I don’t wait for his response before I stalk out of the room. The hallway feels longer than usual during the walk back to the locker room, but my legs are steady beneath me. Steady and strong, like they should be. Not buckling over some one night stand I had with a fake ass, washed-up minor leaguer.
I’m not some heartbroken kid pining after a guy who used me. I’m a professional athlete dealing with the normal pressures that come with this life. If those pressures are finally catching up with me, that’s between me and my therapist.
Well, if I had a therapist. Which I don’t, because Barnes men don’t need therapy. We just work harder until the problems go away.
“Tate?”
Masterson jogs over to me, already half-dressed in his practice gear. His expression carries the concern of someonewho’s been watching me struggle but doesn’t know how the hell to help when I keep shutting down his questions.
“You good? You were in there a while.”
“Yeah, just going over some technical stuff with the new guy.” I force a casual tone. “Getting a feel for his coaching style.”
“And?”
“And he seems like every other coach I’ve ever had. Lots of opinions about what I’m doing wrong.”
Masterson frowns. “Your game’s been solid for four years. What does he think needs fixing?”
“Apparently my positioning. My reads. My mental approach.” I shrug. “The usual shit coaches obsess over when they need to justify their paychecks.”
“Sounds like bullshit to me.”
“Probably is. But Coach Enver thinks I need help, so I’ll play along.”
We reach the locker room, and I’m grateful for the noise and distraction of my teammates getting ready for practice. Normal sounds of a normal day, exactly what I need right now.
“You sure you’re okay?” Masterson asks as I sit down at my stall. “Because you seem... I don’t know. Different.”
Different. That’s one way to put it.
“Just focused,” I say, pulling my practice jersey over my head. “Got a lot on my mind lately.”
“Anything you want to talk about?”
For a split second, I consider it. Masterson’s been like a brother to me since I joined this team. If anyone would understand the pressure I’m under, it would be him.
But I’ve avoided talking to him about any of it because I’m not sure how to tell my teammate that I’m struggling because I want to stop lying to everyone, but the thought of coming out petrifies me? I mean, how can I say that watching Carter andJack be happy together makes me jealous in ways I can’t even admit to myself?
“Nah, man. Just the usual stuff. Family wanting me to settle down, the media asking about my personal life. You know how it is.”
“Yeah, I get that. My mom’s been on me about grandkids lately, too.”
We share a knowing look. The pressure to be the perfect son, the perfect athlete, the perfect role model. It’s something every guy in this room understands.
What they don’t understand is the additional pressure of lying about who you are every single day of your life.
My phone buzzes with a text from Mark.
Mom called. She’s asking if you’re bringing someone to the BBQ. What should I tell her?
I stare at the message for a long moment. Mark’s been running interference with our parents for months, deflecting their questions about my love life without even knowing why I need the protection. I shoot off a quick response.
Just tell her I’m too busy with the season. Haven’t been dating much.
It’s easier than explaining that I can’t bring home a nice girl because I don’t want a nice girl. That I want something our parents would never understand, something that would disappoint them in ways I can’t even quantify.
“Barnes!”
