Page 116 of Imperfect Player

“Family shit.”

Coach continues to look at me. The tidbit I gave him, it’s not enough. Not to save my ass from this one.

“My dad popped back into my life, okay? I’m having a hard time and . . . and I fucked up. I’ll fix it.”

“Damn right you will,” Coach says.

“I’ll start AA again. I’ll—”

“You need more than AA,” Mr. Hurt says. “You need help, son. Real help.”

Everly’s hand grabs mine. “And I’ll be there every step of the way.”

I look directly at Mr. Hurt. “Am I done? Am I finished with the Railcats?”

Am I finished with baseball, period, is probably the more accurate question.

Mr. Hurt exhales loudly. “For this season, yes. You’re done. If you pay the fines, you get the help, I’ll see what I can do about next season.”

“Next season? What about this season? The World Series is weeks away,” I argue.

Grateful as I am for a chance at a future, the realization that I’m not going to the World Series with my team is unbearable.

“I’ll do whatever you want, just let me finish the season. Please.”

“Your health is more important,” Coach tells me.

“Yeah? Tell the guys that,” I say. “They need me. They—”

“They want you to get better. So do I.”

I turn toward the voice behind me. Maddox.

“You’ll lose without me,” I tell him.

“Maybe. Maybe not. What I’m certain of, though, is that if you don’t get some fucking help, you’re going to die, and that isn’t going to get you there either. Do this, Ethan. Do what they say and get your ass back here next year so we can all do this together.”

I yank my hand free of Everly’s.

“Fuck you. Fuck all of you. I don’t need this shit. I don’t need any of you.”

Pissed, scared, hurt, I storm out of the room and head to the first bar I can find. I mean, I’ve already lost everything that matters, what’s the point in hiding it now?

I’m lying face down on the couch. My breath is hot and smells of whiskey as it blows right back into my face.

Flashes of what landed me here go through my mind. My dad. The drinking. The intervention. The bar. Maddox. Slamming door.

A voice shouting out my name.

“Ethan!”

The voice is loud. It echoes through my head as it says my name on repeat. Hands grab me, jostling my body.

My first thought: make it stop. Make whatever, whoever, this is go away.

My hand releases the bottle, arm swinging back as I try to rid myself of whoever this is. Even in my current state—near dead, from what I can tell—I’m still strong. Enough to hit whatever it is that was jostling me.

Whatever I hit was soft and warm.

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