“Okay,” he says, simply, as he follows me across Washington Avenue and down Park Side to Ocean, the same path we’d take to get home, but instead of hanging a right, I lead him into Prospect Park.
“You’re not really dressed for this,” he says, but I keep walking and he follows, and when I step closer, his hand comes up from my back and his arm slides around my shoulder,holding me to his side as we slowly make our way down the pathway.
The trees are almost entirely bare now and the leaves are mostly gone, blown away by the wind or crushed under the feet of walkers and joggers and bird watchers and kids cutting school.
He might think we’re just wandering, but I know exactly where I’m going and, thanks to my heels, I take the fastest route there.
“Really?” he asks, when the ballfields come into view as we round a corner.
They’re deserted, obviously. Even the diehard fall leagues like the guys we saw a few weeks ago are done as November creeps closer to December and baseball feels like a distant memory for most people, even when it’s still an everyday reality for us.
“I do my best thinking on the field,” I say.
“Is that a fact?”
I keep a decent hold of him as we leave the concrete trail for the uneven grass and then eventually the dirt near the home plate of the first field. There are a handful of others in the distance, but this one will have to do. And despite the Louboutins on my feet and the Veronica Beard label inside my skirt, I squat behind home plate and let the tension seep out of me.
It’s basically the view I had for my entire playing career, the only defensive player to see the entire field in front of them. They call the catcher “the field general” for a reason. We direct the defense. We call the pitches. And when things go wrong, it’s on us. At least I always felt that way.
“Been a while since I had a view like this,” Charlie says, settling beside me with only a slight groan from taking the weight off his knee.
“What do you think I should do?” I ask.
“It’s not up to me.”
“No, it isn’t,” I agree, “but I’m asking. What would you do?”
“The Eagles offered you more money, right?”
“Yeah, but it’s the Yankees, I’m sure they’ll match it and, besides, it’s not about the money, not at this point.”
“I know that feeling,” he says. “So, what is it about?”
“It’s about . . . I don’t know. Respect. A chance to win. Building a team I can be proud of. Winning a championship. Winning more than one. Being happy.”
“Those are the most important things.”
“They are.”
“And what makes you happy, Francesca?”
“You.”
“You have me, either way,” he says, and I know that. He said it before, but it’s nice to hear it again. I rest my head on his shoulder and take one of his big, calloused hands in mine, holding it in my lap, for comfort and for warmth, because as poetic as this felt before I sat down, the ground is freaking freezing.
“Cold?” he asks, but doesn’t wait for my answer, he just wraps his arm around me and holds me closer. “Better?”
“Yeah, but still no idea what I should do.”
“I can’t decide for you.”
“No, but it’s nice that you’re here,” I say, and he hums his agreement, and then it hits me, my conversation with Stew earlier, and I ask, “Did you know people thought we were together back inLA?”
“What?”
“That’s what Stew said. Said it was pretty universal.”
“Huh, maybe we should have been? Feels like we wasted a lot of time.”
