Page 62 of Delay of Game

They lost 6-2.

After the game, Zach probably got out of the locker room as fast as he’d ever gotten out of it. Usually he stayed around to shoot the shit with Netty and Sally, to tease the rooks, or chat with Coach. Today he was in and out while the media were still doing postgames. Nate saw him go, and started to say something, but Zach refused to meet his eye and just...well, basically, he fled into the hallway.

Once he was back in his own car and finally had a moment to himself, he slammed his forehead against the edge of the steering wheel.“Fuck.”

He didn’t really know what to do, or what he was feeling. There was a lot of stuff going on in there, and it was hard to pick out one thing. Mostly he felt fucking stupid and really fucking sad, sad like he couldn’t ever remember feeling before. He’d had breakups before but nothing serious. Sometimes he was even glad to see them go. Sometimes he was regretful, but it wasn’t like anyone was ever irreplaceable. The worst part was, this wasn’t even really a breakup, because he had been really fucking wrong about what they were doing.

Well.

Never let it be said that Zach wasn’t a grade A moron.

Knowing that didn’t make it feel any better.

He couldn’t even text Jammer about it, because Jammer would have saidI told you so.

Old Zach would have gone out and gotten obliterated on whatever he could get his hands on and probably fucked anyone who looked at him twice, and the pictures would have ended up on the internet. Old Zach would have felt like shit afterward, but it wouldn’t have mattered. No matter how self-destructive that course of action happened to be, it was like throwing up after you’d gotten too drunk. The purge hurt, but you almost immediately felt so much better afterward. He’d done it after the trade. Jammer had had to scrape him up off of a bathroom floor and basically carry him home.

New Zach had dogs and rookies and responsibilities and texted Gags to tell him to make sure to drink some water and his dog sitter to ask whether she could take Hank and Dolly tonight.

Sure,she responded immediately.Everything okay?

Zach thought for a second about telling her the truth but settled for,going to be out of town last minute.He Venmo’d her a generous tip in addition to her usual fee and sat in his truck, staring at the parking lot. He should probably leave before Nate came out and saw him, but he didn’t know where to go.

On autopilot, he started the engine, backed out of his spot, headed down Broad Street, and merged onto 95. He drove south for a while, then got off at a random exit near Chester, got back on northbound, and kept driving. Nate had texted him several times, and Bee, and then Mack, but he didn’t look at his phone beyond glancing at the notifications. He didn’t even listen to music.

Just the noise of the wind through the windows, and the other cars streaking by on the interstate.

If he stopped driving, he’d have to go home, and he’d probably have to see Nate. He didn’t think he could do it. It might have been cowardly, but then, Zach was a coward.

When he saw the exits for Princeton, he merged onto Route 1. He hadn’t really spent a lot of time in Princeton, but he knew there was a snooty college there.

Mike lived there.

Mike.Maybe he could...maybe he could talk to Mike. Maybe Mike would understand? He was out to the team, so it wasn’t like he’d be judgmental about the gay thing, even if he might have had some ideas about fucking the team’s captain, maybe Zach would talk to Mike.

Talk to Mike?

Maybe he could talk to a brick wall.

But he had nowhere else to go.

Zach found himself driving down cute little streets with well-manicured lawns and well-kept Victorian houses, until he found himself on Mike’s street and outside of his house. Mike lived in a modestly sized single home with white shingles and a front porch with a swing and a beautiful green backyard which,what the fuck.

He somehow managed to find a spot to park, although it was tight. And then he sat in the truck for another half an hour, trying to decide if he should get out. It was ten o’clock by this point and he was fucking exhausted. Usually after a game, he went home, ate something, drank a shitload of water, and passed out. He hadn’t eaten anything today because he thought if he did it would come right back up.

His phone was buzzing again. He turned it off.

Zach got out of the car and knocked on the door.

At first, no one answered, so he knocked again.

The door opened, and Zach withered and died in his expensive sneakers. It wasn’t Mike, but Danny Garcia, former Hornet and current assistant coach for the New Jersey Scouts. He was wearing sweats, a ratty T-shirt from four teams ago, house slippers, and an eight-o’clock shadow. He was a big man, even bigger than Nate, but even if he hadn’t been, Zach would’ve felt very fucking small at that moment.

And it wasn’t because he was standing two steps below.

“Uh...hi,” he said, voice shaking, no matter how much he hated showing weakness in front of a Hornet. “Look, dude, I’m sorry to bother you so late, I just don’t know what else to—can I talk to Mike?”

Garcia looked at him over the thick black rims of his glasses, with an expression that hovered between curiosity and pity, and said, “Come on in, Reed. I’ll get him.”

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