Spring Training

Marcus adjusted his tie, the silk catching the dying light. The pool at the Scottsdale resort glowed that impossible blue—chlorinated and calm, nothing like the messy ocean he'd left back in Jacksonville. He was here to scout pitchers, not to fall in love with the team's new GM.

Elena's hair had come loose from its bun, dark tendrils escaping like secrets she'd been holding back all week. She sat on the lounge chair next to him, peeling an orange with slow, deliberate fingers. The citrus scent cut through the chlorine and sunscreen.

"Your dog's name again?" she asked, not looking up.

"Buster. After—you know."

"Buster Posey. Of course." She met his eyes then. Everything between them had been professional until this trip. Now, in the crystalline desert evening, the boundaries felt like chalk lines after rain.

"My wife left me," Marcus said, the words falling out like dropped balls. "Three months ago. Took the house, kept the dog—I just get Buster on weekends."

Elena's hand stilled. The orange peel hung like a crescent moon from her thumb. "I was married for six years," she said quietly. "He coached college baseball. Said I cared more about my career than his."

The pool lights flickered on, casting wavering reflections across their legs. A thousand miles of travel between them, a dozen teams, and here they were—two people who'd built their lives around baseball, around other people's dreams.

"I'm not sleeping with you," Elena said, but she'd moved closer. "I can't. Not with us working together."

"I know," Marcus said.

"But I could use a drink."

They sat there as the desert stars appeared, the orange forgotten between them, pool water lapping at the edges like a promise kept for another season. Some games you don't win by playing—you win by staying in the dugout, one more inning, one more chance to step up to the plate.