The video scrolls over to the reporter standing at the wrought iron gates of the house. “Robert Riley has made no official comment at this time, but CI Special Agent Teddy Wong of the Internal Revenue Service stated this investigation is ongoing and they will not take his crimes lightly. They intend to prosecute him to the full extent of the law on all charges, current and forthcoming. That’s all for now. Back to you, Angela.”
They quickly move on to the next story.
Karma.
“Everything okay?” Corbin asks, as he shifts his chair toward the TV, then back at me.
I can’t help but recap what he was screaming at the reporters.
“My first priority has always been my commitment to this community and my state. That’s all that’s ever mattered.”
It’s like a bolt of lightning that hits me when I realize that I’m no better than my so-called father. Prioritizing a job over everything else. I’ve spent so much time avoiding everything my mother was trying to force on me, I ended up turning out exactly like him instead.
Shit.
I glance back up at the TV. They’ve quickly moved on, because Robert Riley is now old news, then at Corbin, whose brows are pinched in concern.
“Respectfully, sir. I think I’ve made a mistake.”
57
HUDSON
Ihide in the dugout, stewing on the fact that Coach benched me at the top of the third inning, knowing after playing the first two that I wasn’t going to pull through and get my shit together.
The team figured out quickly that Ember was gone because rumors spread way too fast, especially when the entire team lives in the same building. Someone must have seen Ember leaving with her luggage and either talked to her or Coach confirming my newly soon-to-be divorced status with the team.
And I know there is commentary happening by the sportscasters because there are too many cameras pointed in my direction as I sit as far in the corner of the dugout as possible, scowling at the fence line.
They are either talking about my shit performance or my five-year contract, wondering why the hell the Smashers would sign a complete joke of a catcher after the last two innings.
Yesterday, after signing my contract, I should have been on cloud nine. Calling my friends and family to celebrate. Instead, I found myself leaning on thathopethat Coach insisted I hangon to, only to be disappointed by an empty house wiped completely clean of her.
She took everything she brought with her, but left my goddamn ring, making reality hit even harder.
She didn’t sign the papers. In fact, I couldn’t even find them. I assume she took them with her, wanting to read through them to make sure I’m not screwing her over, which just pissed me off even further. Even though that’s exactly what anyone should do.
I was restless the entire day, moving between slamming things around the house to breaking down in the kitchen when something would remind me of her.
She made her decision so goddamn fast. There was no consideration of me, of us. How could I have been so invested, so enamored with her, and it was that fucking one-sided, but she cried when I was putting my heart and entire fucking soul on the table for her? At first, I thought she could change her mind, but after all this time, I still just got, “I can’t.”
The game is finally over, and thankfully, we won. No thanks to me.
I’m the first to storm out of the dugout and into the locker room, the polar opposite of my normal behavior, which is being the last on the field, talking the guys up as they head out of the dugout.
I just need to get the fuck out of here.
This feels eerily similar to how I felt after my injury. Lost in myself and just thinking of ways to forget. If I drank enough that night in Vegas to remember only pieces of the first night with her, I sure as hell can do that to forget everything else.
I ignore the guys patting me on the back, muttering inaudible words because they’re probably just not sure what the hell to say to me, and pop my AirPods in.
Green Day plays instantly,Good Riddance (Time of your life),and I’d like to punch karma in the face.
What was once something that got me through the toughest times of my life, is now painful fucking memories, and I’m terrified the only thing that would ever pull me out of this is her.
“Fuck!” I rip the AirPods out of my ears and kick the bottom of my locker before resting my forehead on it.
A hand rests on my shoulder, and I turn to see Callahan, giving me the saddest face in history, and I hate it.