“Thanks for inviting me, Hollyn. Getting away was just what I needed.”
I can’t help but ask. “No word from him?” She shakes her head, her once semi-happy mood vanished by one simple question. Good job, Hollyn. I guess misery loves company. “No one has seen him at the restaurant. He hasn’t come in.”
“And he didn’t show up at the meeting. Do you think he’s okay?”
Now she’s worried. I’m a really good friend.
“If I know Carter like I think I do, I would put a very large bet on him drowning his sorrows.”
“I don’t like that,” Daisy states and then looks out the window some more. “I don’t like that at all. It seems like a giant waste of time and extremely pointless. What does that kind of drinking do for anyone?”
“It helps them forget,” I say absentmindedly. “Sometimes, as humans, we don’t know how to handle the loops of the roller coaster life takes us on, so we silently turn to our vices for support; drinking, drugs, binge eating. There is no physical reason to do so, no actual justification for our actions, besides wanting to temporarily dull the ache within our bruised and brittle souls.”
“Is that what you did when you lost Eric? Did you drink?”
A sardonic laugh pops out of me, my eyes transfixed on the stadium up ahead. “Yeah, I drank. I drank a lot, Daisy. I drank so much that I had to get my stomach pumped one night. My mom and Amanda spent months taking care of me, making sure I went to work and then picking me up after, watching my every move so I didn’t drop everything and let my life disappear from my weak grasp.” Damn it. Why do I always feel so ill when I talk about this? “Pain comes in all shapes and sizes and affects us differently.”
“Do you want to be dropped off at the front? Or is there a special entrance you need to be brought to since you’re Mr. Barnes’s friends?” Sandy, the Uber driver asks.
Somberly, I answer, “The front is fine. Thank you, Sandy.”
I gather my purse and wait for the car to come to a stop. After we thank Sandy and step out of her Ford Explorer, I’m hit with sounds and smells of a sporting event. Rowdy fans, food vendors, excited children, and stadium staff milling about, all gearing up for the nine innings waiting behind the brick and stone walls.
Silently and stiffly, I make my way toward “Will Call” hoping Daisy is following closely behind. I go through the motions of getting our tickets, going through the gates, and finding our seats on field level, right next to the dugout. On the field, the grounds crew meticulously line the grass and dirt, players carefully stretch and warm up, and the fans beg and plead for an autograph. Not far from the dugout, Jace is talking with one of his coaches, holding his glove at his hip and pulling on the brim of his hat.
Until this moment, it’s never really soaked in that Jace plays baseball professionally. I know Jace outside the ballpark and now, seeing him dressed in his uniform, looking confident and in his element, it reminds me of someone else.
Eric.
The way he holds himself.
The way his hat sits low on his brow.
The way he jokes around while tossing a ball.
I’m transported, my senses on overload, my memory blackening everything around me.
There is it, Eric’s smirk, the first thing that captured me about the man. Standing across from me, tossing a football. His swagger so sexy. His smell so intoxicating. That deep voice of his calling my name.
Hollyn. Hollyn. Hollyn.
“Hey, Hollyn. Are you okay?” Daisy shakes my arm. “I’m sorry if I was rude back in the Uber. Is everything all right? You look like a ghost right now.”
My eyes are trained on Jace’s, his eyes now fixated on mine, a concerned look on his face. Right now, I can choose two options, fight or flight. With memories clogging my throat, I only have one option.
I’m not ready.
I can’t do this.
It’s too soon.
“Hollyn, where are you going?” Daisy calls out.
I don’t stop. I flee. Even when I bump into someone holding a tray of nachos, I keep retreating to the past, leaving my future in my tumultuous wake.
JACE
“Three errors and two strike outs. Not your best showing tonight, Jace.”
Reporters hover around my locker, microphones crowding me, camera lights brightly flashing in my face, my coach walking by, giving me a knowing look. Fuck, yeah, I would say it wasn’t my best showing at all.
“Just working out the kinks, I’ll be ready by the season opener.” I give them the generic response.
I’m not about to spill my guts to these media leeches that the woman I wanted sitting in the stands, supporting me, took off before the first pitch was even thrown. I’m not about to tell them that deep in my soul, I know I’ve fallen for a woman I won’t ever be able to have because she will forever be undeniably in love with her late husband. No matter how hard I try, how much I support her, there will be no action, no words that will cause her to change. Even if your heart rests in their hands, there’s no use trying to help someone move on when they don’t want to.
And fuck did she just grab it without warning.
“Can we count on another rookie-of-the-year-type season from you?” one of the reporters asks.
I towel off my head and hang the terrycloth over my shoulders as I answer. “I can’t make any predictions about what’s to come this season. All I know is my training regimen, my connection with my team, and my mental game has all stepped up this year.”
The mental game part is a drastic lie, but they don’t have to know that.
“You say your mental game is intact,” a reporter says off to the side. Of course they would pick up on that. “Could you tell us if giving your baby up for adoption is going to affect that?”
The fuck?
Searching the crowd for the person who asked the question, I say, “Where the fuck did you get that information?”
A man off to the right looks around, nervous from the venom spitting out of me. “Uh, I have sources.”
Plowing through the reporters, I grip the man by the collar of his shirt and seethe at him. “What fucking sources?”
“Jace.” Coach comes running toward me and pulls me away from the reporter who adjusts his tie and smirks at me.
“I’m going to take that as a yes,” the reporter assumes.
“Get him the fuck out of here,” I shout, being carried off by my coach and a few players now.
“Barnes, shut your damn mouth and get in my office now.”
Not my best day, my best showing, or my best temperament.
Another fine from the front office, a threat of sending me back down to the minors, and two hours later, I’m pulling my duffel bag out of my car and walking up to my apartment. If I wasn’t going through a living nightmare, the threats my coach sent my way would most likely take action. He doesn’t put up with much. This entire day wasn’t how I planned it. I wasn’t expecting to play like shit, almost plow a member of the press through the locker room wall, and go home alone. And yet, all those things happened tonight.
The walkway to my apartment is dark, but when I reach my front door, a familiar figure sits at my door.