Page 45 of The Score We Never Settled

“Pew cards?”

“Yes. I write little cards and throw them in the hymn books to brighten people’s day. He threw them out because he’s a jerk.”

Of course she does.

She’s a damn ray of sunshine.

And David Burns just happens to be one of our outfielders, classic dick, and I wonder how he’d like playing out there with broken sunglasses.

“He get enough shit for that?” I ask curiously. “Because I can help speed up the karma.”

Layla stares at me with no excitement over that prospect. “How about you take the bracelets, and we call this conversation a day?”

I open my fingers for her to drop the homemade bracelets in my palm before she changes her mind, but I’m not done talking to her.

However, I need to go warm up, and she can’t stand here with me all day.

“Is this a proposal?” I can’t help but joke as I slide the beaded bracelets onto my wrists. “Because the answer is yes.”

“Perfect,” she quips. “I want dinner on the table every day by five, and my slippers laid out every night.”

“Done.”

Her lips curl into another one of those breathtaking grins of hers, and I can’t help but get lost for a few seconds into each one.

“We’ll need to date first.”

“Keep dreamin’ on that,” she counters evenly. “My uncle would raise hell if he ever thought I was marryin’ you.”

“I like challenges.”

“You like chaos.”

“I like you, Layla Jean. And don’t think I’m ever gonna let you forget that. I’m also good at what I do.”

“And how many girls have you said that to?”

“None.”

“That’s crap.”

“Marry me and find out.”

12

BRIGGS

I aimlessly stareinto my family room, perfectly furnished with a gray sectional, a big-ass TV over a wood-burning fireplace, hardwood floors adorned with rugs I didn’t pick out, and quiet.

Unadulterated, pure silence.

It’s not a sound I’m used to. My ears are accustomed to filled stadiums with loud crowds and drunk guys trying to heckle players. The smell of fresh grass and my cleats crushing sunflower seeds while guys belch, spit, and cuss out the opponent’s pitcher.

But standing in this house, one I bought over five years ago, it’s not what I dreamt of at all.

It was supposed to be, with Layla in it.

The bedroom was supposed to smell like her. I should hear her baking up a storm with whatever recipe she was inspired by on Pinterest and be able to touch her whenever I want in the privacy of our own home.