Page 10 of The Perfect Love

“We’re all twelve years old on the inside.”

Joel breaks free of Miles’s hold, quickly stands, and gives him a titty twister before dashing away. Miles chases after him around the couch in the living room.

“As evidenced.” Aaron takes another sip of his coffee. He’s by far the most laid back of the three guys. Miles is aggressively type A and Joel is soft-spoken but more dramatic.

I smack his shoulder. “Aren’t you supposed to be the mature one? Seeing as you’re getting married in two months.”

“Don’t get him started,” Miles says, walking back into the kitchen and grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge. He hands one to Joel, who is right behind him.

“Yeah, he’ll tell you exactly how long down to the minute.”

“Only because I have a countdown timer going,” Aaron says.

“And you’re obsessed with your fiancée,” Mackie sings.

“Are you surprised by that? You’re the ones who insistedfor yearswe were in love.”

“Because you were. Dumbass.” Joel hoists himself onto the counter, and I laugh as Aaron gives him the finger.

Yeah, we’re definitely still twelve, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Aaron smacks my chest. “Hey, are you going to talk to Coach M today?”

The room is suddenly silent as everyone waits for my response.

“Yeah. I’m going to stop in before my first class.”

“Good.”

He’s been on his own journey with baseball after injuring his hand senior year of high school. He was all set to play ball in college. He’s an incredible pitcher. He’s finally getting the right treatment now and hopes to pitch again this year, but for the last two he’s been an amazing coach. Aaron was the first to jump in and encourage me to find a different future that still involves baseball.

Some people don’t get it.Just walk away. It’s a part of the past.But when something is ingrained in you to your very core, when it’s your coping mechanism and your stress reliever, you can’t just walk away.

I’ll never be able to play like I used to, but I’m determined to still be involved with the team.

Baseball is a part of me, and it always will be.

I’m a chickenshit.

All I need to do is walk inside the athletic building, go up to the third floor, and knock on the head baseball coach’s door.

For some reason, my feet don’t want to move.

It’s almost like if I go up there, it’s the final acknowledgment that I’m never going to play again.

That’s stupid as fuck, because that’s been obvious since I was lying in a hospital bed, unable to get up to take a shit by myself.

I’m not someone who gets nervous easily. I’m extroverted, friendly, and too confident for my own good. But this is hard. It feels a little too much like swallowing my pride. Or begging. Not things I’m used to doing.

Someone walks past me into the building, and instead of following them, I pull my phone from my pocket and text my best friend back home, Nick.

Me: Tell me to stop being a chickenshit.

The three little dots appear in an instant.

Nick: Stop being a whiny little scaredy cat, put your big boy boxers on, and go do whatever thing you need to do.

Me: You have such a way with words.

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