Page 21 of The Promises We Break

I take in a commanding breath as I sit in the cab of the truck I picked up yesterday, leaning my head against the headrest with my eyes closed and all my insecure wounds open. I always thought I was good enough, until one day, I just wasn’t. In the blink of an eye, my injury defined my life and everything changed.

Another amazing fact about time. They say “time heals all wounds”, a common misconception. Time doesn’t heal, our memory of the situation just fades over time. It doesn’t hurt as much, but the pain is engraved in your subconscious, questioning your own perception of yourself and your trust in others.

Time fades pain, yes, but people heal themselves. If they allow it.

I guess I’m still working on that.

Treating this moment like the biggest game of my life, I open my eyes, take in the stadium thatwill bemy future home, and exit my truck. I straighten out my tie and button my suit jacket. The fancy getup isn’t required, but I’m here to impress and take back what I lost.

11

HUDSON

“Coach Raymer, Hudson Byrnes is here, sir,” the assistant to the head coach says into the wireless headset attached to her ear that is truly, completely handless. She never once picks up the phone; she just tilts her head to one side to call, speaks into the headset to call Coach, when finished, she tilts her head to the other side.

This stadium is one of the newest in the country, and everything is modern and built around the most advanced technology. Even the parking lot is automated for the players and coaches. It has built-in vehicle lifts that park your car and bring it to you when you call for it on an app.

I didn’t use it since I’m not a player...yet. Plus, I’m not all that comfortable with a robot parking my overly sized rental vehicle.

“Have a seat. He’s just finishing up a meeting.” She gestures to the plush leather seats in the middle of the room.

Glancing around the room, there are posters of baseball’s greatest lining the walls. Trophies, plaques for charities local to Seattle, team emblems, and shadow boxes full of memorabilia.Some recent, for celebratory reasons, and some original items, that are truly priceless.

Before my injury, I thought I would play baseball my entire life. Hell, even after my injury. I was so determined to come back, join my team, and keep going. My ankle had other ideas. The doctors said when it broke, shattered really, the bones could never fully heal properly. Today, it’s better than ever. My movement is no longer restricted, and I trust it again. It’s taken years to feel like I can completely rely on it without doubt.

It’s myself I doubt on the bad days.

When the doctors said I was ready to come back, the team already had a full roster, and it didn’t make sense for them to add me back in. I was limited on playing time, and for them, I was a liability. So, they gave me a choice; play for their minor league team to gain back my ankle strength back or become a free agent. Being that I’m a catcher, I needed the practice and time to rebuild my strength. I knew I needed it. I didn’t want to become a free agent and risk no one picking me up. I couldn’t blame them for not bringing me back, but I can’t say the fall from the top didn’t hit hard.

As much as I’ve been trying to stick it out with them, in hopes of getting moved up to the majors, my time there has an expiration date. I know it, my coach knows it, they won’t consider me for majors again.

I want this so goddamn bad.

I need this.

“Mr. Byrnes, he will see you now.”

The nerves I pushed aside come back full force in an instant. My brain is frantic, thinking of all the ways I need to make this happen. A storm of chaos bellows in my stomach, and I need this to end better than last weekend, when Ember walked out of my hotel room, never looking back.

I walk into the coach’s office, holding my hand out with confidence and enthusiasm. “Coach Raymer, it’s great to?—”

“Sit,” he grunts out.

I halt in my step, jarred by how blunt he is. He’s known to be a hardass, but he’s verging on rude, being this is the first time we’ve ever met. But before he can say anything more, I sit.

“I understand you flew here last week to meet with me, but a scheduling conflict on my calendar prevented that from happening,” he starts as he shuffles through a couple of papers.

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m glad you’re taking this opportunity seriously.” He peers up from his glasses to appraise me.

“I am, sir.” Less is more with this guy.

“I’m a straight shooter, Hudson.” He leans into his palms, rising to his feet. He’s hovering over his desk like he needs to yell at something, and I’m totally unsure why he seems so damn angry. “Your stats speak for themselves, but you’re a risk and I need a reliable player.”

I say the only thing that comes to mind.

“I’m better than ever, coach. Mentally and physically.”

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