“Yeah?”
“It’s what my gut is telling me,” I reassure her, the best way I know how.
“The same gut that used to be my mortal enemy?” she asks, reaching out and giving my midsection a gentle thwack. I’m too quick, though, and I grab her hand, holding it in mine. She’s deflecting, but, right now, she needs to deal with whatever doubts are in her mind because there won’t be any room for them in a little while.
I’ve been there.
And I can help.
“Yeah, that gut.”
“They’ll be here in a few minutes,” she says, her eyes flicking toward the bedroom door. “We should make sure everything’s perfect.”
“Gregory’s handling that. Right now, I just need you to take a deep breath.”
“What?”
“Take a deep breath and relax your shoulders,” I say, firmly, so much so that she does it without questioning it. Huh. Good to know that works and I file it away for when, one day, I really need her to listen to me. I squeeze the hand that I still have possession of gently and then tug on it. “C’mon.”
I bend into a squat and look up at her, expectantly. With a quick, but maybe affectionate roll of her eyes she joins me.
“Better?”
“Yeah, a little, how did you . . .”
“That day when I fucked up with the press, before Stew went down, this is what you were doing before you yelled at me. Figured it’s something that helps you calm down.”
“Yeah, it feels . . . safe.”
My knee creaks a little and I shift my weight. “Maybe for you.”
“You really should get that taken care of. The longer you put off surgery on one, the more likely it is you’ll need it on the other,” she says, rising with what seems like barely any effort while I grip her hands tightly and let her help me up before I fall over.
“At some point I will,” I brush it off. “Anyway, feeling better?”
“Yeah, it’s just nervous energy. I’ve . . . I’ve never really done this before.”
“You’ve never pitched an athlete before?”
“Not as the lead person in the room. Stew was always there and, before that, Brandon.”
“Shit, sometimes you just come off so fucking in charge that I forget you’re new at this.”
“Fake it ’til you make it?” she says, shrugging one shoulder.
“Okay, so you’re nervous, that’s fair. What will help to make that go away?”
“Well, you being so damn calm is more than a little annoying.” She laughs, but there’s a sliver of truth there too.
“You need me to be nervous?”
“I don’t know. Maybe?”
“Not a lot makes me nervous anymore, Sullivan,” I admit.
“Great,” she quips, sarcasm dripping from that one syllable.
“You . . . you didn’t let me finish. One thing does, though.”
