They were both tired, so they turned in early. Something Sami rarely did anymore. Alone in her room she spotted her laptop on a chair in the corner. Her room was a mess and she hadn’t been online in a week. Not since the night after Mary Catherine took her boogie-boarding. There was no time for Facebook now. Sami was fast falling in love with life. It didn’t matter if her clothes piled up or if she didn’t know the latest Fox News stories. Twitter was all but forgotten.
Sami was living.
And she loved every minute.
While she brushed her teeth, she thought about Mary Catherine and her views on love. “God’s all for romance,” her friend had said the other night. “I’m the most hopeless romantic there is.” She had twirled her coat in front of her, as if it belonged to the man of her dreams. “Romance is easy. It’s the other part that can be a struggle.” She let go of the coat. “Which is why I’ll probably never get married.” She had dropped to the floor, pensive.
Mary Catherine rarely took herself too seriously, but she was serious about only dating guys who understood love. A guy who was real about his faith. Someone who would roll up his sleeves and serve dinner at a homeless mission or let his heart get lost in a Chris Tomlin praise song. Romantic love would come only after she and her guy—whoever he turned out to be—had first experienced that kind of love.
God’s kind.
The divorce of Mary Catherine’s parents had shaped her, even changed her. She would never settle for the easy existence her mom and dad had shared before their split. Not that Mary Catherine talked about it much. But sometimes it seemed everything she did, her views on faith and her thoughts about life and love and God, all came from watching her own parents fail at it.
Sami looked a moment longer at her face in the bathroom mirror. God had brought Mary Catherine into her life, no question. She ran her hand over the smooth leather Bible on her bed stand. God was Sami’s friend now, close enough to talk to, always available. He was the only one who knew her deepest thoughts.
How much she still thought about Tyler Ames.
The trip to Pensacola had been a disappointment, but that didn’t change the past. And it didn’t change the way he’d looked at her that morning in the park with the gulf a few feet away.
A sigh escaped her. The Tyler she had known had been real—or at least on his way to becoming real. But a game had gotten in the way. Winning and losing and the ocean of pressure that came with it. More than anyone could take.
She sat on the edge of her bed and again her laptop caught her attention. Maybe she should check her Facebook. She was a different person now, and she didn’t need social media to validate her life. But it could be fun to see what her friends thought about her body-surfing pictures. She hurried across the room, grabbed the computer, and brought it back to the edge of her bed.
It took a few minutes to power up, but then she found her way to Facebook. There were two private messages and as she stared at the notices, her heart skipped a beat. What was this? Who would message her? She opened them and felt a rush of shock. One of them was from Arnie Bell.
The other was from Tyler.
She stared at the names long enough to believe what she was seeing. What in the world, Lord? She took a slow breath and opened Arnie’s first. It was brief.
Samantha,
I have a favor to ask. You may have thought I was joking when I said I planned to be the president of the United States one day. But I wasn’t. If that happens—when it happens—I plan to say our relationship ended by mutual agreement. It wouldn’t be good for either of us if people think you broke up with me. The press would look for a reason. Neither of us needs that.
Please let me know if this is agreeable—if so, let’s go with that story.
Thanks. Miss you.
Arnie
Her cheeks couldn’t have felt hotter if Arnie had reached through the screen and slapped her. A single laugh escaped from the outraged hallways of her heart. Really, Arnie? Really? Of all the nerve. How dare he speak to her like that—even in a private Facebook message. And wasn’t he worried that someone would find the private message years down the road? The whole matter was ridiculous. All Arnie ever cared about was—
The cover of her Bible caught her eye. Last night she’d read about how Jesus wanted people to love their enemies. To pray for those who persecuted them. Sami felt the fight leave her. Fine, God. I’d like to pray for Arnie Bell. Help him hear Your voice—especially if he’s headed into politics. I pray that one day he’ll be real. Thank You, Lord.
She wanted to delete his message. Instead she did the most loving thing she could do for Arnie. She hit the reply button and typed out her response.
That’s fine with me, Arnie. The breakup was mutual. That’ll be the story. Take care of yourself. I’m praying for you.
Sami
She was about to fix her name. He had never heard her call herself that, and certainly he had never imagined her as anything but Samantha. She felt a smile lift her lips. No. She would leave her name just as it was. She couldn’t pray for Arnie to be real unless she was willing to be real, too.
She hit the send button and then opened Tyler’s letter.
It was much longer. Sami’s heart quickened as she began to read. He talked about how he wasn’t only a janitor at Merrill Place. He was also a friend to a woman named Virginia Hutcheson. Sami read the whole thing and then she read it again.
In the message, Tyler talked about God—something that had never been a part of their relationship back in the day. God and grace and something more. How he was sorry. He hadn’t wanted to be mean when she visited him in Pensacola, but she was with someone else and he didn’t want to get hurt. Basically that’s what the message said. She read the last part once more, though this time the letters were hard to read through her tears.
The truth is, I miss you. More than you could ever know. Especially on nights like this.
Sami let that sink in. Tyler Ames missed her. Especially at night. She smiled even as two tears trickled down her cheeks. Hadn’t she known that all along? Of course he missed her. Who else knew him the way she had known him—that short time in his life when baseball wasn’t his entire existence? She kept reading, drinking in the words like a person desperate for water.
Forgive me for keeping my heart locked up. Virginia wouldn’t want me to live like that. Now that she’s gone, I don’t want to live like that either. That’s it really. I didn’t want you to think I was only a janitor at Merrill Place, when you see . . . I understand now, God doesn’t define me by my job. Whatever work He gives me. Forgive me, Sami. Keep riding the waves.
Love,
Tyler
Yes, Tyler was so much more. Sami sniffed and dried her eyes with her fingertips. Then she began to move her fingers across the keys. There were no walls for her either, not this time. Life was too short to hide true feelings of the heart. She had no idea when she’d be in Pensacola again or whether anything would come of this exchange with Tyler. But she had to write back, even if only for one reason.
Tyler Ames was becoming real.
31
TYLER’S MEETING WITH THE Dodgers’ head coach was in twelve minutes. Marcus had several cars, so he had loaned the Hummer to him indefinitely. He checked the time on the dashboard as he pulled into the stadium parking lot. He was early. Of all the twists and turns his life had taken since he’d blown out his shoulder, Tyler had a feeling today might be the craziest of all.
He took a spot near the player entrance and killed the engine.
The whirlwind of events and emotions was still more than he could believe. His surgery had been nearly two weeks ago. He had stayed on the pain pills just two days this time around. Already the ache in his shoulder was much less than what he’d walked around with for months before the operation.
He was working with a physical therapist, getting better, stronger. He had split his time since the surgery at his parents’ house and then staying with Marcus. He had muc
h to be thankful for—Tyler understood that to the center of his soul. The renewed friendship with Marcus, his mom and dad back in his life, and the handful of messages he and Sami had swapped. These were the happiest parts of his new life.
The one where he was no longer a baseball player.
He checked the time on his phone. His parents had given him one of their old ones and set it up with a basic plan. All they could afford. Tyler was careful not to use it often, and one day soon—when the brace was finally off his arm—he would look for a job and get on his feet financially. All in time.
Amazing. Now that he understood grace, he realized how much had been showered on him. So much that he didn’t deserve. Tyler walked up to the entrance and for just a moment he thought about his shoulder. The doctor’s words rang in his mind again the way they still did several times a day. You will never pitch again, Tyler. I’m sorry.
Never pitch again.
For a few seconds he stopped just shy of the entrance and lifted his eyes. The sign read OFFICIAL PLAYER ENTRANCE—LOS ANGELES DODGERS. Right up until his trip to Los Angeles, Tyler had believed he would walk through a door like this one day. Not for some curious meeting with a coach, but to suit up for a game.
For whole seasons of games.
He nodded slowly and focused on the task ahead. Whatever it was. God could see him—He wasn’t finished with him. He smiled and headed through the door. It took another two minutes to make his way to the coach’s office. The man stood and introduced himself. “I’m Ollie Wayne. I coach the pitchers.”
Tyler knew who he was. “Nice to meet you.” He sat across from the coach. So far the meeting was like something from a dream. For the life of him, Tyler couldn’t possibly understand why the man wanted to see him. Especially ten hours before what could be the last game of the World Series, with the Dodgers leading 3–2.
“I brought you in because last week I had a random talk with Jep Black—manager of the Blue Wahoos. He and I go way back, friends from our college days.”
Tyler felt his expression go blank. Jep Black knew Ollie Wayne? From college?
A twinge of regret hit Tyler, the one that would always come when successful baseball players and coaches talked about their college days. Tyler let it go. He tried to focus on what Coach Wayne was saying. He still couldn’t think of a single reason why he was here.
“So Jep and I got to talking and you came up. I told him you had your surgery and . . .” The coach frowned, clearly struggling with the reality of Tyler’s situation. “I told him you were done playing.”
“Yes, sir.” Tyler couldn’t grasp where this was headed. “I haven’t talked to him yet.”
“I figured.” Another frown. “Before I say anything else, Tyler, you should know this: I’ve followed your pitching career ever since the Little League World Series. You’re a tremendous talent. What happened with your shoulder—” He shook his head. “It’s the worst kind of terrible.” He paused, clearly troubled. “I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.” Tyler believed the words he was about to say. He felt them in his heart as he spoke: “God must have other plans for me. I’m working to figure it out.”
A slight smile lifted Coach Wayne’s expression. “That’s why I called you in.”
He had to be dreaming. The pitching coach for the Los Angeles Dodgers couldn’t think Tyler would pitch again. The idea was without even the slightest degree of possibility. Tyler shifted. “Yes, sir.”
“I need to hire a pitching coach for our intern program, someone we can bring along in the off-season.” He leaned back in his chair. “Jep says I’d be crazy to hire anyone but you. Best young pitching coach he’s ever worked with.” Coach Wayne looked at a sheet of notes on his desk. “Jep said you worked with his pitchers in the off-season. Made every one of them better. Right before his eyes.”
This couldn’t be happening. Tyler had decided he couldn’t coach if he couldn’t pitch. But now . . . he had to hold onto the arms of the chair and squeeze hard to be sure he wasn’t floating. A week from now he might’ve given up on finding work in LA—too expensive without a real job. He could’ve even headed back to Merrill Place. He took a few subtle deep breaths and forced himself to listen.
“Of course, the other endorsement is the one that really matters.” Coach Wayne picked up a second piece of paper. “Here’s what it says: ‘I learned everything about pitching by the time I was in high school. Tyler Ames taught me. He was just a kid himself, but he had tricks and techniques even experienced coaches couldn’t teach me.’ ”
Who in the world would’ve said that? Tyler listened, his heart pounding so loud he figured the coach had to hear it across the desk.
“There’s more. This player goes on to say, ‘I think about that every now and then. I’ll be out there on the mound pitching a winning game and his name will come up in my mind. Tyler Ames—I’ll always be thankful for him.’ ”
Coach Wayne looked straight at Tyler. “That was written by my top pitcher. Marcus Dillinger.” He smiled. “Marcus said he could guarantee we’d be known for our pitching if I hired you. How ’bout that?”
Tyler stared at the coach for a few seconds. Then he shook his head, unable to speak. Marcus had said that? Tears tried to crowd the moment, but he blinked them back. He pictured himself and Marcus, the two of them in high school, throwing pitch after pitch after pitch. Tyler could see things, that’s what he told Marcus back then: Little things. Adjustments. He would tell Marcus and Marcus would change his pitching.
It worked just about every time.
But how had Marcus remembered all these years later? And when had all this happened? “Sir . . . what about my arm?”
“Marcus says you can adjust a pitcher’s technique from a chair.”
“I don’t . . . I’m not sure what to say.” “Say yes.” He laughed. “Jep Black says he’ll hire you to coach for them if I don’t.” He studied Tyler. “But this is home for you, is that right?”
Tyler thought about his parents and Marcus, his recent conversations with Sami on Facebook. “Yes, sir. It’s home.”
Coach Wayne sat forward and set his forearms down hard on the desk. “Then say yes.” He went on for a minute or so about how the Dodgers liked to bring in a young intern coach and develop him, keep him in the franchise if he worked out. Then the coach talked about starting pay—five times what it had been at Merrill Place. “Of course that’s just the intern pay. If things go well after a few seasons, you could be up in the six figures.” He grinned. “I have a feeling you’ll be around for a while.”
“Thank you. I hope so.” Tyler wondered when the adrenaline rush would stop. “Sir? Are you serious?”
The coach laughed out loud. “Jep said I’d like you.” He stood and held out his hand. “I’ll take that as a yes, Tyler.”
“Yes.” They shook and Tyler laughed this time. A laugh of shock and disbelief and pure Christmas-like joy. “Definitely yes.”
Coach Wayne walked Tyler to the door. “You start today. I’ve set up best-seat passes for six at the player window for tonight’s game.” He looked confident. “A win tonight and we’re World Series Champs—which will happen. After we win, well, the off-season starts tomorrow. We’ll have meetings from ten to twelve each day. We’ll give you time to heal up before you start working with our staff on the field.”
There were a few other details, and Coach Wayne sent him away with a packet to fill out. New hire information. Tyler walked back out to Marcus’s Hummer, climbed in behind the wheel, and just sat there. He couldn’t believe it. Despite the odds, and though he didn’t deserve anything close, the impossible had happened.
He had made it to the Bigs.
WHEN HE COULD finally breathe normally again, Tyler drove to his father’s warehouse and spent the day with his parents. He didn’t say a word about the job. Instead he helped his mother with filing in the office and not until lunchtime, at El Pollo Loco, did he tell them the news. It took that long for him to believ
e it, let alone imagine sharing it with his mom and dad.
“I’m so happy for you, son.” His dad hugged him. The embrace was almost totally natural now. The bridge was being rebuilt—one day at a time.
That afternoon he had an appointment with Dr. Walsh, who confirmed that his shoulder was healing right on schedule. Tyler went straight into rehab from the doctor’s office and at just after five, he finally gave himself permission to think about the next meeting.
The one with Sami Dawson.
They had swapped private Facebook messages for the last couple weeks and finally, a few days ago, he had told her about the surgery and the fact that he wasn’t in Pensacola, but here. An hour away. Tyler still wasn’t sure what would come from this, whether they could find what they shared before or whether this was only another part of his healing. But he knew this:
He had to see her.
The parking lot was empty at Zuma Station 12 when he pulled up—the last and furthest north section of the popular beach. He parked in the first row and stepped out. A brick wall separated the parking lot from the expanse of sand. She wasn’t there yet, which was good. He needed this time to sort through all that had happened.
Every wonderful, unbelievable detail.
He leaned against the wall and stared at the deep blue Pacific. Breathe, Ames. Just breathe. There was a time when every moment led to a game, a number of pitches and balls and strikeouts. From his childhood days until three months ago, he defined himself the way the press did: by the speed of his pitch, his earned-run average, his win-loss record.
He could remember what it felt like the last time he stood on the mound for the Blue Wahoos—so close to perfect. How could he have known what God had in mind?
The sound of a car caught his attention. He turned as Sami parked her car next to the Hummer. It occurred to him again that he was employed now. He was a pitching coach for the LA Dodgers. A dream job. And one day soon he could find an apartment and get his own car, his own phone. The thought made him chuckle out loud.
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