I make it through six innings and we end up losing by one, thanks to a home run by Roddy and some spectacular base running by Jayden Vargas.
“Good work today, Hunt,” Coach says as I zip up my bag and shift it to my left side so I can keep the ice wrapped around my shoulder.
“Nah, I know I was shit. I’ll do better. I promise,” I drone. I don’t mean to sound like a pity party, but I can’t accept compliments for what I know was a crap performance.
“Yeah, you were. But also, you battled back. Sometimes it’s good to see what talent does when things don’t go the way they’re supposed to. You figured it out. Get some rest. You’re off tomorrow.”
I nod and head out of the locker room, dragging my feet as I fumble for my phone that I stuffed in the back pocket of my sweatpants. My dress clothes are rolled into a ball in my bag. I saw a few of the other guys had garment bags for their suits. I should probably invest in one of those. I should also probably get a few more suits.
The only notification on my phone is a text from my mom. It’s her usualgood job, honey.There’s nothing from Renleigh, which feels . . . wrong. I hover my thumb over her name and open our last text string, which is basically her requesting a Diet Coke from the vending machine late last night when I made a snack run down the hall.
I stop at the stadium gate where kids rush around me with their own balls and mitts, most of them playing catch and pretending to snag deep fly balls like the ones I gave up today. We’re out of town, so the younger fans don’t recognize me, but a few teenagers stop me for an autograph while I’m mentally debating sending Renleigh a text. I finish signing a hat with a Sharpie, then hover over her name for a few more seconds before deciding to just get back to the hotel to check that she’s okay.
I get razzed by a few Nashville fans on my way back to the hotel, but laugh most of the insults off. It’s not until I exit the hotel elevator and some wealthy-looking guy wearing too much cologne says to his buddy, “Looks like he’s going to be sleeping alone tonight,” through a snarky laugh that I pause.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I fire back as the doors close, and I hear them laugh at my expense through the sealed seam.
My pulse ratchets, a little because I’m pissed, but more so, I think, because that guy was right—I am sleeping alone tonight. And I wish I wasn’t. Renleigh needs to get to the airport. Or maybe she’s already there. Perhaps that’s why she skipped my game, so she could get a jump on things and make it back to her dad. Or what if something happened with her dad?
I flail my room key out of my wallet and slap it against the door, shoving the door open with enough gusto that it bounces off the rubber wall stopper.
“Hey, Ren?” I toss my bag on the freshly made bed. The room smells like lavender, and the television is on low, the hotel’s in-room ad channel flipping through the restaurant menu to the sound of smooth jazz.
I walk all the way into the bathroom as if she could be hiding behind the shower wall, waiting to jump out and yellboo!Of course, she’s not.
I pull my phone back out and check our text string again, hoping I missed something or that she just messaged me now, during my panic attack, but there’s nothing. I sit on the side of the bed and set my phone on the night table, then catch the note waiting for me.
Sloane stopped by.
-R
“Fuck me!” I pick the small pad of paper up and stare at the three words, my eyes zeroing in on the name of the last girl I dated in college. My free hand flies to my hair, and I grip a fistful and tug just to relieve some of the pressure threatening to make me blow my lid off.
“I was being nice,” I grumble, tossing the pad of paper across the room.
I grab my phone and flip through my contacts, but of course she’s not in there. We never fully made it to contact status. Our last messages were all on social media, and one of those apps doesn’t even exist anymore. I open the one that does and find her profile, zooming in on the part that says she’s in Nashville for grad school. I sigh with a touch of relief that she’s not stalking me to the point she’s driving across state lines. And to be fair, I did invite her . . . sort of. I just never thought she’d actually show.
We went out a few times my senior year, and we had a healthy, physical relationship. I may have credited my successful last month of the regular season to her, but that’s because I’m superstitious as fuck. I’m a ballplayer. We all are.
It was a cordial breakup, too. She was applying to medical schools, and I had just been drafted. The team sent me the link for friends and family tickets, and I wanted to keep things friendly, so I told her to come see me play, anytime. And well . . . I guess she did. Or she tried to. Today. Of all fucking days.
I’ll deal with Sloane later. For now, I need to figure out where Renleigh is. And what she thinks. And how the hell I’m going to fix this.
I doubt this is what Roddy was talking about during his lecture the other day, but I can’t help but feel his words were a bit prescient. I dial Renleigh and pace the room while the call rings twice, then gets instantly sent to voicemail.
Maybe that was a fluke.
I dial again, but this time I’m dumped into her voicemail box without a single ring. I open our text string and shoot her a message.
ME:Sloane is nobody.
I stare at the words for a beat, then quickly delete.
Not only is that a cliché response, but it’s also demeaning to Sloane. She’s not nobody. She’s going to be a pediatrician, forChrist’s sake. She’s just not my girlfriend. Or my hook-up. Or any of the things I fear are now lodged in Renleigh’s mind.
ME:Where are you? I can explain.
I laugh out loud when I type those words, because that’s probably the onlymorecliché phrase I could send. I take off the end and simply go with asking where she is, meanwhile following my gut and preparing to leave.
