Page 71 of Nothing Like the Movies

“Okay.” Clark looked down at the paper and read, “How did the coaching staff respond when you told them you were quitting school?”

“Uh, they were cool,” I said, realizing I’d been so mentally done with baseball at the time that I barely remembered their reactions. “They said they understood that I needed to do what was best for my family.”

“Did they try to change your mind or tell you that you could come back?”

“No,” I said, remembering a lot of incoming calls that I’d intentionally ignored. “But I made it very clear that I was done with baseball.”

Clark looked surprised at that. “You didn’t see a path back because of your responsibilities?”

“I didn’twanta path back,” I corrected, scratching my chin. “I never wanted to touch a baseball again after my dad died.”

“Tell me about that,” he said, and I knew that question wasn’t on his paper.

I swallowed and just said, “He was always the center of my baseball world, so I couldn’t imagine playing without him.”

“Okay.” Clark cleared his throat and read the next question. “Did you keep in contact with your UCLA friends after you went back?”

“I did for probably a month,” I said, remembering feeling so goddamn alone, like I was on this deserted island that no one else knew existed. “But our lives were so different that after a while, I just couldn’t. They were experiencing new things like parties and dorm life, while I was experiencing new things like enrolling in health insurance plans and trying to understand an escrow statement. They were studying so they wouldn’t fail their exams, and I was learning how to rewire the thermostat on our furnace because we couldn’t afford an HVAC repairman.”

I remembered trying so hard, when Liz called, to make it sound like life was normal for me back home because I didn’t want her to feel guilty for not being there.

“So what changed last year?” Clark asked. “What made you start throwing again?”

Finally, we’d reached the part of the story that I liked.

“A mean-as-hell friend. One of my buddies swung by the houseto say hi, and he found me shit-faced and home alone.”

“You were drinking a lot?” he asked, and I wondered if I should’ve kept that to myself.

Although—screw it—it was the truth. Until Michael stepped in, pounding beers while listening to Noah Kahan on repeat was my go-to.

I said, “I got hammered whenever I could, as long as Sarah was in bed, because underage drinking is illegal, you know, and I wouldn’t want to be a bad role model.”

Clark smiled. “Of course.”

“I was a mess, to be honest,” I admitted. “So Michael screamed at me and pushed me into a wall. Asked me what the hell I was doing with my life.”

“Did you hit him?” Clark asked, grinning.

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “I broke down and cried like a baby.”

“No,” Clark said empathetically.

“Oh yes,” I said, smiling at the memory. “You can ask Michael—I was very pathetic. But instead of feeling bad for me, he shoved my drunk ass in his car and drove me to the baseball field. Flipped on the lights and tried to force me to play catch with him.”

“Forcedyou?”

“Well, at first heasked, but when I refused to even put on the glove, the dick just started throwing baseballs at me.”

“Seriously?” Clark started laughing.

“For real. Hard as hell. He pummeled me with baseballs until I had to put on the glove and protect myself because those baseballsfucking hurt. And once I had the glove on, he physically hauled me out to the mound—dragged me, literally—and forced me to throw a pitch.”

“And did it feel good?” Clark asked.

“No,” I said, letting out a big exhale. “I threw up all over the mound and kind of wanted to die. But he made me give him ten pitches before he’d take me home, and by the time I was done, I realized that pitching made me feel something I hadn’t felt in a long time.”

“What’s that?” Clark asked.

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