Page 51 of Heavy Hitter

Ike calls from New York the morning of Game 6 against the Astros. “You all right?” he asks gruffly, the city clanging away in the background. “You need help?”

“Yeah,” Jimmy jokes, “that’d be great, actually. You want to come down to the clubhouse, give me some pointers on my swing?”

“Cute.”

“We’re playing pretty well, actually,” Jimmy teases. “We’re in the ALCS. Dunno if you’ve seen on the news.”

“I’ll wait ’til you’re finished,” Ike says, then keeps talking anyway. “I don’t mean with the baseball, dumbass. I mean with the... romantic shenanigans.”

That makes Jimmy laugh. “I’m all right,” he says, which isn’t untrue, strictly speaking. “I can handle the romantic shenanigans on my own.” He rubs a hand over his beard. “Anyway, I gotta tell you, I appreciate the offer, but you’re a little late. That’s over, anyway.”

“Is it?” Ike asks. “That’s too bad. She was very definitely out of your league.”

“Thanks for that.”

“Just saying. You doing all right?”

Jimmy shrugs even though Ike can’t see him. “I’ll live.”

“I’m sure you will,” Ike says agreeably. “So what’s next, then?”

“Well, I’ve got the World Series coming up, hopefully. So that’ll probably eat the next couple of weeks.”

“Oh, you’re on fire today.” Ike snorts. “I’m talking about after the Series.”

“Oh.” Jimmy considers. “I don’t know. A vacation, I guess. Double knee replacement. A brand partnership with a company that manufactures glucosamine.”

This time Ike doesn’t even bother to tell him he’s not funny. “I mean it,” he says instead. “You have something planned for yourself? Are you getting a dog? I’ve known you since you were a kid, Jimmy. You are not the kind of guy who is going to go gracefully into retirement.”

Jimmy scowls. “I have a dog,” he protests grouchily, though it’s not like he doesn’t know what Ike is getting at. It’s been staring at him, the future, open-mouthed and hungry. He’s not entirely sure it won’t eat him alive. “Two, actually. At the farm.”

“Good for you.” Ike is unmoved. “I mean it. It’s hard for a lot of guys after, especially if you’re, you know. Unattached.”

“I hear you.” Jimmy grits his teeth. He doesn’t want to talk about feelings with Ike. He doesn’t want to talk about feelings with anyone, actually. It’s a thing that happened, him and Lacey. It’s over now. It’s fine. He’s not about to fall apart over it.

“All right,” Ike says finally, still sounding less than convinced. “I’ll see you out there.”

“See you out there,” Jimmy promises, and hangs up. He keeps the phone in his hand, though—turning it over and over like a worry stone, feeling the smooth, warm weight of it in his palm. At last he opens his contacts and scrolls to Rachel’s name. He stares at the screen for a long time, his thumb hovering over the button to dial. Then shoves the thing back into his pocket altogether and takes the elevator downstairs to his car.

***

RACHEL LIVES WAY OUT IN A POSTWAR DEVELOPMENT IN TOWSON, blocks and blocks of tidy raised ranches all in a row. The house is small, maybe half the size of the new-build McMansion she and Jimmy lived in when they were first married, with a Radio Flyer trike in the driveway and red geraniums in the window boxes. A trio of pumpkins sit crookedly on the front steps.

Jimmy parks on the street, then heads up the front walk to ring the doorbell, looking uneasily over his shoulder as he goes. It feels abruptly like a donkey move on his part to have come out here in broad daylight, knowing anyone could have followed him. Knowing anyone could have seen. There haven’t been a ton of photographers outside his house the last few days—Lacey’s fans know she’s back in LA, and none of them, it turns out, are particularly interested in Jimmy for Jimmy’s sake—but still. That’s all he fucking needs, a headline breathlessly announcing he’s throwing Lacey Logan over for his ex-wife right before Game 6 of the ALCS.

Assuming his ex-wife even answers her door. Jimmy stands on the stoop for a long moment, hands shoved into his pockets, rocking back on his heels. He’s just about to give up and tell himself he did his best when the lock snicks open.

“Jimmy?” Rachel squints at him through the screen. “Oh my god.”

“Uh.” Jimmy holds his empty hands up. It occurs to him, belatedly, that he should have brought her something, a plant or a box of bakery muffins. A list of all the reasons he knows he’s a piece of shit. “Hi.”

“Hi.” She looks past him—she’s checking for reporters, too, he realizes, and feels the back of his neck get warm. “Are you okay? Is something wrong?”

Jimmy shakes his head. “Nothing’s wrong,” he says, feeling awkward and deeply selfish. Fuck, he should have called before he came. He thought—he guesses he thought—

That’s the problem with you, Jimmy, Rachel said to him once, right before their divorce was final. You never think. “I didn’t mean to get the jump on you.”

“Didn’t you?” Rachel’s lips twist. She’s wearing her teaching clothes, jeans and a cotton sweater with little polka dots that he recognizes from way back when they were married. They haven’t seen each other in four years. She’s lost a lot of weight in a way he thinks is a shame, though he knows it’s none of his fucking business. She’s done something different with her hair.

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