The Dugout(97)

“Carson.”

He doesn’t look at me so I step forward and grab his head, forcing him to look me in the eyes. “What aren’t you telling me?”

He licks his lips, his jaw shifting. It’s odd, because this is the same face I’ve been staring at for the last few months, but the soul inside is something I don’t recognize.

“You’re going to make me late.”

“No,” I say, my voice cracking. “You’re not leaving here without talking to me. What you must be going through is a lot, and I wish I could understand—”

“You can’t,” he snaps. “You can’t come close to understanding what I’m feeling. You have a family, a mom and a dad, so you would have no fucking clue how to even come close to relating to me.”

The blow hits me hard but I stand tall, not letting him bowl me over with words. “I know, Carson, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to try to help you, to hold your hand, to be there for you. You lost your dad—”

“I don’t have time for this bullshit. I have to get to Phoenix to train.”

This bullshit? When has our relationship ever been bullshit? Ever since we got together, he’s treated me with respect, with kindness, like I’m the most important thing that’s ever happened to him, and within two weeks that’s all washed away? How?

He starts to walk away but I catch up to him again, blocking the loft door. He towers over me and has at least eighty pounds of muscle over me, but I’m going to give it my best shot to keep him here, to talk to me.

“So is that it? You’re just going to walk away? After everything we’ve been through, you’re going to throw in the towel without talking about it?”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“There sure as hell is. You at least owe it to me to tell me to my face that this is over, if that’s what you want. It’s not what I want though, furthest thing from it. I want to work through this with you, be by your side. I want to be your backbone, your cheering section, the person you lean on when days on the road are hard. It might be from a distance at times, but we talked about this, we can make it work. We’re committed to making it work.”

He looks off to the side and sighs. Keeping his voice low, he says, “I’m not.”

My pulse pauses, the heaviness in my chest growing with each attempt at a breath. My skin starts to prickle and a foreboding, sickening feeling starts to twist and turn within me. This isn’t happening, is it? Please tell me I’m losing my mind, that this is a bad dream, but when Carson looks me in the eyes and once again all I see is a broken man with nothing but emptiness in his hollow eyes, I realize, this isn’t a dream. This is very much reality. I’m about to have my heart stomped on.

“You’re . . . y-you’re not what?” My lip trembles and I bite down on it to stop the quivering.

He straightens his shoulders. “I’m not committed to this, to us.”

My teeth chatter, my pulse rings through my ears, and I can feel my body sway to the side.

“Why?” I ask, my voice meager, my strong fa?ade disappearing.

“I don’t have time for this, for you, for a relationship.” He’s talking, but it sounds robotic. There is no feeling behind his words. “I need to train. I need to focus on baseball, so a relationship is not an option.”

“I can help—”

“What are you not understanding? I don’t want to be with you anymore,” he snaps so harshly that I’m forced to take a step backward.

His words hang heavy in the air as a small tear floats down my cheek. “Carson,” I whisper.

But he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he moves past me, bumping me in the shoulder on the way out. His heavy footsteps carry down the stairs, his departure swift. It isn’t until I hear the slamming of the door that connects to the loft building that I fall to the ground, head in my hands, and sob.

I cry for our loss, for the loss of what we had.

I cry for my broken and bleeding heart.

But most importantly, I cry for the shell of a man I used to know, the man who just walked out of the loft—my life—without a backward glance.





“Hello?” I answer my phone, my voice a distant mess.

“Mills, what’s going on?”

That’s all it takes, the combination of Cory’s concern and the one question that can tear someone apart when they’re on the brink of an emotional breakdown.

Unable to stop, I disintegrate into a heap of sobs. I sent a text to Cory, letting him know I canceled my flight to Topeka and that I would pay him back. Instead of texting, he called.

“Hey, talk to me. Is everything okay? Did the boys not like the proposal? I will seriously kill them.”

“No.” I shake my head, even though he can’t see me. “They loved it. They agreed to everything, even making me a partner in their business. The meeting was perfect.”

“Okay, so that leaves one more factor: Carson. Did he finally call you back?”

“No. I ran into him at the loft when I was going to get him some more clothes.”

“What? And he didn’t tell you?”

“No. I had no idea he was back in town. If I didn’t run into him, I don’t think he would have told me.” Actually, I know he wouldn’t have told me. I honestly think he would have ghosted me, like he’s ghosted everyone else.