Another is more direct:Why’d we end up with store-brand Blake Forsyth?
The article has a highlight over Blake’s name. I click, skim his player profile, a confusing set of numbers. He played for Atlanta—and was good—and now he plays for Boston—and is still good.Apparently, that’s a big deal. I read more until my eyes start to glaze over.
Blake has never done anything wrong—or seemingly interesting—in his entire life.Professional baseball’s golden boy.
Brayden, on the other hand…
Professional baseball's notorious party boy.
That phrase pops up over and over. Brayden wasn’t wrong: he isinfamous. His Insta tags are mostly blurry pictures of him at bars, with women—thin, blond women, of course—draped all over him.
Different from the man who sat next to me on the porch who seemed…lonely.
Lonely with a giant wad of cash.
A giant wad of cash you said no to.I check my migraine meds. Shaking the empty bottle doesn’t magically make pills appear.
By now, people are figuring out who I am and tagging me in the comments. I wade through my notifications, blocking a bunch. When I check my DMs, there’s a request.From Brayden.I clickaccept.
For some reason, he sent me a single emoji: a diamond ring.
Chapter Three
Brayden
April
Coach callsme into his office right as I’m in the middle of changing.“Forsyth, come see merightnow.”
Fuck. I’m almost out of my shirt—the shirt I wore last night. If I slept in it, so what? I tug it back on. Take myself into his office.
Coach is at his desk, sipping a cup of coffee. He’s dressed like always: unfaded Peaches hat and a polo that looks like it was ironed, which it probably was.
He lifts an eyebrow at me, taking in my appearance. “Son, have a seat.”
I sit, park my hands on my knees. Attempt to sit up straight. My stomach rolls. It’s fine. I feel fine. I got up this morning, dragged my ass back to the hotel. Hopped the first team shuttle to the ballpark. I just need some coffee, some protein powder, a good run. What I don’t need is Coach staring at me indisapproval, but that’s apparently what I’m going to get. “What’d you want to see me about, sir?” I ask.
“You enjoying our road trip, Forsyth?”
I nod. The motion doesn’t make my head throb. Much. “Yes, sir.”
“You feel all right?”
I grind my teeth together. Plenty of guys party and then come in and play nine innings. I’m no different from any of them. “I’m good to go.”
“Seems like you might be under the weather.”
“I’m fine.” Which I am. The lights are just a little too bright and the noise of him putting his coffee to his lips and sipping—slurping, really—just a little too loud. In a few hours, I’ll be absolutely and one hundred percent good to play. What I do off the field isn’t any of his, or anyone else’s, business.
Coach narrows his eyes. “You know, Blake?—"
I clear my throat. He does that, sometimes, getting me confused with my brother. So do the commentators. And the fans.
“Brayden,” he corrects. “Back when I played, I underestimated how much having a steadying presence in my life impacted my on-field play. That could be family, or church, or a good woman.”
I have family. My brother, who left six months ago—except, somehow, I’m still standing in his shadow.
I have church.For whatever a man sows, that he will also reap. For he who sows to his flesh will of the flesh reap corruption…What my mother put in the family group text this morning. I don’t think it was aimed at Blake.
