Reaching First by Mindy Klasky Page B

they needed. Ten days would remind both of them what they had to do together, what they had to accomplish. “I shouldn’t keep you, then. You’ll have to get up early, to get to the airport.”
    She wanted him to correct her, to say he wasn’t in any rush. He had plenty of time before he had to meet up with the team.
    He shoved his hands in his pockets and turned on his heel, walking down the steps like a man on a mission.  
    “Hey,” she called out. Only the fact that he froze let her know he was as unsteady as she was. “Thanks for dinner.”
    He shook his head. “You’re welcome.” And he hurried to the car before either of them could say something else they’d regret.
    He didn’t start the engine, though, until she took her key from her purse. He waited for her to fit the metal into the finicky lock. He watched as she pulled the door to her, turning with the well-practiced twist that released the tumblers. She felt his eyes as she extracted the key, as she opened the door, as she crossed over the threshold and into the cool darkness of the deserted house.
    Only after she closed the door did he key the ignition. The low rumble sounded unhappy, dissatisfied. Or maybe that was only the vibration in her thighs, reporting back to her that she’d made a foolish mistake.
    She slid down the length of the door until she sat on the floor, her head leaning back against the wood. Staring into the living room, she was haunted by the gaping space that had once held Aunt Minnie’s shelves, the woodwork that Tyler had ripped out that very morning.
    She knew she’d done the right thing, sending him home. She’d been the grown-up. The responsible one. Just as she always was.
    Then why did it feel like something inside of her was breaking?

CHAPTER 4

    On Thursday evening, the Rockets played in Chicago, losing a heartbreaker in the bottom of the ninth. Emily thought about calling Tyler to offer her condolences, but she wasn’t sure exactly what she’d say. And she wasn’t sure exactly how he’d answer. But she stayed awake until three in the morning, planning all the conversations they could have had.
    On Friday night, the game went into extra innings. When the marathon ended with another Chicago win at one in the morning, Emily could barely keep her eyes open, much less sound witty and entertaining over the phone. If, that was, she even called Tyler. Which she knew she shouldn’t do. Couldn’t do. Wouldn’t do.
    On Saturday afternoon, Chicago swept the series, vanquishing the Rockets in a devastating game that barely lasted two hours. Emily watched as the camera panned over the ballplayers’ faces. It lingered on Tyler, who had failed to even get on base. His shoulders slumped as he dragged himself off-screen, into the clubhouse, she assumed. She wanted to call, but she couldn’t imagine what she could say that would make a difference.  
    As part of their grueling schedule, the team had the nationally televised Sunday night game, against St. Louis. Emily told herself she couldn’t watch. She felt like she’d been the source of all the team’s bad luck. They’d certainly begun to slump the instant she started scrutinizing their games.
    But she couldn’t help herself. She turned on the TV, keeping it as background noise while she worked on the Minerva House website. And somehow, the Rockets’ luck turned. The team seemed to have been refreshed by its flight from the Windy City. The players were energetic, enthusiastic, and they won by an easy five runs.
    Before she had a chance to talk herself out of it, she picked up her phone and dashed off a text to Tyler. “Great Game! Hope the rest of the road trip goes as well!” She added her name and hit Send, then told herself to get back to work. It wasn’t like the guy was standing by, waiting for her message. It wasn’t like he was going to text her back from the locker room.
    Her phone rang.
    Her pulse soared when she saw the call was from Tyler. With the