A lot of people think athletes mainly get divorced because of infidelity. While it’s true to some extent, it’s more likely they just can’t adjust to the twice-a-year rapid changes in lifestyle.

Me, on the other hand, I love the change. In the spring, I can’t wait to immerse myself back into baseball. In the fall, I can’t wait to slow down and enjoy the things I didn’t get to all summer long. Things like going to the beach, hanging out with friends, and lazy Sundays.

Some players can’t stand to go to games if they aren’t the ones down on the field. Me—I welcome the chance to be a fan instead of a player. I get caught up in the excitement just like everyone else does. Sitting in the stands makes me feel like a kid again. I only hope some of my enthusiasm will rub off on Murphy.

When she emerges from her building wearing the Hawks shirt I gave her a few weeks ago, I smile. We’re going to watch the Yankees play the Nationals and she’s wearing my team. Not that I’m any better. I’m wearing a Nighthawks ball cap.

As we make our way to the subway to go to Yankee Stadium, I notice how well her scars are healing. Then I look up at the bright afternoon sun and frown. “Please tell me you put on sunscreen.”

Her hand reaches up to touch the scar beneath her eye. “Yes. I did.”

I take my hat off. “That’s not good enough.” I put it on her head. “You need this, too.”

“Caden, no. You need to wear it. You might get recognized. Do you really want to be swarmed at the game?”

We pass by a street vendor and I see something. I smile at Murphy before I pull her to the side and get out my wallet. I pay the proprietor and then tear the tag off the hat before putting in on my head.

Murphy laughs at me. Or, rather, she laughs at my hat. The one that’s embroidered ‘I heart New York’ with a picture of the Statue of Liberty on the back.

“That hat is hideous,” she says. “You need to trade me. I’ll wear the stupid New York hat.”

“Not a chance,” I say, batting her hand away.

“Won’t you be embarrassed if you get recognized?”

“I don’t give a shit what people think about me, Murph. Well, unless they think I’m a bad ball player.”

She shakes her head. “No way would anyone think that, Caden. You are really good.”

I raise my eyebrows at her. “Based on your extensive knowledge of the sport?”

“No.” She swats my arm. “Based on the fans who swarm you wherever you go. Based on the face time you get on ESPN. Based on your Wikipedia page.”

I stop walking and look at her with a smug smile. “You Googled me, Murphy Brown?”

“I was doing research,” she says. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

We arrive at the stadium and are herded in among tens of thousands of other fans. Murphy gets a few stares because of her Hawks attire, other than that, we seem to get lost in the crowd. And that’s just fine by me. We stop at the concession stand and buy a couple of beers and a big salty pretzel. Then I lead her through a tunnel to find our seats.

When we emerge from the tunnel into the open stadium and Murphy sees where we’re going, she stops walking and the person behind her collides into her back.

“Sorry,” she tells him, before leaning against the wall to let people pass.

I see the concern on her face before she sighs, looking at the ground. She’s scared to go back out in the stands. I wonder if she thought we’d be in a suite. Maybe I should have prepared her. Maybe I should have asked her. Maybe I should have gotten a damn suite.

Shit. I screwed up.

I lift her chin so she has to look at me. “Murph, it’s going to be okay. The odds of you getting hit by another ball have to be one in a million.”

She looks out at the stadium and then back to me, fear in her eyes.

“I’ve got your back, Murphy. I promise I’ll never let anything happen to you.”

She nods unconvincingly, so I grab her hand and turn back in the other direction. “Come on. I’m sure we can find a suite to watch the game in.”

She doesn’t let me pull her. “No. Suites are expensive.”

I raise my brows at her.

She rolls her eyes. “I know you probably have more money than God, but that doesn’t mean you should spend it frivolously.” She looks back out into the stadium. “It’s fine. I’ll be fine.” She looks up at me. “Just promise you’ll try to catch a ball if it comes our way.”

I laugh. “Try to catch it? Have you read my Wikipedia page? Because if you have, you’d know that I’m ranked in the top five catchers in the league. I think you’re safe with me.”

“You’re right. I’m being silly,” she says. “Okay, let’s go.”

I lead the way to our seats behind the dugout on the third base line.

Halfway through the game, it dawns on me that the only time Murphy will look at me, or at the scoreboard, or at other fans, is when the ball is not in play. She doesn’t take her eyes off the ball until it’s safely back in the pitcher’s glove. And she flinches every time a foul ball gets within fifty yards of where we are sitting. I guess I can’t blame her.

I take every opportunity to educate her on the game. And she seems genuinely interested in learning about it.

During a change of innings, she takes a long look around the stadium and then turns to me. “I can see why you wanted to sit here instead of in a suite.”

I nod, knowing exactly what she means. Suites are nice, especially in the dead of summer when it can be a hundred degrees outside, but there is nothing like sitting in the stands, being part of the crowd, experiencing the game.

“It’s pretty great, isn’t it?” I ask, hopeful she’ll agree.

“It is now that I know what’s going on,” she says. “But I must admit, it’s not nearly as exciting without you on the field.”

“Yeah, having a personal interest makes it even better.”

“You have no idea,” she says. “I was so nervous every time you came up to bat.”

I study her. “You were?”

She nods, looking out at the sea of people surrounding us. “I don’t know how you do it,” she says. “How do you get up there in front of all these people and not freeze?”

“Says the girl who is a fashion model.”

“Was,” she says, touching the side of her face. “Was a fashion model. And just so you know, I would throw up before every interview or photo shoot.”

Guilt grips my heart. “You will be again, Murphy. If you really want it, it’ll happen.”

“We’ll see,” she says with a casual shrug, not looking as upset as I thought she would. “I’m not even sure that’s what I want anymore.”

“I used to throw up before every game, you know.”

“Really?”

“Yup. I still get nervous. Most players do. I think being nervous makes me a better player. Being nervous means you have something to lose. But I’ve found ways to relax before I take the field.”

“Oh, right. Lexi mentioned something about you having pre-game rituals. What is it that you do? Do you always eat the same meal? Meditate? Watch yourself hit home runs on video?”

I laugh. “No. But you just described some of my teammates.” Before I get into boring her with my pre-game habit, a foul ball pops up and I know it’s headed our way. I can tell from the spin it had coming off the bat that it won’t hit us, but when I glance at Murphy, she looks terrified. I put my arms around her and cover her with my body as a guy three rows down catches the ball.

“It’s okay,” I tell her. “Someone caught it.”

She has a death grip on me as she looks up into my eyes and thanks me for protecting her. Of course I did. I always will.

“I’m never sitting in the stands without you,” she says.

“Are you telling me I have to buy you suite tickets to every game next season?”

“You are not paying for me to sit in a suite, Caden. And I can’t go to every game. That’s ridiculous.”

“The hell it is. I hit a home run in both the games you came to. You’re my good luck charm.”

“Haven’t you hit like twenty-something others this year?”

“Doesn’t matter.” I shake my head. “It’s a superstitious game. If I think you being there is good luck, you will be.”

I hear people cheering around us when two things happen. One: I realize Murphy is still in my arms, and two: Murphy and I are being displayed on the JumboTron for all to see.

“Damn it,” I say, pulling away from her. I grab her hand. “Let’s go.”

I try to protect her from the fans mauling us on our way out. I politely refuse any requests for pictures or autographs as we hurry through the tunnel and make our way outside the stadium. We run down the street and around the corner before we stop and lean against the wall.

Murphy looks at her phone. “Wow,” she says, smiling. “Three whole hours it took them to recognize you. I guess the hat worked.”

I take the touristy hat off my head and throw it into the nearest trashcan before we head out to catch a train back to Murphy’s.

“I had fun today,” she says. “I might even do it again sometime.”

“Absolutely.” I look at my watch. “I’d ask you to join me for dinner, but I kind of made plans.”

She raises an inquisitive brow. “A date?”

“Her name is Laney. She’s a flight attendant. I’ve been out with her twice before. I’m doubling with Sawyer.” I get a bright idea. “Hey, maybe you could come. Triple date.”

She looks at me like I’d asked her to go to the moon with me. “And just who shall I bring?” she asks, laughing. “Oh, how about Tony? Or maybe Corey, the guy who keeps hitting on me at the gym.”

“A guy keeps hitting on you at the gym?”