Page 110 of Wild Hit
I finally made her be done with me.
And I can’t stop agonizing about it, because if I could turn back time I’d do the same damn thing anyway. I would ask her for a crumble of hope, for permission to want her. I would’ve still been unable to keep it bottled up any longer.
The consequences are that I’m now on the outfield at the bottom of the ninth inning, we’re about to sweep the Longhorns in two more strikes, the crowd is riled up and already celebrating with horns and whistles and a million voices, and all I feel is an anvil is perched on my shoulders.
The Longhorn batter hits off Josh Thomason, who is closing for the game. The hit is long, high enough that it could be dangerous. My feet take off, eyes still on the ball as it flies in the dark sky. I know the exact point it’s going to land at, and my legs act like springs when I’m right at the spot.
But I jump a little too high.
The ball bounces off my glove on the wrong side. I’m cursing in more than two languages in my mind. I waste further time rolling to a stop on the grass, but luck finds me anyway because the ball isn’t far. Landing on my feet, I pick it up and take a deep breath. I’m glad I’m not mic’ed up for the big word that comes out of my mouth as I throw.
It’s a whole damn cannon. Lucky intercepts it right in time to tag out the runner from second. He throws to home with all he’s got and?—
“Two outs! Game over!”
The whole place comes down in wild cheering.
I stand there, breathing hard, soaked in sweat through my uniform, kinda shocked that my error didn’t cost any runs for the team. If those two runners had scored, we’d be looking at agame five. I could’ve screwed it all up for everyone just because I’m feeling like a failure in my private life.
“Guys, I’m sorry,” I say once we’re in the clubhouse. It kills the celebratory vibe. Removing my hat, I wipe the sweat off my face with my forearm and say, “I was in my head and that error could’ve cost us.”
You’d think Beau would be the one to reprimand me here, and he would be right to. Instead, he just keeps chugging some more of the electrolyte drink from Henry Vos’s company.
The one who picks up the baton is Logan. “Why were you in your head? Are you actually hurt?” He points his chin toward my ribs, which further entices the attention of the whole team.
Everyone’s eyes are on me, waiting to see if this moment will mark the last celebration of the team this year.
Conscious of the weight of every second I don’t respond, I take a deep breath and decide to just spill the beans, all of them. In a way that would make Marty cringe herself into a black hole.
“I’m in love with Audrey, but she doesn’t return the feeling and she asked me for a divorce.”
The first part surprises no one. The second part, though… that one gets jaws dropping, throats gasping, eyes bulging, mouths spluttering. Even the team manager and his crew aren’t immune. Even the trainers are at a loss for words.
“But you just got married like, yesterday!” O’Brian exclaims.
“Yeah, what did you do to screw up so early?” asks Fernandez.
The three guys who are in the know are looking at me likethis—and not breaking the record set by Barry Bonds earlier tonight—is what I have completely shocked them with.
Lucky murmurs, “No way.”
As the noise increases, I raise my hands while still holding the cap, and manage to quiet them down. “We got married justto help her out of a situation, okay? Divorcing wouldn’t be a big deal, it’s just…”
“That you love her,” Cade states like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“And that you don’t think she loves you back.” Lucky gives me something like a side eye, even though he’s squared up in front of me.
From between a couple of players, Otto Berger—a physical therapist—asks, “Why are we talking about this instead of doing the postgame cooldown?”
“Shhh,” one of the players next to him hisses. “Can’t you see one of our own needs therapy right now?”
“Yeah, but not of the physical kind. Or at least not one you can provide, my dude,” someone else adds with a chuckle.
Logan folds his arms, his pads creaking against the strain. “The question here is, do you know that she doesn’t feel the same, or do you think she doesn’t?”
“Oooh,” someone whispers.
I realize my mouth has been hanging open and close it. My eyes lower to the floor, a massive art piece of the team’s purple logo with a green alligator.
