Chapter 1

The air in the garage was a thick, stagnant soup of humidity and the metallic tang of old weights. Caleb gripped the pull-up bar, his knuckles white against the rusted steel. Every time he shifted his weight, a jagged spike of pain shot through his right labrum—the ghost of a ninety-five-mile-per-hour fastball that had ended his life three years too early. He ignored it, jaw clamped shut until his teeth ached, and pulled.

It was mid-July in Austin, and the sun beat against the aluminum garage door until the interior felt like an oven. Sweat blinded him, stinging his eyes, but he didn't stop. He needed the pain. It was the only thing that felt as real as the career he’d lost.

The side door creaked open, admitting a sliver of blinding afternoon light. Maya stood there, framed by the shimmering heat waves of the driveway. She held a beaded glass of ice water, the condensation dripping onto her thumb.

"Caleb," she said softly. "It’s a hundred and five degrees. Come inside."

"Get out, Maya," he snapped, his voice a gravelly rasp. He dropped from the bar, landing heavily on the rubber mats. His shoulder screamed, a hot, throbbing pulse that made his vision swim.

"You're going to give yourself heatstroke," she countered, stepping into the dim, sweltering space. She didn't flinch at his tone. She never did anymore, which only made him angrier.

"I said get out! I don't need a nurse, and I definitely don't need you hovering." He turned his back to her, grabbing a heavy dumbbell with his left hand and moving toward the bench. His movements were jerky, fueled by a toxic mix of testosterone and self-loathing. "Go find something else to do. Go be a 'perfect wife' somewhere else."

The silence that followed was heavier than the heat. For six months of marriage, Caleb had used his tongue like a brushback pitch—tight, high, and intended to make her retreat. He was a man defined by a box score that no longer existed, and he hated that she saw him in this diminished state.

"We’ve been married half a year," Maya said, her voice dropping to a dangerous, quiet level. "And I think you’ve looked at me—really looked at me—maybe three times. You're being a coward, Caleb. You're using that shoulder as an excuse to be a prick because you're scared that if you stop being 'The Pitcher,' there’s nothing left for me to love."

"You don't know what you're talking about," he hissed. He reached for a seventy-pound plate, intent on proving he was still the alpha in the room. He tried to hoist it onto the rack with his right arm, a move born of pure, stubborn stupidity.

The agony was instantaneous. It wasn't just a pop; it was an explosion of white light behind his eyelids. The weight clattered to the floor with a deafening thud, narrowly missing his toes. Caleb buckled, his knees hitting the mats as he clutched his arm, his breath coming in ragged, pathetic gasps.

He waited for the lecture. He waited for her to walk out and finally admit she was done with his misery.

Instead, he felt the sudden, shocking sting of ice. Maya had moved beside him, pressing the cold glass of water against the burning skin of his neck. She sat down on the grime-streaked floor, pulling his head toward her lap.

"Stop it," he groaned, though the fight was draining out of him. "I’m a mess, Maya. I’m a failure. Look at this." He gestured vaguely at the weights, the garage, his trembling hand.

"I see you," she whispered, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, ignoring the salt and grit of his sweat. She leaned forward until their foreheads touched, forcing him to meet her eyes. "I didn't marry a stat sheet, Caleb. I didn't marry a Triple-A contract. I married the man who spent three hours fixing my car in the rain before we even started dating. I married you."

The "summer agony" that had been building in his chest for years finally cracked. The bitterness didn't vanish, but it shifted, losing its jagged edges. Caleb let out a long, shuddering breath, the tension leaving his good shoulder as he leaned into her. For the first time since the injury, he wasn't a ballplayer in exile; he was just a husband.

"I'm sorry," he muttered into her shoulder, the words feeling heavy and strange. "I’m so damn sorry."

Maya squeezed his hand, her thumb rubbing over his wedding band. "I know. Now, let's get you out of this heat. We have a lot of time to figure out who 'Caleb' is when he’s not on a mound."

He let her help him up. As they walked toward the house, leaving the weights and the ghost of his career in the shadows of the garage, the Texas sun didn't feel quite so much like a punishment. It just felt like summer.