The Trade(114)

Also . . . he wanted to shock the thong right off Dottie—his words, not mine—so they set up a storyline of her throwing out the first pitch because Jason was the new catcher. I’m here to support her while the rest of my family is in a suite waiting to offer their congratulations.

“Did I tell you Jason made me practice?”

“He’s no fool. He doesn’t want you embarrassing him.”

“Gee, thanks a lot.” Dottie laughs, as an on-field correspondent comes up to us. “Are you ready, Miss Domico? All warmed up?”

Dottie smiles. “I hope so.”

“Okay, well, we’re going to take you to the dugout right now. Miss Meyers, you can come with us.”

Damn right I can come, I want to be able to congratulate my brother right after Dottie says yes.

We walk through the halls of the stadium, the black cinder block hallways seeming more menacing than they actually are as they fade into red that leads to the dugout. The lights of the stadium are the first thing I see, followed by the sound of the announcer pumping up the crowd.

“You two can stand here, the players will be out shortly.”

Nerves twist in my stomach from the knowledge that Cory will be near me soon, that I’m going to see him in person for the first time in over a month since I left his hotel room. And even though I felt like I was ready for this, I’m suddenly regretting my decision to be brave.

I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t read every article written about him, if I hadn’t tracked the truths and the lies, if I hadn’t stared at the pictures of him posted, wondering if it was an off picture, or if his hair had grayed over the last month.

I gnaw on my bottom lip, my heart beating so hard it feels like it’s climbing up my throat, closing off the air to my lungs.

“Hey,” Dottie says, tugging on my hand. “Breathe, Nat. It’s going to be okay.”

“I don’t know,” I say, looking toward the dugout entrance. “I’m not sure I can do this.”

“Then head back to the waiting room; you don’t need to worry about me.”

I’m about to do just that when we hear cleats clacking down the hallway and the sound of male voices making their way toward the field.

It feels like someone is slowly taking a hammer to my stomach. Light taps, just tiny ones reminding me that something impactful is going to happen, that I’m being prepped for a world of hurt. The first uniform appears and the hammering grows heavier, harder. Another uniform, and another, and another, until Jason steps out into the dugout, followed by number 24, Cory Potter.

Pound.

Pound.

Pound.

Nausea rolls around inside me from the mere sight of him. He looks no different, other than the smallest amount of gray at his temples and the thickness of his trimmed beard. His uniform is tailored to fit him the way he wants, showing off his broad, muscular frame and strong, long legs.

If I wasn’t sure whether I was ready to see him or not, I know now that I wasn’t.

“Hey baby,” Jason says, taking Dottie into his arms. He looks so happy, so excited, and here I am, staring like a moron at Cory who hasn’t seen me yet.

And when he does?

Nothing.

No expression, almost as if he put on a shield and is blocking any emotion from leaving or entering him.

Or he’s already over me and doesn’t have a reaction to seeing me at all.

“Natalie,” he says curtly, with a head tilt.

“Hi,” I say so quietly that I’m not sure he even heard it.

He stares at me for a few more seconds before patting Jason on the back and making his way down the dugout where he starts preparing for the game.

A cold, soulless wave rolls over me. Nothing. He showed no sign of remorse, no sign of even missing me. There was no hi, how are you, no full scan of my body, not even a mention of my hair—not that I needed one from him. He was distant, robotic, and not the man I fell in love with. Not even close.

The man I fell in love with would have struck up a conversation. He would have smiled even if it pained him. He would have put on a good face, because that’s the polite human he is. That’s what I was expecting, not the unemotional, stoic man that just walked away. The man who let me walk away without a call or a text or . . . anything. Like I was with my ex-husband, I was easy to cast aside. To leave. And possibly to replace.

My heart in my throat, tears threatening to fall down my cheeks, I clasp my hands in front of me and take a few deep breaths. You’re here for Jason. You’re here for Jason. This is almost over. You got this, Natalie.

When Jason turns to me, I plaster on a smile and rub Dottie’s arm. “Think she’s ready, Coach?”

Jason studies me, sees right through my act, but doesn’t say anything. Instead, he leans in, gives me a hug and whispers, “He’s not the same. Don’t let it hurt you. Just use it to move on.”

Oh . . . hell.

Tears hover on the brink and with that one sentence—Just use it and move on—they fall, but I quickly wipe them away before they can ruin any of my makeup or even be seen by another person. When Jason pulls away, he tips my chin up and says, “You’re strong. You got this.”

I’m glad he thinks so, because I really don’t think I do.





“I really think my heart is about to explode,” Dottie says, staring down at the massive ring on her finger. She turns toward me and says, “I can’t believe you knew about this and thought it was a good idea for him to propose on Opening Day.”