Shit. “Yes. I am,” I lie and don’t feel good about doing it at all.

“Are you looking for work? Do you know anything about sports? We could use help if you want to give it.” His questions come out rapid-fire.

“I’m nowhere near following you right now.”

“Sorry.” He shakes his head. “I don’t mean to imply that you need work or a handout or—”

“What do you need help with?” I ask.

“It’s not that. I mean sure, we need help—we always need help since we’re strictly volunteer based—but if you’re looking to write about military life—real military life—then you need to make sure to talk about the kids. The military brats and what they’re struggling through and those organizations that try to help them.”

I stare at Gunner with the oddest sense of resolution. The same sense I get when I want a client and know I’m going to win them over.

Maybe you need to find a cause.

Lennox’s words ghost through my mind as I stare at a man, who’s not only a hero—according to Nix—but who continues to be one even after he was discharged from service.

“Do you know anything about sports?” he asks, and I stare at him doe-eyed, trying to not laugh at the irony of the question.

“Sports?”

“Bats. Balls. Goals. Baskets. Mismatched uniforms. That kind of thing,” he teases.

I swat at him. “Of course, I know sports. Who doesn’t?”

“I know this sounds crazy, but . . . we need some help at The Center. It’s the beginning of our rec league’s baseball season and so we need help organizing teams and sign-ups. It’s just for a couple of weeks. All simple. It’s a way to earn some extra cash while you’re researching your thesis. And, it would be a chance for you to get some great insight into military life. On the emotional toll these kids experience. The ups and downs of it.”

I immediately feel like an ass. For him thinking I’m here for my thesis. For him assuming I’m a broke graduate student who needs to earn extra cash.

For all of it.

And I know I need to tell him the truth but . . .

“C’mon. Can I entice you by saying you’ll get to see me more, too?” Those eyes of his are beguiling.

“You’re so cute when you beg,” I say and step up and give him a kiss to rival the kisses he’s won me over with. “But there’s no need to beg. I’d love to help out. To volunteer.” And I’m serious. It’s not until the words pass over my lips that I realize how much I do in fact want to do this. I’ve been a kid who lost a parent. I’ve been lost, grieving, and lashing out. Something about this is just too right for me. “Besides, you can repay me in other ways.” I wink.

“I don’t think I’ll be too hard-pressed to figure out how to do that.”