Page 114 of The Fall Classic

But it’s still insane seeing my name talked about on the most popular sports channels in the country.

“Right here,” Marcus says, freezing on a frame that looks like the one before it. “Look at your wrist.”

I don’t see it at first, but he has a clip from April up on another screen, both frozen at the same point. And there it is. My wrist was locked stiff the whole way through in April, and there’s a small roll at release in the new one.

“You’ve loosened up your delivery the last month or so,” he says. “Which is good—you’re not fighting the pitch anymore. But your wrist hasn’t caught up yet. Some of what used to happen in your grip is leaking into your forearm instead.”

“So it’s fixable.”

“Completely. Your arm’s fine. You need strengthening work in that wrist extensor before we ask it to do this again. That means eccentric loading. Building the tissue back up right instead of just rest. I’ll talk to your pitching coach in Mullet Ridge. This is good news, Fischer. We’ll talk to travel and get you in Mullet Ridge tomorrow. But in the meantime, let’s get you in with the trainers for ice and some light massage.”

I know he’s still talking, but my comprehension took a nosedive the second he said I’ll be in Mullet Ridge tomorrow.

I pat my wallet in my front pocket, thinking about the Meant to Bean patch in the zipper pouch. And I think about a certain promise Georgie made me about when I return⁠—

Tomorrow.

I’m in Chicago—the place where I grew up, where my entire family is, where I’ve wanted to be all year—and all I can think about is how excited I am to get back to Mullet Ridge.

To get back to Georgie.

Tomorrow.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Georgie

“You are so preoccupied,” Liv says the next morning as we both fight off yawns on the drive from the farm to the factory. “Didn’t Logan text you last night?”

“He did,” I say, turning down a quiet country road. There’s been a nip in the air all week, and my weather app says this is expected to be the coolest September in a decade. Bless whatever strong high-pressure system is pressing down from Canada.

“And?” Liv prompts, pulling my attention back.

“He didn’t seem to know anything more than he did yesterday morning.”

“But you guys talked, right?”

My throat feels tight and sticky. “Yeah. He sounded tired. Or maybe he’s not that into me,” I say with a resigned smile.

Liv stares at me, her dark gray eyes unblinking. Then a laugh bursts from her. “Right. Logan isn’t that into you. Like Alma isn’t into planning her granddaughter’s quinceañera or winding up Marlowe.”

“Come on,” I say, flicking on my blinker. “He has much better things to worry about than me.”

“Gotcha,” Liv says.

My face flies to hers. “So you agree with me?”

“No. I know self-protection when I see it. I get it, girl. Protect away.”

We’re steadily working through our line of customers in the factory lot when Marlowe calls me.

“Morning,” I say, putting the finishing touches on yet another It’s Bean Real.

“Good morning, sweetie,” Marlowe says, and my chest warms to hear the term of endearment. “Your father and I got back from Columbia last night and thought we’d stop by today to see how things are going. What’s your schedule like for the day?”

“Oh, great,” I say, backing out of the sight of customers. I can’t help people when I’m trying to grapple with the idea of my parents wanting to stop by and see me. “We just finished at the farm lot, so we’ll be at the factory until three.”

“Do you have another shift at the farm after?”