Swing (Landry Family #2)(4)

Why do I care?

Moseying down the hallway towards the kitchen, I take in the pictures hanging on the walls of the hallway. Pictures of me in different stadiums, with my brothers, my parents, pictures with friends that I can’t even remember the last time I talked to. By all indications, I should feel at home here. This is my house, after all. But . . . I don’t.

I have no idea who hung those pictures. I don’t know what happened to the guys in the pictures I’m with from Savannah. As I peek into a bedroom as I exit the hallway, I sure as hell don’t know what’s in all the boxes stacked against the wall.

Flicking on the kitchen light, the marble countertops sparkle, the bowl of fruit on the island looks perfect. It’s all so . . . odd, like it’s some kind of photoshoot and I’m just wandering around on stage, waiting for someone to whip out a camera and ask me to smile. It’s been this way since I threw the ball to home plate in the last game of the season and heard the rip in my shoulder. The thing is, I don’t know what it is I’m feeling, exactly.

A general unease sits atop me now and I can’t relax. Not like I used to. There’s a dread, maybe a fog, that sort of lingers in the back of my mind. I guess that part of me used to be filled with activity. Usually I’d be on someone’s boat right now, partying and living up the offseason. Now I’m home, for lack of a better word, watching home remodeling shows because my shoulder is fucked. There are no getaways, no quick trips to Mexico, no social events to speak of. Just me and the quiet.

The worst part of it is that I don’t really have a desire to be with the guys. For the first time, it’s unappealing. So unappealing, in fact, that I turned off my work phone, as I call it, and am unreachable to anyone but team management, doctors, and my family. Why take calls from my friends when I know what they want: booze. Boobs. Banal conversation. I’ve been there and done it. Hell, I wrote a few damn chapters in the book on how to do it. But it just feels like those chapters need nothing added to them, and that’s scary as fuck.

Maybe I’m just depressed.

Pulling a box of pizza out of the refrigerator from a couple of days ago, I remove a piece and bring it to my lips. As soon as it hits, my stomach rolls and I toss the slice back in, making the box bounce on the counter. I glance at the clock. It’s late. Really late. There’s only one person awake at this hour that’s acceptable to call. I head into the living room, grab my phone, and listen to it ring.

“Hey, Linc,” Graham answers, his voice as clear as it would’ve been if it was two in the afternoon.

“Do you ever sleep?”

“Good thing I don’t or your ass would’ve just woken me up.”

“Good point,” I chuckle, flopping back on the sofa. “What’s happening in Savannah?”

He blows out a long, deep breath. “Behind at work, actually. My secretary decided that now’s the time to go find love or whatever she’s calling it and now I’m suffering the consequences of her lack of overtime.”

“So she’s getting laid and that pisses you off?”

“No. She’s getting laid and not doing her work and that pisses me off.”

“Fire her,” I offer, putting my feet on the coffee table.

“Yeah, easier said than done,” he mumbles. “She’s worked for me for ten years, and I’m happy she’s . . . happy. No, you know what, I really don’t fucking care,” he laughs. “I just need her to show up and be productive.”

Laughing, I run a hand through my hair. “Tell me how you really feel.”

“I will,” he chuckles. “So, what’s keeping you up? A girl just take off?”

“Do you think that’s all I do? Fuck girls and then fuck off?”

“No,” he says, a hint of hesitancy in his tone. “But I was trying to avoid asking you how the meeting went today. You didn’t call me, and Mom wasn’t completely sold on your story . . .”

His voice trails off and a lump sits at the base of my throat. Even though this is why I called him, to try to work through some of this shit on my mind, it still pokes a hole in that little fucking bubble containing my nerves.

I don’t even know what to tell him without sounding like a pussy. I can go through what the management said, but that’s not the problem. Not the real problem of why I can’t sleep or eat or get myself off the fucking couch unless I have therapy. The real problem is that I feel like I did when I was fifteen years old and broke my leg in the biggest game of the summer league tournament. While my friends played on, then celebrated, I sat in my room and wondered if I’d ever play again.

That’s how I feel. Like a fucking kid. And I’m not about to admit that to Graham.

“What happened, Linc?”

Massaging my temple with my eyes squeezed shut, I feel the muscle in my jaw flex again. “I don’t have a lot of time to pull some magic out of the air before we start discussing my contract. They’re waiting to see how therapy goes, but it’s so fucking unnerving, G.”

“You expected that. You told me while you were here for Barrett’s election.”

“Speaking of Barrett, what’s he been up to?” I say, happy to change the subject.

“What’s he been up to? Up Alison’s ass,” Graham chuckles.

“Just saying—I’d be up every part of her she’d let me.”