Page 99 of Mom Ball

I spent half the drive to the airport and most of my flight analyzing why she didn’t say it back yesterday on her front steps. She said “same,” so I guess that counts. But “same” is not the same.

“Same” is the response you give when you’re indifferent about something.

Someone says they want sweet tea. “Same.”

Someone says they prefer country music. “Same.”

Someone says they love you. Then you need to say it back.

I drop my phone and fold my hands behind my head. Brooke is the only person who makes me like this. Sure, I want to please my coaches and my mom, but it’s more seeking their approval than affection.

I used to never question Brooke’s love for me. That is until she pushed me away.

Things are great right now, but the slightest fear bubbles in the back of my brain that her feelings don’t run as deep as mine. Either that or she wasn’t ready to say she loved me in front of Timothy.

I choose to believe the Timothy excuse and hoist myself from the bed. Time to work on my professional life again.

* * *

“Nate the Great-Grandpa.” Aaron lifts his arm and smirks.

I nod and turn in the opposite direction. He’s a hotshot young pitcher who’s too cocky for his own good. Many days I’ve come close to knocking that smirk off his face—permanently.

Two things have kept me from it thus far. The memory of Mom’s voice quoting “do unto others” and my public image. The media would love nothing more than to post stories of a starting pitcher beating down the young guy brought in to possibly replace him.

My time and effort are better spent working on my arm to keep my position and knocking Aaron’s ego instead of his face.

“What’s up, brother?” Ace waltzes up from the corner and slaps me on the back.

“Hey, man.”

He grabs a pair of dumbbells while I stick my arms inside a resistance band. “What’s your poison right now?” he asks.

“Fifteen.”

He grabs a pair of fifteen-pound dumbbells and puts them in front of me, then gets a heavier set for himself. He starts overhead squats, while I work on my shoulder techniques.

I’ve always babied my arm, and now I’m even more cautious. I can’t help but notice Aaron maxing out across the room. He’ll regret it when his shoulder turns to rust.

“How was your little vacay in the country?” Ace asks in between his sets.

“Good.”

“It’s gotta be better than that. You’ve had a stupid grin on your face since you’ve gotten in town.”

I laugh. Ace was one of my first roommates. We lived in a trashy apartment. Unlike me and Dom, our other roommate, he came from money. He could’ve lived in a nicer place, but took a deal with his dad for spending money instead.

“Okay, great.” I grit my teeth through the last reps in my exercise. “You ever miss Nashville?”

He shrugs. “No more than going home to visit. I’ve been away so long, it’s no longer like home.”

I set down the weights and reposition the band for a new exercise. Weight rooms were always a stress relief to me. The noise of metal meeting hard rubber and guys grunting out one more rep energizes me in a Neanderthal way. Oddly enough, I prefer the weight room to my actual condo back in Atlanta.

Once or twice I almost put an offer on a house outside of town. A few buddies with families live in the suburbs nearby. I even went as far as going to one home with a Realtor.

But it didn’t feel like home.

Another house on twenty acres came up for sale, and I kept making plans to go look. When it sold to someone else a week later, I was relieved.

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