Page 30 of Switch Hitter

Bring your glove with you, Seany… We’ll show’em why you play in the majors.

Mom

Father Randell would probably love if you’d help usher for Easter Mass.

And that’s enough of that.

At my door, I unlock the knob and slide the key into the deadbolt, and when it doesn’t turn, I realize I forgot to lock it.

Again. Oops.

I push the door open and get hit with the scent of detergent, which reminds me I need to fold the load that’s been sitting in the dryer for, like, two days. Citrus from the air freshener, and something else warm and familiar: cologne, confidence, and the kind of calm that always makes me want to swing.

My heartbeat slams once, hard.

No.

I turn around and there he is.

Shoes off like he owns the place, sitting in my chair like he’s been here a hundred times. Elbows on his knees. Hands clasped. Hat backwards, regular joggers, tight light gray shirt. Emiliano Guerrero looks up at me like he’s been waiting for the exact second I’d walk in.

Like this is the inning he wanted.

“Took you long enough, Cobre,” he says, his voice calm and smug. “Now we can really talk.”

For half a second, I just stare because my brain tries to reboot like a computer from the 90s. It tries to compute that the Mets ace flew across the entire country on an off day to sit on my couch.

To corner me and force me to talk about… whatever this is.

Anger hits immediately, probably turning my neck and face bright red.

“You’re in my apartment,” I say, like the words are evidence.

Emiliano’s mouth tilts. “You’re observant, aren’t you?”

“What the fuck are you doing here?” My voice cracks on the last word because it’s not just anger. It’s panic. “How did you even get in?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “We should really talk about your lack of security around here. It’s a bit alarming, actually.”

I blink. “I know for a fact I locked this door.”

Emiliano lifts one eyebrow. The kind that says, “Are you sure?”

Shit.

Maybe I left the whole thing unlocked.

No! I know I locked that door before I left this morning.

Stepping forward, my duffel thudding to the floor. “You can’t just show up here.”

“You can’t just disappear.” Emiliano’s gaze stays steady.

“That’s not the same thing,” I snap.

He leans back slightly, relaxed, like he’s not in enemy territory.

Like he’s not sitting in the living room of a man who’s half a breath away from losing his shit.