Page 66 of Switch Hitter

How do we make this work?

My throat tightens at the thought.

Because he lives here.

I live in San Jose.

Our schedules are brutal, and we’re on different teams, on different coasts, and in different worlds. This isn’t like dating a normal person where you can just drive over and fall into each other on a random Tuesday.

This is planes and calendars and stolen nights and goodbyes.

So many goodbyes.

The thought overwhelms me so fast my chest feels too tight. Señora Guerrero turns, watching me.

“Sean,” she says softly. “¿Estás bien?”

“Yeah.” I blink. “Just tired. Two games back-to-back in a different time zone will do that to you.”

She tilts her head. She doesn’t believe me, but she doesn’t push like she’s interrogating.

I swallow and fess up. “I’m just… thinking.”

“Thinking is dangerous,” she says in accented English, and there’s humor there. Warmth. “Too much thinking makes the heart tired.”

Don’t I fucking know it.

His mom reaches across the table and takes my hand, gently. “You are welcome here,” she says again, slower this time. “¿Sí?”

I nod quickly, because my eyes are burning again and I refuse to cry in front of his mom.

“Sí,” I whisper.

“You are loved here,” she smiles, satisfied with what she’s said, and then she pats my hand but doesn’t let go.

Then, like the universe is obsessed with timing, Uncle Juan’s voice cuts through the room again.

“¡Emiliano!”

Emiliano looks up, his nephew on his back like a little monster.

Juan points at me with his beer. “¿Qué es él de ti?”

Sofía freezes mid-step. Maribel stops talking. Even the kids slow down like they sense something important is happening.

This is the question.

The one I’ve been running from.

The one that makes my life feel like it’s balanced on a knife edge.

I look at Emiliano, and he stands up slowly, sets his nephew down, and wipes his hands on his jeans. His gaze meets mine, steady and warm.

There’s no pressure.

Just him… right here. Silently telling me he’ll hold whatever answer I give. That he’ll catch me if I fall.

My mouth goes dry, and Señora Guerrero squeezes my hand once, then releases it like she’s letting me choose.