV. “Hey,” she calls.

Fuck.

She’s gorgeous. Crazy hair. Glittering everywhere. An old Blue Lagoon County High School T-shirt hanging down to her knees. Bags under her eyes like she slept worse than I did—which isn’t possible, for the record, since post-panic-attack sleep sucks elephant balls—and so much worry in those blue eyes that I want to pull her into my arms and promise her I’m not worth it.

So. Fucking. Gorgeous.

Just like that.

I grunt and walk around my SUV on the side where I won’t have to look at her.

“Max,” she calls.

The problem with being six-four is that you’re taller than everything, even when you slouch, and I can still see her over the roof of my damn car.

And she’s charging barefoot across the frosted grass in twenty-five degree weather like the glitter coating her feet counts as shoes.

I want to sweep her off her feet and carry her back inside her house and warm her up.

But I can’t. “Go away, Tillie Jean.”

“No.”

Okay, yeah, that was dumb. Of course I knew that wouldn’t work.

I glare at her. “We’re done. Post-season’s over. I’m gone. Go. Away.”

She freezes on a gasp, hurt streaking so hard and fast over her face that my junk punches itself for me being such a dick.

But I can’t do this.

I’m fucking broken.

“No,” she says again.

It’s not a gaspy, desperate, broken-hearted no.

It’s a don’t be a damn fool no.

An I know that’s not what you want no.

An I refuse to accept that you’re being this stupid no.

“Your rules, remember?” Yeah. I’m an ass.

But she deserves better. All that love shit Henri spouted about me knowing what it was worth for having been denied it for so long?

Total, complete, romance-writer bullshit.

“What are you afraid of?” Tillie Jean demands.

That you won’t want me if you know who I really am. “Fucking up my game.”

Her eyes narrow and steam slips out her nostrils. “What are you really afraid of?”

“I’m asking management to trade me. Can’t play with your brother. It’s over. Sorry if you can’t accept that. Don’t come to Copper Valley. I don’t want to see you.”

Jesus, I’m an ass.

“You don’t mean that.”

I don’t.

Fuck me, I don’t.

But I can’t be the man she deserves if I’m having panic attacks over worrying more that I’ll upset her brother than I am at the idea that I’ll never see her again. I can’t be the man she deserves if I can’t promise her that I won’t fall apart over other stupid shit later, leaving her to pick up my pieces. And I can’t be the man she deserves if I can’t pull my own shit together enough to tell her that I love her.

She deserves someone who’s already whole.

Not someone who didn’t know what whole was until I let her in.

She’s whole.

She’s always been whole.

And she might be standing there with her hands fisted at her sides, sending daggers my way, but she’s also visibly ordering herself to look past the anger.

I can see her doing it.

“You can try to be a dick to push me away all you want, but I know this isn’t you. And you know this isn’t you.”

“See what you want to. I can’t fix that.”

I don’t wait for her to answer. If I do, she’ll talk me into staying. She’ll talk me into spilling my guts. Every fear. Every dream. Every worry. Every truth.

And then she’ll hate me for real.

I crank my engine, make sure she’s not doing anything stupid like leaping behind my car to keep me from leaving, and then I back out of the driveway of my winter house for the very last time.

Shipwreck isn’t the real world.

And it’s time for me to get back to where I need to be, to do what I need to do, and to live the life I’m supposed to live.

Not this dream.

The thing about dreams?

You wake up.

And last night was definitely a wake-up.

It’s time to go.

34

Max

Time doesn’t fly when you’re miserable.

It fucking crawls.

And no amount of video games, extra workouts, visits with Fireballs management where I chicken out every time on threatening to throw like shit until they trade me makes it go faster.

Movies don’t help. Mindlessly scrolling TikTok doesn’t help. Sleeping doesn’t help. Besides, I can’t sleep.

Not even getting to Florida helps.

Like last year, management’s rented out an entire complex for us to stay at. Together. As a team.

I’m in the pitchers’ wing, which is good.

More space between me and anyone who knows firsthand what happened in Shipwreck.

But there are only three other guys with me. Most of our pitching staff are married and staying in the family suites across the complex. Two of the guys are new, and the third has a girlfriend that he’s on the phone with all day long when we’re not at the ball field practicing.

The team’s new catcher is nineteen.

Nineteen.

A fucking baby who needs to be broken in, which seems to be amusing the coaching staff to no end.

“No,” I yell from the mound on our second day of warm-ups, “if I shake my head on the fastball, I’m not throwing a fucking fastball.”

He squats, drops a hand between his thighs, and signals for a fastball again.

I throw my whole glove instead of just the ball.

Fucking catchers.

He pops up from his squat, shoves his mask back, grabs my glove, and runs it out to me, dark eyes shining like a puppy dog’s, giant grin spread across his brown face. He was born in the Dominican Republic, moved to Oklahoma sometime in his childhood, spent the past two seasons working his way up the minors with the Fireballs’ affiliate teams—yeah, he started when he was seventeen—and I swear when God made Cooper Rock, he saved part of the dude’s personality to infuse into Diego Estevez.

“Feels good to work out all our issues now,” he says. “So we’ll rock it in the real season. High five, Fast Max!”

I leave him hanging. “I’m not throwing a goddamn fastball.”

He grins bigger. “Why not? Fastballs are fun. You need the practice. And to work out all that anger. Find the zen. Be happy. Throw a curve ball. Hit me in the face. All the pitchers want to. You can be the first. I’ll forgive you.”