Page 42 of Curveball: The Baby and the Grump

“Bye, Jackson,” I say, turning from him so he can’t see my tears that I suddenly can’t stop from falling.

“See you around,” he says, and as I make my exit, I let myself glance back over my shoulder at him. The look on his face, one of complete devastation, is one I’m never going to forget.

I run out of the house as fast as I can, jump into my car, and drive off. I don’t know where I’m driving to. I just know I can’t go home. And I can never, ever go back to Jackson Kerr.

CHAPTER 23

JACKSON

The one thing I know for certain is that I categorically do not want to be here. I shouldn’t be at home right now. I should be practicing, or walking, or pitching, or planning, or running, or talking with somebody — or anything other than just sitting at home.

But I’ve been told in no uncertain terms that I have to rest today, that I’m not allowed to go out and damage myself. Under no circumstances am I allowed to damage myself.

After all, our entire future in the World Series rests on tomorrow’s game.

If we don’t win tomorrow, we’re not going to make it. If we don’t win tomorrow, I’m never going to make it. My legacy is going to be nothing.

I just want to be in one World Series. Just one. I don’t even need to win it. I need to feel that crowd, that energy, have that adrenaline flow through my body and consume me until there’s nothing in the whole world that matters except me and the ball and the way it’s going to sail past the batter into a strike. I just need us to get there.

Although when we do get there, I will win it.

More than anything, I want people to hear my name and think, “Yes, that’s the pitcher who got the Prairie Dogs into the World Series. That’s the pitcher who won it all for them. That’s the guy who carried the team to victory and did them proud.”

Ugh! I hate having nothing to do. The boredom is kind of making me want to go to sleep, and I don’t have any better ideas. But it’s five p.m. and if I go to sleep now, I’ll wake up at two in the morning and I won’t be able to go back to sleep, and then I’ll be tired for the game. Not that I think I’m gonna get much sleep tonight anyway. I don’t think my anxiety is going to let me.

It’s stupid to be this worried. I know it is. We’ve been playing great. And we will still be playing great tomorrow. We just have to not choke at the last minute.

Mindlessly I pick up my phone, and before I even think about it, my thumb is hovering over the call button for Freya’s contact.

I lock the phone and toss it away before I can do something I’ll regret. I haven’t spoken to her all week. Not even a single text since she broke up with me. I’ve wanted to, hundreds of times, but I guess I’m just waiting for her to break. I don’t think she will, but somewhere in my heart, I keep hoping I’ll pick my phone up and she’ll want to see me again.

Ever since she broke things off, I’ve been going over and over all our conversations in my head, trying to remember what I said and what she said, to see if I can remember listening to her. The worst bit is, I can’t. I remember baseball, and her being pleased for me, but I can’t remember a single one of her work stories all week.

I’ve gone through some of our old text messages, as if that might make her feel closer to me again, and as I read them, I noticed just how big my blocks of text are and how small hers are. How much I talk and talk and talk, and she listens so graciously, way more graciously than I deserve.

Damnit, she’s right. I needed to do better. How did I not notice this before it was too late? Why did she never tell me?

And now she’s gone, and I can’t even put it right.

I go for my phone again but I don’t want to sink into a spiral of pain and self-hatred, so I put it down once more and cover my face with the pillow.

I don’t really mean to, but I doze off and have a fitful dream.

In it, Freya and I are standing in my kitchen, and she’s telling me those words again. “I just don’t feel like you listen to me. I know you love me, but I don’t feel like you listen.”

She says it all, but instead of standing there mutely, or trying to defend myself like the idiot I am, I say instead, “I know. I’m sorry. I was wrong. Baseball means everything to me, but so do you. I should have taken more care to make real time for you. You mean the world to me Freya, and I really mean it. And if you let me, from now on I mean to show you just how much it’s true.”

I wake with a start, my heart pounding. It’s only been an hour, but I’m definitely not going back to sleep after all that. I can’t deal with having the dreams. I don’t need this kind of stress right now.

What I need is Freya.

I get up off the sofa, stretching and wincing as my back cracks, and wander through the house like a ghost, thinking circular thoughts about everything that’s happened. I need to say sorry. At the very least, I need her to hear that I am so truly, honestly sorry.

How to get her attention, though?

There’s no easy way to reach out to her because for all I know, she never wants to so much as hear my name again. And I think I’ve finally learned my lesson about making it all about me. I have to say something that’s going to prove I care more about her than I’ve ever shown before. But I don’t want to sound demanding or desperate.

I need her back, but I don’t care how. She was my friend before anything else, and hot as she is, I want my friend back more than anything. Hot girls are everywhere. Freya is one-of-a-kind.

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