The Dugout(102)

Milly: Miss you, Carson.





“This is fucking bullshit,” I say, slamming my suitcase on the floor and popping open a beer before flopping down on the couch I share with Knox. “I get called up, don’t play, and then sent back down to this hellhole? What the fuck?”

“It’s how the game is played. Rivera is still viable at second on the Bobbies. They’re not about to get rid of him just yet.”

“He sucks,” I spit out, my anger taking over. “He can barely fucking bunt. They need him gone.”

“Dude, your veins in your forehead are dancing. Maybe take a chill pill.”

“Fuck this.” I stand and take off to my room, needing time away from everything.





Milly: You were called up. That’s so exciting.

Milly: What did it feel like? Were you beside yourself?

I stare at her text, my anger boiling over. Why the fuck is she doing this? I should have blocked her fucking number before now.

Carson: Lose this number and get a hint. I don’t want to fucking talk to you.

I drop my phone on my mattress and push my hands through my hair, instant regret hitting me. Fuck, I haven’t talked to her in almost a year and that’s what I say to her?

Maybe I should apologize. I go to reach for my phone when something stops me.

No, I should leave it at that because maybe this will help her realize that she needs to move on. That she needs to stop, that she needs to let go. I’m not the same man she once knew.

I briefly think of her and see her beauty, and her perfect dimples—

Stop. He deserves your complete focus. This is for him.

I’m not the same man she once knew.

What’s done is fucking done.





JUNE

Smack.

Crack—smack.

Wipe brow, replace ball.

Crack—smack.

“How long are you going to be in here?” Knox says, coming up to the cage.

“As long as it takes for me to get out of this slump.”

“Ever think you need a fucking break?”

“Can’t take a break.”

He lifts the nets just as I take another swing. I reach for another ball but he kicks the bucket to the side, scattering them across the cages.

“What the fuck?”

“Stop. Just fucking stop for a goddamn second and take a breath,” he yells. “Look at your goddamn hands. They’re bleeding. You have dark circles under your eyes, and you’re so fatigued that you can’t focus when you’re up to bat. You’re driving yourself to an early grave and straight back to Double-A, where you’ll have a hell of a time climbing back up the ladder.”

Exhausted, I let out a sigh and toss my bat to the side before taking a seat on the ground. “I don’t fucking get it. Why do they keep calling me up but not playing me? Stop fucking with me.”

“Dude, we’ve been a part of this sport for so long, we’ve watched the yo-yo effect of being in Triple-A. That’s the nature of the beast. They use you as a pinch runner here and there, but until Rivera goes down, your time belongs here, which means when you’re here you need to give yourself a break. Coach said he’s benching you tomorrow so you can gather your head.”

“The fuck he is. I can’t take a break. I need to play,” I say frantically. “I’m fine. I just . . . I just need some sleep.”

“You’re not fine. You’re a fucking mess.” Knox takes a seat next to me and says, “It’s been a year. Don’t you think it’s time you finally talk about whatever it is that’s driving you down this one-track-mind road?”

“I have goals.”

“Bullshit. You had goals in college but it was never like this. And what about fucking Milly? Jason told me you broke her heart a couple months ago. What the fuck did you say to her?”

“He said that?” I ask, looking at Knox.

“Yeah. He was checking up on her and asked how things were between you two. You told her to lose your number?”

Guilt consumes me.

“What the fuck did she ever do to you to deserve that kind of treatment?”

“Why is Jason checking up on her?” I ask, my anger coming back in full force. “Does he like her or something?”

“As if it would matter. You never answered her. Wasn’t she the girl who stole your heart? Isn’t that what you told me? So why did you set out to break her spirit?”

“Because . . .” I pause, wiping my hands on my shorts, the broken blisters leaving a trace of blood. “It was too much. I need to focus on my goal. I need to make it to the majors by next year, solidly, a position player, a starter.”

“Why by next year?” Knox asks, his irritation with me growing. “Why does it matter?”

“Because I made a goddamn promise to my dad on his deathbed,” I yell, as a wave of pain bursts past my fa?ade. A sob escapes my lips, and I press my face into my shirtsleeve.

Knox puts his arm around me. Physical contact. Something I haven’t felt since we left his mom’s.

And a switch is flipped.

It’s too much.

The loss of my father.

The loss of a family.

The loss of a dream.