The Dugout(99)

“And what if he doesn’t respond? What if I’m a broken record, talking to someone who never wants to talk to me?”

“Then he’s the biggest moron in the world.”

I roll my eyes, a light laugh coming from me. “Helpful.”

He shrugs and then nods at the box between us. “At least I brought cake.”

“Which makes you my favorite brother.”

“I should be your favorite no matter what. I did listen to you the most growing up.”

I wave around his apartment. “And look where it got you.” Jokingly I say, “You’re welcome.”

He chuckles and then grows serious again. “You know what to do, Mills, right?”

“Yeah.” I sigh. “I just hope it works.”





Chapter Twenty-Six





CARSON





JUNE

“Hey,” Knox says, coming up to me in the cages that belong to the Bobcats Double-A team, the Phoenix Studmuffins—fucking stupid-as-shit name. “Were you planning on saying hi?”

I drive my hands through the strike zone and smack the waiting ball off the tee and straight back up the middle.

Without looking at him, I say, “Hi.”

I place another ball on the tee just as Knox lets himself in the cage. I get ready to swing but he steps in front of me and puts a hand to my shoulder.

“Dude, what’s going on? You’ve been in town for three days, but I didn’t even fucking know until one of the guys told me. Were you going to tell me? Do you need a place to stay?”

“I’m good. Now move so I can hit these balls. I have ten more buckets to get through.”

“Ten?” Knox asks, his voice cracking. “Your hands will be raw after ten buckets.

“Don’t care. Move.” I don’t even recognize my voice, it’s robotic, stiff, and rude. But I can’t muster up enough fucks to give. All I care about is training. Feelings are set aside, emotions are useless, because all I have is my talent and a promise. Three years.

If I don’t make it in three years, I’ve failed him.

Being the smart man that he is, Knox steps to the side, but near the bucket. I take a cut off the tee and when I reach for another ball, Knox puts it on the tee for me.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“If you’re doing ten more buckets, then I’m going to help you.”

“I don’t need help.”

I bring my bat up to my shoulder, stare at the ball, and then swing.

“But you need a friend,” Knox says quietly. “I’m not going to let you be alone. Don’t give a shit if you don’t want that. You’re my brother. Not going anywhere.”

I’ve known Knox since we were freshmen in college, and if there’s one thing I know about him, it’s his loyalty. When he says he’s not going anywhere, he isn’t. So instead of fighting him over being here, I say, “Don’t fucking talk.”

“Fine by me. Not like I wanted to talk to your sour ass anyway.”

Normally, that would make me laugh, but I don’t feel anything, not even a hint of a smile. I am completely dead inside.





Milly: How’s Phoenix? I heard it’s gorgeous there. Well, I heard Sedona is nice, which is close, right?

Milly: I saw the picture of you in your Studmuffin jersey. It looks good on you. But is it a requirement that you’re not allowed to smile in your pictures?

Milly: I wish you were here right now—I’m in Baltimore watching Cory play—he has me in some executive suite today with some of his sponsors. They have the best hot dogs up here. Have you ever had sauerkraut? Uh, it’s a delight!

Milly: How are you feeling? Want to talk on the phone tonight?





“Hey Carson, it’s Milly, but you probably know that from the caller ID. I was calling to see how everything was going, if you’re settling in to Phoenix. Let me guess, you’re rooming with Knox. I wish I knew you last year, because just seeing your antics on the field made me want to be friends with the both of you. Anyway, if you get a chance, call or text. I’m here for you.





JULY

“Ooof.” My chest glides across the fresh-raked dirt. I pop up on my cleats and throw the runner out at first.

“Nice, Stone,” Radar, our first baseman says, while pointing his glove at me and then tossing the ball in my direction. I throw the ball to Knox, who then tosses it to our third baseman and back to the pitcher.

Two outs, one more to go, and then back in the cages for me for at least three more buckets of balls. That’s all I can take at this point. My body is aching, but my constant practice is starting to pay off. I’m leading the team in batting and slugging percentage, and teams are starting to intentionally walk me when runners are on. I hate being walked, but it’s also a backhanded compliment. They’re nervous about my bat.

The next batter steps up to the plate and with the first pitch, number twenty hits the ball back to the pitcher, and the game is over. We line up on the field, give each other high-fives, and head to the dugout. Before I can collect my stuff, a reporter with a microphone pulls me aside.

Fuck. I despise interviews.

“Carson Stone, you went four for four today and drove in five runs. What kind of power do you have behind that bat lately?”