The Trade(122)

“Five months,” I say, feeling the pain of every one of those months ricochet through my chest.

“However many months it’s been, why are you doing this right here, right now?”

“Because I just gained enough awareness and courage to approach you.”

She studies her drink again, not answering right away, but instead, making every breath I take more painful as I wait for her next words.

Finally, she says so quietly, “You devastated me, Cory.” She meets my eyes. “Made me feel worthless.”

Fuck.

My throat tightens, and I feel a cold sweat break out on my back. Recalling that night, when I asked for a break, to press pause, anything to stop the swirling in my head, it blew out of proportion and before I could stop her, she was walking out of my hotel room, out of my life for what seems like forever.

What I wouldn’t give to replay that night, to get out of my head and take a deep breath, realize that everything was going to be okay if I stuck to my girl rather than push her away. What I should have said when she told me I wasn’t the man she deserved.

The man I deserve knows, even through the hard times, that I’m an asset, not a hindrance. He knows that of all the women out there, one who has a professional baseball-playing brother actually understands this more than any other woman. Fuck, how right she was. I don’t need herbal tea, mindfulness, CBT, or fucking salmon five days a week. I need her. I need her strength, her wisdom, her tolerance and understanding that sometimes the game takes over. But also her soft landing place when she sees I need to pull back . . . because she understands the game—me—more than anyone else.

I didn’t know that then, but I do know that now, and I want my time with her. I’m trying my damnedest to earn a moment with her. “Natalie,” I say, feeling just how tight my throat is. “That night, it was . . . fuck, I wish—”

“Hey, there you are,” a male voice says, coming up behind Natalie and placing his hand on her lower back.

Slowly, my eyes travel up a pristine suit to a familiar face. Frustration roars at the back of my throat when I take in the slicked-back hair of Nicholas, the guy from St. Croix.

My gut churns with dread from the possibility of hearing those distressing words . . . this is my boyfriend.

I can feel it in the air, see it in her eyes.

She’s starting to date.

She's starting to date.

A throbbing knot twists and turns in my stomach, as I see Natalie look back at Nicholas with such familiarity that it makes me want to cry out in pure agony.

She’s starting to date.

I’m too fucking late.

Nicholas looks up at me with a genuine smile and holds out his hand. “Cory Potter, great to see you again. You’re having one hell of a season.”

As if my brain switches to autopilot, I reach my hand out, shake his, and say, “Thank you. Nice seeing you again, Nicholas.” I tack on a smile I can barely feel on my lips. “Great event to attend.”

“Our girl did a great job, didn’t she?” the asshole says, making Natalie smile up at him. The look makes bile rise.

Our girl.

Our fucking girl.

Swallowing hard, the pain feeling like razor blades gliding down my throat, I say, “She did great.” I take a step back and say, “I’ll, uh, I’ll let you get back to mingling. Have a good night.”

Natalie gives me a sad smile and watches me back away without another parting word, and as I turn my back on a closed door, I wish she’d call my name, run up to me and say she’ll meet up after the event, that she’ll give me a chance to explain.

But she doesn’t.

She doesn’t pull on my hand or give me one more chance. Instead, I watch her from a distance for a few more minutes until I can’t take the ache tugging on my ribs anymore and I leave, my heart bleeding a trail behind me.





Still July





“Are you okay, man?” Jason asks, sitting next to me on a couch in the locker room. We’re on rain delay, which means we’re playing a waiting game until the umpires believe the conditions are good enough for the ground crew to prepare the field for play.

I hate fucking rain delays because you spend all your time getting your body game ready, only to have to put it on hold and wait, not sure if you’re going to be getting up in fifteen minutes or an hour.

“Fine,” I say, bringing my Gatorade to my lips, a slight shake in my hand.

“You sure?” Jason twists on the couch to face me. “You look pale, dude. Want to go get something to eat?”

“I’m fine. Just . . .” Fuck, the room won’t stop spinning. I blow out a heavy breath and close my eyes but that makes it worse, so I pop them open and try to fixate on the TV in front of me. “Just a little dizzy.”

Jason places his hand on my arm and gets closer, examining me. “Shit,” he mutters before calling out to the guys, “We need a trainer in here, now.” His voice is serious and someone off in the distance is calling one of the trainers over.

The room starts to tunnel in on me. The edges of my vision blur and turn black. The ceiling spins and spins and spins to the point that my stomach rolls. Fuck.

“I uh, need to go to the bathroom,” I say, scooting to the end of the couch.

Jason places his hand on my chest. “Stay seated. You’re white as shit, man. A trainer is coming.”