Today was the easiest day that I’ve had in a long fucking time. I didn’t worry about job offers, retirement speculation, or the numerous potential land mines in my near future. Not once did I consider what I was going to do with myself now that I’m a free man. And, somehow, I made it a whole day without side-eyeing my email and voice messages.

The last few hours were an alternate reality—one that I desperately needed. But that worries me too.

Do I just like spending time with Palmer and her son because I need the distraction? Or is it because I like them?

“Do you want dessert?”

I didn’t realize that Mom has come outside. I glance over and spot her on the porch.

“I’m good,” I say.

“I packed most of the chocolate pie and peanut butter bars up for Ethan to take home. But there’s a bit left.”

Her kindness makes me smile. Perhaps Palmer was right—I have been spoiled by my mom. But it also felt right watching her spoil Ethan. He’s a good boy, and it hurts to know he doesn’t have more people in his life to spoil and love him.

“I’m good, Mom. Thanks.”

“Suit yourself.” She starts to turn back to the house but stops. “It’s funny, huh?”

“What’s funny?”

She grins. “How . . .” She shakes her head. “You know what? Never mind.”

Then she turns and goes back inside without another word.

I heave a sigh of relief as the door swings shut, grateful that she didn’t go where I think she was going. Because I do know what’s funny—how you can open your eyes and find yourself in a place you didn’t know existed and with people you’ve never met . . . and feel at home.

I’ve done it once before. I knew the moment I walked into Swift Stadium that I was meant to be there. The feeling was unexplainable. Instead of being more anxious as I entered the locker room, I was soothed. I instinctively knew how to operate in the space and where things were. It felt like home. And if I allow myself to really analyze my time in Bloomfield—and more specifically, my time with Palmer—I might be inclined to feel the same way.

My heart tugs in my chest. Whether I’ve mentally processed the idea or not doesn’t matter. I’m afraid that the rest of me has already sorted that shit and come to a conclusion. Palmer Clark is fucking incredible.

I jump as my phone vibrates against my thigh. I yank it from my pocket. Fish.

“Hey,” I say, clearing my throat.

“Hey, what’s happening over there?”

I suck in a lungful of air. “Not much. You?”