hourglass

Summary:

Conner's not encouraging. She’s not nurturing or sweet or any of that. The team has the dad-joke thing, grilling out together and all that, but she's under no illusions here. She’s not exactly a parent. Unfortunately, the Steaks might need someone to be a parent, and more unfortunately it’s starting to look like that person is going to be Paula Mason.

Or: Paula's four and a half seasons on the Steaks, as told by Conner Haley.

Fandom: Blaseball

Published: 13 June 2021

Word count: 10.1k

Ao3 link: hourglass

Notes

A/N: Once upon a time I made a joke about IRM where Conner Haley is a milf, and then I got attached, so I wrote about it. This is dedicated to lofi, who all enabled me, and especially Hen, who is the reason I watched some Cheryl Blossom supercuts to prep for this. That’s not the energy here, but it was still an important part of the process.

Content warnings: drinking, bad parenting, and canonical death. In addition, there’s some non-central discussion of growing up Christian and of divorce.

Given all the other shit she has to worry about when the feedback hits, it’s a couple days before Conner actually ends up talking with Paula Mason. But really, it’s a lot of shit to worry about. Kirby seems okay, talks about getting his wife and kids up to Chicago, but Conner doesn’t trust fuck all in blaseball these days. Nobody’s ever had feedback happen before, and she doesn’t know what to think of it, of the threat of being torn away from her team in a heartbeat. And then of course all the other captains want to know what she thinks and how she’s dealing with it. At least they’re not asking how she’s feeling anymore. She hated when they did that.

So Paula Mason joins the team on the fourth day of the season, but it’s not until day six or seven or something like that that Conner actually sits down with her to talk. They go out to a bar, a place that Conner went to for the first time when she was twenty-three and fresh-faced, and Conner says, “You’re from Chicago.”

“I’m from Chicago,” Mason agrees. “Or I was. Metaphysics. I’m from Chicago, but I’m not from Chicago anymore.”

Conner doesn’t even know how to deal with that, so she ignores it. “You any good?”

“What, as a player?” Mason snorts. She doesn’t seem to realize that Conner’s serious at first, but Conner waits her out, sipping her bourbon. After a minute Mason frowns. “Oh.”

“Oh?”

“Everyone else told me you were serious, I guess I didn’t realize that you were—” Mason flaps her hand. “Stick-up-your-ass serious.”

“Stick-up-my-ass serious,” Conner repeats flatly. “You don’t have captains in Chicago?”

“We’re all captains.”

“Horseshit.”

She doesn’t know what she’s expecting, but it’s not for Mason to throw her head back and laugh. “Jesus, Haley,” she says, and Conner can’t tell if she’s being laughed with or laughed at. It’s been a long time since somebody laughed at her. “It’s just a game.”

Conner sets her glass down with a clink, enjoying the heaviness of the sound. “Three days ago you lived across the country,” she says. She’s trying to keep her voice quiet, but she’s Texan and she doesn’t get quiet when she’s angry, so her voice creeps louder and louder. “I’ve had three kids on my team die, and when I say kids I mean people who haven’t lived half as long as you and me. I mean people who deserved real lives. You’re only here because you saw Olive die in front of you. You get the stakes. If you tell me that it’s just a game again I will find a way to get you off my team, league rules be damned. You take this seriously or you don’t play at all.”

Mason doesn’t answer at first. She drinks her beer, and Conner drinks her bourbon and doesn’t check her phone. She’s better at waiting than she is at most other things.

“Tyreek,” Mason says finally. “You can call them Tyreek.”

“Answer the question, Mason,” Conner sighs. “Are you any good?”

“An average amount of good.”

“Are we going to have problems?”

“I don’t know yet,” Mason says. It’s not the answer Conner wants to hear, but at least it’s honest, she’ll give her that much. “Hope not.”

“Hope not,” Conner agrees. “So don’t cause problems.”

“I don’t think I like you,” Mason says. She says it almost appraisingly, like she’s at a garage sale and Conner is some old record player or a signed football card or something like that. Like she’s trying to form an opinion here and now, based on half a conversation.

Conner swallows more bourbon and doesn’t wince as it goes down. “You don’t have to like me,” she answers. “You just have to show up to practice.”

None of the other Steaks give Conner half as much lip as Mason does, with the main problem being that none of them play half as well as her either. Conner doesn’t know if it’s the magic of Dallas or if it’s spite, but Paula Mason is the team’s star batter.

“Maybe you ought to give her a chance,” Sam says. They’ve designated themself as her assistant for tonight’s cookout, a welcome-to-the-team shindig for Mason. “She’s not bad.”

“It’s not about if she’s bad,” Conner mutters. She flips a couple of the burgers. “It’s about her, period.”

Sam whistles lowly at the sear marks. “You gotta teach me to do that.”

“What are you doing here if it ain’t learning?”

“Keeping my lovely captain company?”

“Try again.”

“You two could have a lot in common,” Sam says, which is easily the most horrifying thing they’ve said yet.

“Not all old ladies get along,” Conner answers sourly. “I ain’t about to start a fuckin’ quilting circle, Scandal.”

“I’m surprised you even know what a quilting circle is.”

Conner cuts a look over at them. “You think anyone grows up going to church twice a week and doesn’t know what a quilting circle is?”

Sam looks stunned at that. Conner has to resist the urge to clap straight in front of their face or poke their cheek or something to snap them out of it. Everyone forgets about life before blaseball sometimes, but Conner has made a point of talking about her life before blaseball as little as humanly possible. And it always ends like this: someone acting like she was grown in a lab to play ball instead of being a full-fledged person. She said something about her ex-husband to Kirby once and he looked at her like she had a second head.

“Anyways,” Conner says, and pokes at the burgers with her tongs. “You gonna help me assemble burgers or not?”

“Yes ma’am,” Sam says, incredibly quickly.

Conner doesn’t quite smile, but she gets close. Most of the team is transplants from other states, but it’s always good to remember that she’s still got a couple of kids from Texas playing with her. Makes her feel at home.

It’s a rough start to the season. Conner’s a better captain than a pitcher, always has been, so she decides not to care that she’s having a bad season. She runs practice, the tightest ship she can manage. She checks in on Kirby when she has moments to spare, and then adds Jess to that list after she gets feedbacked to the Pies. They’re both important, but they’re important items on a list of important things.

Conner has a desk in the dugout — a makeshift desk made of plywood that’s always on the verge of collapsing, but sometimes you have to make do — that she sits at during games. She’s required to attend, both by league rules and because she’s the captain, but she’s not required to pay attention. She’s got a lot of work that needs doing. A lot of things that can’t wait.

She’s working on something or another that can’t wait when Stevie Monstera catches fire.

She gets to her feet but by then it’s too late. Would’ve been too late even if she’d been faster. She knows that from Lars, and Zi, and Langley. All of those were unthinkable. Kids with futures, kids even younger than Luke and Letty. And this one is just as unthinkable. Quiet, sweet Stevie who was bungling his way through figuring out the perfect barbecue side dish, who couldn’t cook for shit. She’s going to have to call his brother and tell him.

Their new player is already on the field, looking around hesitantly. Conner goes towards the edge of the dugout, but there’s an ump blocking her way.

“Let me out there,” she snaps.

The ump doesn’t move. Conner lifts a hand to push past, but before she can actually go so far as touching the ump, Ronan rests a hand on her shoulder. “Captain.”

She’s young too. Most of them are. Conner’s leading her team into a fucking death trap. At least she has the dignity not to smile when she does it, the way some of the other captains do.

“Fine,” Conner grits out.

When she looks back at the field, the new kid is standing. They’re well-dressed, if a little shaky on their feet. They’re leaning on Paula Mason for support.

Mason looks at the dugout. Her eyes meet Conner’s. Conner wants to scream or throw shit or throw up or something, but she forces herself to stop. Stevie’s dead. She’s not going to put a target on the rest of her team with a tantrum. And besides, Mason’s technically a first responder. She’s probably the right person to have out there right now.

Conner nods slowly. Mason moves on, talking to the kid, smooth as butter. Neither of them are looking at the spot where Stevie’s scorched onto the ground.

“Captain,” Ronan says. “You gotta sit.”

Conner looks around the dugout. Ronan, Orville, and Leach all look back, looking a little wary even as the game resumes. She’s already trying to imagine her list, all the shit she needs to get done that’s about to get pushed back. Folks will understand if she’s a little late getting back to them. They’ve all been through this moment.

She takes a breath in through her nose, short and sharp, and lets it out through her mouth. “Anyone have Ron Monstera’s number handy?”

Later, much later, after Combs is settled in, after Conner has talked to Ron and Teddy Duende, after they get something planned for Stevie at the end of the season, after Conner is dead on her feet and still moving because that’s what you have to do sometimes — later, when she’s finally sitting down, Paula Mason finds her.

Conner should thank her. Instead she just looks up, exhausted. “Yeah?” she says, too tired for captainly airs or whatever bullshit. Mason won’t care.

Sure enough, her face doesn’t change. Mason just says, “Don’t try and push past the umps again. They remember people, and they would’ve gone after you.”

“I couldn’t have given a rat’s ass if they—”

“The rest of us would’ve,” Mason says, and it’s not the sentiment that pulls Conner up short. It’s the part where she says us. “So don’t do that.”

Conner rubs a hand down her face. “Mason,” she says tiredly, “couldn’t this have waited till tomorrow?”

“Not if you would’ve tried to do it tomorrow.” Mason lifts a hand and then lowers it, and Conner wants to laugh at how stupid it all feels. Standing at an arm’s length from someone who doesn’t like her very much, someone who’s trying to save her life. “So don’t try to do it tomorrow.”

“Aye-aye,” Conner says. Mason leaves without being asked.

They make the playoffs, they lose the playoffs, same old shit in a different season. Leach is replaced by an alternate, not that it makes any difference. Sebastian is replaced by an alternate and it makes all the difference in the world, one more thing for Conner to fuckin’ deal with.

“Jessica calls me a lot,” says new Sebastian one day. Seb, Conner reminds herself. This one prefers Seb. “Was she close with… him?”

Conner raises her eyebrows. “You weren’t close with your sister?”

“Family’s complicated.”

“Amen to that,” Conner mutters before she can stop herself. Seb gives her a strange look, and she shrugs. “I got divorced and that was the easy part.”

“Divorced,” he repeats disbelievingly. “You were married?”

“Twenty-two years.”

“How old are—”

“You wanna finish that question?” Conner says, dangerously calm.

“No, ma’am,” Seb says, almost automatic. Good old Texas manners.

“Family’s complicated, Seb, don’t go poking your nose in my complicated mess and I’ll do the same for you.”

“That’s categorically false,” he points out. “You talk to Jessica.”

“And?”

“You talk to Jessica about me.”

Conner has fielded more phone calls from Jess in the week since Sebastian disappeared into another dimension than she did for the entire three years before that. She’s scared, because with all the blessings and feedback giving her opportunities, this is the first time that she’s actually lost something in this game. Something more than a teammate or a deposit on an apartment. Jess has a lot of people in Philly looking out for her. Conner doesn’t know why she’s the one answering these calls, but she’ll answer. Jess deserves that.

“She lost her brother,” Conner says slowly. “Don’t see what that has to do with you, seeing as you’ve decided she’s not your sister.”

Seb flinches at first, but his glare sharpens. “It’s still about me.”

“It’s about him.”

“You’re bad at this,” he says, which surprises Conner enough that she stops to give him a bemused look. He folds his arms. “At the feelings part of this. I talked to Paula Mason for two minutes and it helped more than any of this helped.”

Conner lifts her eyebrows. “So go talk to her instead. I ain’t your mom.”

“Thank god for that,” Seb mutters, and has the good sense or good luck to leave before Conner rips off her shoe to throw at him.

The thing is, he’s not wrong. If Conner were the maternal type she’d still be on speaking terms with Luke and Letty. If Conner were the maternal type then people would call her by her name and not by captain or boss. Conner’s not one for the mushy feelings, and she’s most certainly not maternal. She’s a captain.

The next season starts rough, like the one before it. Conner doesn’t bother with the platitudes, the “we’ve overcome this before” speech that everyone seems to be expecting. They’re on a playoff streak, but every streak ends, and so she has the team play every game like it’s the one that decides their streak here and now. Everyone’s exhausted. Conner doesn’t care. Back in her life before blaseball she got used to things like this, and she learned how to deal with it.

But she’s not encouraging. She’s not nurturing or sweet or any of that. The team has the whole dad schtick, grilling out together or whatever, but Conner’s under no illusions here. She’s not exactly a parent. Unfortunately, the Steaks might need someone to be that person, and more unfortunately it’s starting to look like that person is going to be Paula Mason.

They haven’t gotten on the right foot yet after the rough start. Mason’s still the best batter they have. She’s a smart choice for the face of the team. For the one that people talk to about the feelings shit while Conner runs practice.

She’s the smart choice. That doesn’t mean Conner likes it.

They get reverbed at the end of the season, just a lineup shuffle so it doesn’t hit Conner. The batters spend the rest of the day blinking at one another and shouting too loudly, like their eardrums are blown out. Conner’s so busy in the dugout taking notes, trying to figure out if they can make hand signs or something like that in case this happens again, that she doesn’t notice Mason trying to get her attention until she sits down next to her, eyebrows raised.

“What?” Conner says, and then remembers that Mason probably can’t hear her, so she raises her voice. “Mason?”

“Chicago’s in the playoffs,” Mason says. It’s just a little too loud. Ronan and Griffith both look over. Conner shoots them a glare, hoping to scare them off. Mason doesn’t even pause. “And I want company going to the games.”

“So you’re asking me,” Conner says, not even bothering with trying to hide her skepticism. “Really.”

“Come to Chicago with me.”

It’d be a wasted opportunity not to, so she sighs. “If you get uppity about hot dogs or something like that—”

“I would never argue with you about meat,” Mason says. It’s weird the way she says it, almost teasingly, like it’s some kind of inside joke. Or worse, like it’s a sign of respect, because even though she’s trying to take on a protege Conner still does most of the grilling. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Conner says slowly.

Ronan and Griffith are both still staring as Mason wanders off. Conner gives them both an even meaner glare and then goes back to her notes and adds earplugs to a shopping list, in case of more reverb. And then, tentatively, she adds “Chicago” to a corner of a paper.

Against all the odds in the world, the Steaks make the quarterfinals. They get knocked out right away, but Conner’s riding the high of unexpected victory so hard that she completely forgets about Paula Mason’s cryptic-ass invitation to Chicago for a couple days.

Mason calls her on the last day of the semis. “Come to Chicago,” she says, and for some reason Conner goes.

They have good seats, probably from former-teammate privileges. Kirby waves when he sees her. He looks confused, which Conner understands. “I’ve never been to the finals before,” she explains, and ignores it when Mason gives her a strange look. “Always too much work to do.”

“Always too much work to do,” Mason repeats slowly. “Don’t tell me you’re going to be working.”

Conner snorts. “Of course I’m working. This is research.”

“This is me trying to get to know you.”

“Well, then, you should know that I’m working right now.”

“You’re insufferable,” Mason says, almost admiringly. “Don’t you go out? Have friends? Do social events?”

“I grill out once a week, Mason, you’re there for that.”

“I mean outside the team.”

Conner stretches her arms above her shoulders and mulls it over for a second. “I haven’t had much of a social life since the divorce,” she admits. “Seemed less important than getting my own life back.”

She’s expecting the usual dumbstruck look, but Mason just tilts her head. “What was her name?”

Conner frowns. “Whose?”

“Your ex’s.”

“My ex-husband’s name was Frank Wallace.”

“Ex-hus—” Mason’s brows furrow. “I thought you were—”

“I am,” Conner says. “Big ol’ capital-L lesbian. Figured it out when my kids were in high school, but I didn’t want to rock the boat, so we stayed married till my youngest moved out. And then we got divorced, I cut my hair, grew it back out because I liked it better long, and now here I am. Watching blaseball in Chicago with you.”

The game’s getting started in front of them. Conner leans forward, notebook propped on her knees. It takes her a minute to realize that Mason’s still giving her a strange look. “What? You’re acting like you’ve never seen a divorcee before.”

“How many kids?” Mason says.

Conner blinks. “Two,” she says slowly. “Lucas and Letitia, but we always called ‘em Luke and Letty. I don’t see them much, and I don’t mean because of blaseball. What’s it to you?”

“I never had kids.”

That’s the most surprising thing she’s said so far. “Never? You?”

“You think I’d be able to shut up about them if I had?” Mason says dryly, which is a fair point. “Always wanted ‘em, but it never worked out. I was working my way through journalism school, and then when I landed my first job I looked up and everyone around me was saying it was too late for me. None of the people I ever dated wanted to be parents, and so I wasn’t.” She winces. “I’m not.”

“Never too late,” Conner points out. “At this point you’ve adopted my whole damn team.”

Mason looks amused. “Your team. You say that a lot.”

“They are mine.”

“How’d you end up as captain?”

Conner snorts. “You know what I did before this?”

“Can’t say I do.”

“I was a cheerleading coach. College level.”

Mason bursts out laughing. “Shit,” she gasps. “That explains so much of it. You act exactly like—”

“Like a stereotype,” Conner says dryly. Once again she doesn’t know if Mason’s laughing with her or at her, but at least this time Conner’s willing to laugh too. “Stereotypical cheer coaches are like that for a reason. My team was champions, and don’t you forget it. I signed up for blaseball and we didn’t have a captain, so I became the captain. And we’re gonna be champions too.”

“Can’t wait.” Mason pauses. “So you didn’t take your husband’s last name?”

“You’re jumping around like a fuckin’ spider,” Conner complains. “What’s that have to do with anything?”

“Just trying to get to know you,” Mason answers, irritatingly sincere. “You said your husband’s name was Wallace. You didn’t take his name?”

Conner snorts. “In Texas, thirty years ago? I took his name. Technically it’s still my legal name too. But I was Haley before I got married, and I wanted to be Haley again, so I’m registered with the league as Haley.”

“Never thought of changing my name.” Mason looks out at the field. Conner does the same and watches someone on the Lovers hit a single. “I was born Paula Mason. Think I’ll die Paula Mason too.”

Conner doesn’t say anything to that. She was born Conner Haley and she doesn’t see much of a point in being anyone else. Conner Wallace was a ghost of a person. Conner Haley is a ghost of a ghost, but at least it’s her.

“The answer’s yes, by the way,” Mason says casually. Conner glances over, and she flashes a smug little grin. “Yes, I’ll be co-captain.”

“Deputy captain,” Conner says automatically. “How did you—”

“You’re not as slick as you think you are. You wouldn’t come here with me if you didn’t want something. You need someone to do the parts you’re not good at, and I’m good at the parts you’re not good at. I’m onto you.”

“Then why’d you invite me? If you know I’m only here on business?”

Mason frowns. “Why would that stop me?”

It’s enough of a puzzle that Conner knows she won’t figure it out now, so she looks back at the field with determination. One of the Lovers hits a ground out to one of the Firefighters, and she readies her pen. There’s something to learn here, some kind of strategy to use. It’s just a matter of watching.

Mason doesn’t say much for the rest of the game, mostly just things about her old teammates. Kirby hits a single and Conner claps and that’s that. Just her and Paula Mason, the Firefighters, Chicago around them, the notebook on her lap, the puzzle box in the back of her mind that she pokes at in the quieter moments. She has to admit, it sure beats reading the recaps on BNN the next morning.

Conner doesn’t go to the rest of the series, although Mason texts her from the games from time to time. Conner texts back, partly out of spite for Mason assuming that she won’t, partly because she has things to say. Mason doesn’t question it. The only time Conner texts first is the day that the Firefighters take it all. She texts a quick congrats and leaves it at that.

Mason doesn’t answer. It bothers her more than it should.

But then elections are here and there’s not much else to bother her, because she’s got shit to deal with. Combs goes off to Colorado, and the Hands send back August Sky, who’s a half decent batter but Conner can’t look at her at first. Mason handles the transition with grace, gives Conner enough time to mutter mean things about fuckin’ blessings in the privacy of her own home and then make new strategies. And the divisions get shuffled, completely changing up who goes where. The schedules are bound to be different and suddenly she has a whole host of other teams’ strategies to learn.

The bigger change — well, it’s actually not, but it feels like a bigger change to her — is her and August Mina swapping positions. Conner gets to bat now. She gives Mina advice on pitching and then hands her off to Griffith, who’s probably better as a pitching coach, and gets to work.

The one-on-one batting practice is Mason’s idea, and it’s unfortunately a smart one. Sky was a pitcher on the Hands, and she could use some basic pointers, and Conner’s pretty sure she’s the same. So Mason and Seb, as the two best batters on the team, run private practices for the two of them, getting the basics like hand positioning on the bats, tips for running the bases and fielding.

Practice with Seb is weird, because he’s louder than Sebastian, and Conner’s still a mite more used to Sebastian than to Seb. But he gives good advice. Practice with Mason isn’t weird because they can talk shop. It’s two meetings at once: Mason talks about morale and what the team wants, and Conner gets to learn how to hold a bat. Mason’s got good hands, and she’s exacting in the way she makes sure that Conner knows what she’s doing. Everything down to the curl of her pinky around the bat is calculated.

It’s not very Mason-like. But Conner likes it.

The day that Jess Telephone gets trapped in a peanut shell, Conner doesn’t go to Philly. She doesn’t sit down with Seb to talk through things. She doesn’t call Letty, even though there’s a part of her that’s throwing a fit, shouting in her own brain that she needs to call her fucking daughter for once in her life.

No, the day that Jess Telephone gets trapped in a peanut shell, the day after the Steaks miss the postseason for the first time ever, Conner gets into her truck and drives north. She’s not heading to her hometown, because that would be stupid, and she’s not heading towards Frank or Luke or Letty. She just wants to get out of Dallas for a little bit.

Mason calls after she’s been driving for about thirty minutes. “You’re not home.”

“Sure ain’t.”

“You okay?”

“Could you see the stars in Chicago?”

“Of course not, it’s a city.”

“I could see them when I was a kid,” Conner says. She hasn’t been camping in a long time, or even hiking, or — come to think of it, she doesn’t go outside near as often as she used to. “Was my favorite thing in the world. My friends and I, we’d go out in the street or the desert or somewhere flat, and tilt our heads back so the only thing we could see was stars. And we’d spin around till we fell over and it didn’t matter because the stars were everywhere. You ever done anything like that?”

“Not exactly like that,” Mason answers. Her voice is softer than normal. “Haley. You alright?”

“You ever consider leaving? Getting in a car and leaving all this behind?”

“Not really. I hate driving. Wouldn’t have fun.”

“What the hell,” Conner mutters. “Of course you do. And that’s not an answer.”

“It’s not,” she agrees. “Where are you?”

“I’m out driving.” She looks out the window for a second. “Just looking for the stars.”

“What, you’re not gonna take me with you when you run away?”

Conner stops to think about it. Tries to imagine Paula Mason in the passenger seat, saying some dumb city shit, talking like a Midwesterner, talking about journalism school and how bad she wants kids and secrets that the rest of the Steaks asked her to keep. She wonders if the rest of the team knows that Conner knows these things too. She wonders if Mason ever hesitated before telling her.

“Next time I freak out and drive in the desert,” Conner says at last, “I’ll call you first.”

“Good.”

“You at my house or somethin’?”

“Well, sure,” Mason says, and there’s just enough of a Texan twang to the way she says it that Conner has to clamp down on a surprised laugh. Mason’s been on the team for two years now. It makes sense that she’s getting a little of an accent. Chicago and Dallas, mixed together in her voice. It’s bizarre. It’s not bad. “Figured you could use the company. I brought beer.”

Conner glances at a mile marker as she drives past. “If you wait forty minutes, I’ll turn around and get there.”

“Forty minutes? You’ve been out for that long?”

“Had some stuff to work through,” Conner says mildly. It’s been a boring season. A perfectly fine season. Some bloody stuff, whatever. No playoffs, that’s fine. Nobody on the Steaks died. Combs is fine. Conner was on the verge of thinking that maybe shit was finally working out like normal this season when Jess went and got herself shelled and now nothing’s goddamn normal anymore, is it.

Mason sighs. “Where do you keep your spare key? I’ll let myself in.”

Conner’s house isn’t a ranch, but it’s fuckin’ big. Big enough that she can come up with projects to do in the offseason. Big enough for cookouts. Big enough that if Jess or Seb or Luke or Letty or Frank or — or anyone else ever comes to visit, there’s room for them. Too much room for her by herself.

“Taped on top of the doorframe.” She flicks her blinker on and takes the next exit. She knows how to get home. “I’ll be there soon as I can.”

“Drive safe,” Mason says, which feels like a platitude. Conner doesn’t like it.

She does, though. She drives safe the whole way there.

In their first game against Jaylen Hotdogfingers, Sam and Marco get hit by pitches.

Conner thought she was hearing things the first time someone mentioned that it was happening. She was a bad pitcher, but she never hit anyone with a pitch. She thought it was impossible, the same way a batter has never hit a comebacker at a pitcher, the same way nobody charged the mound before blooddrain. Something forbidden by the laws of the game.

So she doesn’t like this shit one bit. Marco says he’s fine, but Sam doesn’t say much at all. They keep looking down at their hands. Conner doesn’t know what unstable means but she can see the way their fingertips fuzz out at the ends, like static on a bad radio. When they smile it stretches their face too tight. They end up looking like a skeleton. They end up looking scared for their life.

That night Conner calls the two other captains who have had unstable players. Winnie Hess says over and over again that everything was fine, it went away eventually. Ziwa Mueller says that everyone who got hit over on the Talkers is complaining, but it’s good-spirited complaining. They both say that there’s nothing to worry about.

But Conner remembers the first feedback, and reality blinking so that Paula Mason was no longer from Chicago, metaphysically speaking. She was so sure that there was something more, some consequence that hadn’t happened yet. There wasn’t one. But she’s not stupid enough to think there won’t be one now.

It’s two weeks before she’s proven right. Conner’s in her office at the stadium, working on something or other when Mason bolts upright and says “Jesus goddamn shitting Christ.”

Conner glances up and frowns. “Any reason you’re profaning the Lord’s name this badly?”

Mason shakes her head, face ashen. “Check BNN.”

Conner opens the article and reads in silence. Debt. Chains. Three incinerations. They’re already calling it Ruby Tuesday. A catchy name for three people dying.

“Hell,” Conner mutters. She needs to call — well, shit, she can’t call Mueller because they were so sure there wouldn’t be problems, and Cookbook was the captain of the Tigers. “Alright then.”

“Sam,” Mason says, with an urgency to it.

“What about them? It wore off, they’re fine.”

“They’re going to be upset and you know it.”

Conner does know it. Mason’s been doing great as the deputy captain, the go-between for people who would rather talk to her than directly to Conner. Which is everyone except Griffith, Ronan, and Sam. Sam Scandal doesn’t give two shits if she’s maternal, they talk to her anyways.

“I’ll call them,” Conner says finally. “You let me know if anything else happens.”

Mason nods. Conner slips out of the office, phone already at her ear as she heads through the locker room.

Sam picks up on the first ring. “Cap’n,” they say, not even bothering with fake good spirits. “‘M’fine, you don’t—”

Conner doesn’t know what she’s going to say until she says, all in a rush, “You come over to mine and I’ll make you dinner.”

It’s the most pointless thing she could offer. Sam’s the sweetest person on the team, incredibly funny, likes to play the heel in front of the cameras, actually excited about turning thirty soon, an all around nice person who has friends and family they could be spending time with. There’s no reason for her to offer.

But whatever she expects, it’s not for Sam’s breath to hitch. “Yes’m,” they say, and then quickly follow it up with, “Thank you. That… sounds nice.”

Conner has long since let go of any idea that dinner with her is nice, or pleasant. Frank used to call her an acquired taste even back before the divorce. But maybe what Sam doesn’t need is nice or pleasant. Maybe the best she can do is make sure this is normal.

“I’ll swing by the store and get whatever you want,” she says. “You just text me. Got it?”

“Got it.” They pause. “Actually, could you… are you near my apartment? I could just come with you.”

Conner closes her eyes for a second. It’s been a long time since she had someone to get groceries with. “Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, I can do that.”

A month later, Jaylen hits Conner in the shin. For the first couple seconds the only thing Conner can think is That hurt like a motherfucker, because it did. Undead or not, Jaylen Hotdogfingers pitches like a beast.

And then the instability hits.

It doesn’t hurt, not the same way that her knee is aching as she limps to first base. She shifts her weight from foot to foot, testing how it feels. She always got vertigo easily. Back in her coaching days there was a competition in Denver and she spent the whole time altitude-sick and avoiding the mountains. This doesn’t feel like that, but that’s the closest she can get to it. She’s not quite dizzy but she’s off-kilter. She’s still solid but not as solid as she should be.

She makes a run for second and gets caught, thank god. Seb helps her limp back to the dugout, just for a minute between innings. Everyone’s staring at her.

“We’re fielding,” Conner says, voice a little rougher than she intends. “Get out there, c’mon.”

The team all filters out to the field, Leach heading straight for the pitching mound. The other four pitchers give her looks but they don’t say anything. Sam pauses long enough to squeeze her hand as they walk past, a sweet gesture that feels completely foreign to her.

Mason, predictably, stays behind. She has a first aid kit all laid out, and she looks at Conner expectantly. “Sit down and roll your pantleg up.”

Stubbornness comes second to medical treatment, so Conner sits down and rolls her pantleg up so Mason can see her leg. There’s not a bruise yet, but there’s a crackling, thrumming layer of blue electricity where the pitch hit her. “That normal?”

“About as normal as it gets,” Mason murmurs. She pokes a finger at the energy, and Conner yelps at the sudden pain. Mason takes her hand back and frowns. “Did that hurt you?”

“Yes, damn it,” Conner snaps. “You think I yelled like that for fun?”

“I didn’t feel anything,” Mason says. She says it like it’s a mystery. Some kind of knot to unpick and not Conner being marked for fucking death.

She stands up abruptly, rolling her pants back down. Mason frowns, but Conner doesn’t wince even as she rolls the compression socks up over the bruise. “Play must continue,” she says, and if her voice is shakier than normal then at least Mason’s not dumb enough to point it out. “Pack that kit up and let’s go.”

“Conner,” Mason says. Conner doesn’t wait to hear where she’s going with that, just spins on her heel and goes out to the field.

Seb and Sky both get hit. Ziwa Mueller calls. So does Hiroto Wilcox. So does Drac on the Mills, and Dogwalker on the Dale. Solidarity among captains, or some shit like that.

Conner’s lists are getting longer. She’s trying to check on Seb and Sky. Jess is fresh out of the shell, not that Conner noticed, and she keeps threatening to fly down between games, and Conner hasn’t figured out how to deal with that yet. Everyone’s giving her weird looks. It reminds her of when the gossip mill at the university picked up on the fact that Coach Wallace was getting divorced. When she started going by Coach Haley the next year. The eyes on her, wherever she went.

She has things to do. But she thinks, fuck it, since she’s on death watch she can play with her to-do list a little bit. So she puts Mason in charge of team morale and schedules a cookout for the next night, a real big bash just in case. And then she goes home by herself, despite the protests from Mason and Sam, because she has things to do.

Well. Two things to do.

Letty doesn’t pick up when she calls. Conner waits five minutes and calls again, and this time goes straight to voicemail. Letty always hated answering the phone. Conner always hated leaving voicemails.

“Letitia,” she says. “I’m not expecting you to call back. Just wanted to say—” she cuts off with a frustrated sigh. Fuckin’ voicemail. “No, actually, if you wanna hear it, you call me back.”

She’s not going to call back. Conner knows that. She doesn’t let herself think about it as she hangs up.

Luke, though, Luke answers the phone. “Ma,” he says warily. “Saw you on the news.”

“I bet,” Conner answers. “How’ve you been, sweetheart?”

“Don’t do any of that crap, Ma, tell me why you’re calling or else hang up.”

“You’re my kid, alright,” Conner mumbles before she can think better of it. Luke makes an irritated noise, and she rolls her eyes. “Fine. I am calling to see if you’d be interested in coming over to the house after the season.”

There’s a long pause before he says, flatly, “Really.”

“Really. Not a meet-the-team thing, just a mother-and-son dinner.”

“Ma, come on. An offer that you make when you think you’re about to die is barely an offer at all.”

“It’s an offer I mean.”

“And that’s why you haven’t called in five years?”

Conner closes her eyes. She should’ve known it would go like this. “You and your sister are both invited,” she says as evenly as she can. “That’s all I called to say.”

“Course it is,” Luke mutters. “Well, my two-year-old doesn’t do great in cars, so I won’t be taking you up on that. Call me when it’s not life or death and maybe I’ll think about it.”

Conner blinks, hard. “Your two-y— Lucas Benjamin Wallace, are you telling me I’m a grandmother?”

“Far as I’m concerned, you ain’t shit,” Luke says, and yeah, that really is her kid. “You meet him on my terms, not on yours.”

“Luke—”

“I hope you don’t die,” he says, and the sincerity throws her off balance just enough that she’s not expecting it when he hangs up.

They have the cookout the next day. Seb dies the day after that.

Conner doesn’t talk to Gallup Crueller for a few days. Doesn’t have the heart to do it.

Instability wears off and play continues, because play always fuckin’ continues. Sky’s in worse spirits than ever. Gallup’s having a hard time. Sam’s not smiling as much. It’s all the little things that Conner notices, and she knows that she should be a captain about it so that they can come together and move on. But it feels impossible. Even Mason’s floundering a little bit. Mason, the one who’s here to be the feelings person, is floundering.

The tension doesn’t break till a dozen games later. It’s a completely normal game against the Fridays. Peanut weather. Not even too bad. Conner’s in the dugout, working on something or other just like always. She doesn’t realize that anything’s gone until she hears Mason shout something.

Conner’s head whips up. Mason’s fine, standing on first base. Across the field, though, one of the Fridays is down. She can hear the stadium announcer say something or another about allergies.

“Does anyone have an Epi-Pen?” Mason is calling. She’s stuck on first, and trying to stray too far might mean she’s the next to get a peanut down the throat. But she’s trying anyway. “You want to inject it in his thigh, don’t worry about clothes — try and elevate his legs, just give it a minute.”

“She ought to write a guide,” Conner mutters absently. “She knows what she’s doing.”

Griffith gives her a strange look. “It happened to her,” he says, and Conner’s world tilts sideways for a brief second. “Don’t you remember? It was all over the news, three of the Firefighters had reactions in one game.”

That, at least, catches on the fabric of Conner’s memory. But she didn’t realize that it was Mason. “She ought to,” Conner starts again, and then stops. There’s nothing she can say that’ll matter.

When Mason makes it back to the dugout at the end of the inning, she’s tight-lipped and somber in a way she rarely is. Conner meets her at the entrance with her water bottle and holds it out. Mason takes it and drinks in silence and this isn’t right, the two of them don’t do silence like this.

“Come with me after the game,” Conner says. She doesn’t know what possesses her to say it, but Mason nods, and Conner nods back, and play continues.

She half expects Mason to go home anyways, but when Conner makes it out of the stadium after the game, Mason is leaning against the bed of her truck. “What’re we doing?” she asks, sounding exhausted.

Conner lets out a breath. “We made a deal,” she says, “that the next time I wanted to drive into nowhere, I’d take you with me. So we’re going out.”

Mason looks at her for a long minute before sighing. “Conner.”

“Get in the fuckin’ truck,” Conner says amiably, and climbs into the driver’s seat. She’s not at all surprised when Mason gets in the passenger seat.

It’s a quiet drive out, something like an half an hour outside of Dallas. Mason doesn’t say anything, just fiddles with the hem of her jersey, mouth twisted in a grimace. Conner does her best not to let it be an uncomfortable kind of silence. She has a place in mind but they end up stopping before that, because there’s a decently dark stretch of desert.

Conner pulls off the highway and then off the road altogether. “You wanna go outside?”

Mason nods, so subtle that she nearly misses it. Conner has to lead the way but the two of them end up sitting in the flatbed. Conner even puts a blanket on the bed so it’s not as dirty, and they look up at the stars together.

“What was that you were saying last time?” Mason says abruptly. Conner glances over, but Mason’s looking up at the sky, frowning slightly. “About spinning in circles?”

Conner snorts. “Can’t do that anymore. I think I’d have a seizure.”

“Yeah, I was gonna say, I think I’m gonna pass out just from looking and they’re not even moving.”

“We’re old, Mason. Twinkling lights might kill you.”

“We should be so lucky,” Mason mutters. “Better that than an ump.”

“I’d rather just die in my sleep.”

Mason looks at her sidelong. “You, really?”

“What’d you expect?”

“I thought you’d want… something high-octane.”

Conner shakes her head. “I do enough shit while I’m awake,” she answers. “I work all the damn time. If I’m dying, I don’t want to know it’s coming.”

“We should be so lucky,” Mason says again, but the humor’s gone. “Conner?”

Conner swallows. “Yeah?”

“Don’t die in your sleep if you can help it.”

There isn’t a moment where Conner decides to turn and kiss Paula Mason. It’s stupid, it’s illogical, it’s dangerous to get this attached when they could die at any moment, it’s the reason she stays at a distance but there’s no distance left. The only distance is between them and the stadium. The only distance in the world that could ever matter is the way Paula’s mouth opens underneath hers, the shrinking distance as Paula threads a hand through Conner’s hair, the space between them and the stars and the rest of the world growing and growing until it’s just them for miles. It’s warm, Texas-humid and sweaty, and Conner could not give less of a damn about anything. Nothing matters but the two of them.

All that’s bullshit, naturally. But it’s the sweetest bullshit Conner’s had in a long time.

They don’t lose anybody else that season. It’s easier to keep spirits up. Conner finally introduces herself to Gallup Crueller and invites her to her first ever Steaks cookout. Sam mans the grill by themself, with minimal interference from Conner, and the food’s pretty good to boot.

It’s a golden, shining end to the season, which means Conner spends the whole time on edge. But it’s not as bad as it could be. They miss the playoffs, which is almost definitely safer than another game against the undead pitcher.

Election day comes and goes and nothing touches the Steaks. Nothing even hits Jess and Combs, off on other teams. “I don’t remember the last time I saw you this relaxed during an election,” Paula remarks. “Didn’t even call a team meeting.”

“Had bigger things to worry about,” Conner answers. “Or maybe just some things I’d rather worry about.”

Paula’s one of those things and she knows it. They’re not going steady in the way of Conner’s youth, but they’re also not fooling around or anything like that. They’re just two old ladies who drink beer and shoot the shit. They’re just… together, and it’s comfortable. Conner can’t remember the last time anything was comfortable.

“Things like what?” Paula asks, a teasing curve to her mouth.

Conner sighs, put-upon. “Strategy. Teamwork. Take your pick.”

“Mmmm-hm.”

“What we’re doing is teamwork,” Conner says, poker-faced. “For a given meaning of it.”

“Shut the hell up,” Paula says, but she’s laughing. She has a great fuckin’ laugh. Conner’s learning to appreciate it. She’s learning to appreciate a lot of things.

The upside of next season’s beanballs is that nobody dies. The downside is that Conner is going to lose more people on her team. She knows it as soon as she hears the first news about one of the Pies swapping over to Seattle. This is going to touch the Steaks, somehow or another, and Conner’s going to be left dealing with it.

She’s thought about it before, of course. Leaving. Not getting in the truck and driving away, but pink lightning and a screeching noise, the delicate hand of the gods wrapping around her throat on election day. She’s lived in Texas her whole life. She’s been on the Steaks for seven years now and she plans on staying as long as she possibly can. She wasn’t lying when she told Paula she’d rather die in her sleep, but she thinks if she’s going to die standing up, she wants it to be in Dallas.

Paula tries to talk about it once or twice. Conner doesn’t ever answer her questions. Conner doesn’t want to talk about it. Doesn’t want to deal with it at all, if she can help it.

But she can’t help it. Because six days deep into the season, reality blinks, and then Rai Spliff is manning second base wearing a Steaks jersey.

“Shit,” Rai says. There’s a static fuzz to her face that makes Conner’s calf tingle, in the spot that she has a bruise that just won’t quite heal right. “Hell. Did I just—”

“Yeah,” Conner says. “Sorry, kid.”

Rai stares at her. “I have to leave Philly?” she says, voice small. Conner’s seen her before, all razzle-dazzle and shenanigans, roller skates and wielding a bat in each hand and a laugh that sounds like it’s out of a movie. All that spark is gone now.

“We’ll get you settled in,” Conner says. It’s not an answer because there’s no answer she could give that would be enough. “I’m Conner Haley. I’m the captain. Paula will give you a hand.”

Rai looks for a moment longer before letting out a breath. “Sorry about your teammate.”

Conner finally spares a moment to glance at home plate, just in time to watch Summers Pony strike out swinging. She winces. “She’ll be fine,” Conner says, with more confidence than she feels. “One thing at a time.”

The inning’s over, and it’s time for the Steaks to head back to the dugout. Conner catches Paula’s eye from across the field, and Paula starts making her way over immediately.

“It’s gonna be fine,” Conner says one more time. “Talk to Paula. I’ve got work to take care of, I’ll talk to you after the game.” And with that she heads to the dugout, and pretends she can’t feel Rai Spliff watching her go.

They play one game against Jaylen Hotdogfingers all season. Just one. Nine innings. Nine innings and Jaylen doesn’t hit someone every game, so they could be safe. Nine innings and every time Conner steps up to bat her calf aches, although it doesn’t stop her from hitting a double in her first at-bat.

She always works through games, but not this one. If someone’s going to get hit, she wants to see it. She wants to know who, she wants to know where, she’s going to help Paula with the first aid afterwards. Blaseball is all randomness and chaos and there’s no point to always looking, but it’d be stupid not to watch on a game when she can see it coming.

But the Steaks aren’t afraid. Conner can tell by the way they play. They don’t win, not even close, but nobody flinches when they’re up against Jaylen. Even Sam meets her eyes steadily as they bat Conner in for a run. Even Rai grins, teeth bared in something that could almost be a smile, and then hits a home run.

Conner doesn’t go in much for pride, but when the top of the ninth rolls around and it’s their last turn at bat, she gathers the team around. “Good job out there,” she says quietly, and everyone knows what she means. They all look relieved, even relaxed. “Let’s bring it home.”

Sky’s up first, and hits a grounder within three pitches. Conner can feel her shoulders relaxing, even as Paula heads out. She even murmurs a quick “Knock ‘em dead,” something for just them alone as Paula moves past her. She gets a bright answering grin.

Conner’s watching. Actually watching. Which means she sees with perfect clarity as Jaylen winds back and then wings her first pitch directly at Paula’s collarbone.

The fans gasp. Griffith swears loudly and Rai swears quietly and Sam gasps, and Conner opens her mouth but no sound comes out. She wants to scream. She wants to charge the fucking mound. She wants to ask someone about first aid for collarbone and shoulder injuries, because that looked like it hurt, and if it hurt when it was Conner’s leg then she can only imagine how Paula’s feeling right now.

But she can’t say anything. She only watches, fingers flexing into fists and straightening back out, as Paula takes the walk to first base. One of her hands is gripping her shoulder, but nobody pulls her aside to check on her. Conner wonders idly if the Garages know anything about how to deal with being hit by a pitch. They’re the only ones who don’t have to worry about it.

The rest of the game is a blur. Cory and Rai go up and hit outs, and Paula heads back to the dugout without saying anything to anyone. Sam’s at the entrance to the dugout with the first aid kit, but Paula waves them off. None of the Garages come over to shake hands, and Conner would normally push for hospitality but not after that shit, so she sends everyone else into the locker room.

And then it’s just them. Paula and Conner and the distance between them.

“How is it?” Conner asks when her voice finally returns to her.

“Hurts like a bitch,” Paula admits, and Conner smiles, involuntary and not out of good humor. “This what it felt like for you?”

“Not sure. Probably.”

“It’s a miracle you could walk.”

“Rai might have advice,” Conner offers. “If you need it.”

Paula nods slowly. She meets Conner’s eyes, looking serious. “What’s tomorrow’s forecast?”

She doesn’t have to look. She knows the answer. “Feedback.”

“Fuck,” Paula mutters. “Well. Not everyone goes.”

“You got something against Seattle?”

Paula gives Conner a look, not an are-you-stupid look, not an isn’t-it-obvious look, not even a don’t-fuck-around look. It’s a look that Conner can’t read, even though she wants to. She wants to so badly.

“Got something in favor of Dallas,” Paula says at last. There’s a proper Texan drawl to her voice now, lazy consonants bumping up against flat Chicago vowels. It’s a nightmare. Conner has listened to some of Paula’s old work as a radio broadcaster, which Paula’s never allowed to know about, and she was struck by how different her voice sounded. How it’s changed over time.

“Dallas is pretty great,” Conner offers weakly, and then the last barrier crumbles and she steps forward. Paula catches her in an embrace, and Conner does her best not to cling and clings anyways. She thinks of Jess and Combs, of Kirby and Summers, of all the people who aren’t gone but still aren’t here, relegated to phone calls when she has time and she never has the time but this is Paula and maybe that should be different, is it worth being different—

“Breathe,” Paula says, and Conner takes a deep, shuddering breath and does her best not to sob. “Breathe, Con. We’ll get there.”

“Fuckin’ bullshit, we will,” Conner mutters, but she tries to breathe anyways.

It’s quick, in the end. Paula’s first at bat. She steps up and then gasps, and the world goes pink, and then Allie Abbott is there, wide-eyed, gripping his bat with bloodless knuckles.

Paula’s playing shortstop. She looks at the Steaks dugout. Conner looks away.

Allie ends up on base, so it’s a hot minute before he gets back to the dugout. He looks angry, drenched in a certain type of unhappiness that Conner knows acutely. She hangs back for a minute, waiting, and then she remembers: Paula’s not here to do the introductions. Because Paula’s on the Garages now.

But before she can say anything, Sam steps forward, graceful as anything. “Do you need to get anything from your dugout?” they say, and it’s not the clipped businesslike tone Conner would’ve taken and it’s not the mushy Midwestern ethos that Paula would’ve used. It’s something of their own, and Conner feels a spike of pride pushing between her ribs like it’s trying to rip her apart.

Allie looks at them for a moment and then shakes his head. “It probably came over here in the blip,” he says, voice rough.

Sam nods sympathetically. “Welcome aboard. I’m Sam, I’m—” they finally think to look at Conner. “Uh.”

“Deputy captain,” Conner says. She sounds a little choked-off, feels a little distant. “Hey, Allie.”

He nods. “Hey. Sorry about…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Conner says, because it’s not like it’s Allie’s fault. He probably wants to be here as badly as Conner wants him here, which is to say not at all. “Sam’ll get you taken care of after the game.”

Someone on the field strikes out, and the inning ends. Conner looks out at the field and makes a snap choice, says “Scuse me” and heads out before she can second guess it.

Paula’s still standing between second and third base, looking lost. A couple of the Garages were heading towards her, but they all back off when they see Conner coming. When Paula notices her, she frowns. “What are you—”

“I’m not sure,” Conner admits. “We’re in Seattle.”

“I noticed.”

“That means I don’t have my truck with me, so I can’t kidnap you and see how far we can drive.”

“I think we’d just end back up at the stadium again.”

“I think it’s worth a shot.”

Paula smiles, just barely. “Con, you don’t have to—”

“You’d better keep in touch,” Conner says. That’s enough to get Paula to stare in shock. “I mean it. Not… not business calls like I do with other people.”

“Pleasure calls?”

“That sounds like a euphemism. I don’t know how y’all do it in Seattle, but—”

Paula bursts out laughing. It’s a terrible sound. She sounds like she’s dying or crying or screaming. Conner wants to hear it for the rest of her life. “You’d better answer when I call.”

“I’ll do my best,” Conner promises. She works, she works all the damn time, she works when she’s out with friends and she made grilling a part of her job and she worked through Stevie getting incinerated, but this— it’s something to put down the work for. Not a guarantee. But some kind of distant star for her to search for. Some kind of hope.

“You’d better,” Paula says warningly. “Because if you keep ignoring me, I’ll get the whole team to cold-shoulder you.”

“You could,” Conner admits, and the flash of surprise on Paula’s face makes her feel warm inside. It’s so much easier to say these things now that there’s a line between them. Now that they’ve gotten the distance back and it can’t be picture-perfect. “You were a good deputy, Mason.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Paula says, with some real emotion behind it. “I’m not dead. Wherever you and I end up this season, there’s one thing that’s going to be constant: I will kick your goddamn ass if you quit talking to me. Deal?”

“Deal,” Conner says. And she thinks she means it.

They arrange a cookout after the next home game to welcome Allie onto the team. And “they” is mostly Sam, although Conner signs off on it because it’s going to be at her house.

She doesn’t go back to her hotel room. Instead she walks, wanders through the city for a mile, maybe more. She finds a park when it’s late, a little green spot in the midst of everything, and sits down on a bench. She has texts from Paula, which she answers, and then she texts Sam to let them know that she’s going to be busy for a bit, and then— then—

Luke answers on the first ring. “Ma?” he says warily.

Conner takes a breath. “You told me last time it couldn’t be life or death. Right?”

“Right,” Luke says warily. “What—”

“I’m not dying, so you can relax.”

“Ma.”

“If you are so inclined,” she says, and it feels like Paula’s voice in her mouth and that makes it easier, “if you want. I have room in my house for you. And partners and kids and whatnot. Season ends in a month and a half. Bring them to the city, make a trip out of it.”

The line is quiet for so long that she has to check if the call has dropped. Finally, finally, Luke says, “I’ll think about it.”

“Thank you,” Conner says. “Let me know.”

“I will. Bye, Ma.”

“Bye, Luke.” She pauses a second and tacks on, “I love you,” but the call’s already over.

It’s not raining in Seattle, for once. Conner settles in on the park bench. It’s not quite sunset yet, but it’s getting there, and she’s got a good view.

Paula picks up on the first ring. “Conner—”

“Come watch the sunset with me.”

“What?”

“The sun’s setting.”

She splutters for a second. “Did you get replaced by an alternate when I wasn’t looking?”

“The world didn’t end,” Conner says, and it doesn’t make sense but it does. “Come watch the sunset with me.”

Paula exhales. “Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, okay. I’ll be right there.”

It’s not as good as the stars in the bed of Conner’s truck. But it’s as good as it can get right now.

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