They’re not coming. They’re never coming.
An ache settles deep in my bones.
“Trevi, I need to—”
“That was all. Sorry to bother you.” I hate myself for apologizing, for making it easier for her to brush me off, but it’s habit at this point.
“It’s fine. I’ll talk to you later.”
She won’t, but I don’t call her on it.
“Bye, Christina.”
Numbness seeps into my body as I pull into the players’ parking area. I shift my truck into park and stare at the blue wall that divides our vehicles from the rest of the spectator parking lot. Swallowing hard against the boulder in my throat, I ignore the sharp sting behind my eyes and fight that tiny voice that wants to assign blame to me. If I let the insidious feeling of failure seep into my muscles, I’ll underperform tonight.
I’d spent years working through my messed-up family dynamic with a therapist. Seeing a sports psychologist was arequired part of being on my college team, and after several successful sessions, I decided to use my excellent student health benefits to see my own therapist.
I know the steps I need to take here. I know I should acknowledge the burning sensation of rejection and give myself grace for feeling likeabsolute trash. Christina’s response to my invitation hurts because it’s supposed to. This whole situation isn’t fair, and my brain knows that. But knowing something intellectually and processing through the sticky, painful emotions are two separate things.
For just a few seconds, I let myself be that ignored little boy. I allow the hollowing sadness and disappointment to wash over my tired muscles. Then I do what my college therapist recommended years ago. I talk to myself like a coach, being for myself who I needed back then—someone encouraging, understanding, and caring.
“My family’s behavior doesn’t dictate who I am,” I remind myself softly. “I won’t abandon myself because they did. My value is not dependent on their attention.”
Little does Kenzie know that I spend years using affirmations to counteract deep-seated feelings of unworthiness. Closing my eyes, I cycle through box-breathing until the gnawing sensation in my stomach subsides. I’m on the last set when a rap at my window makes me jump.
“Are you catching a quick nap before the game?” Aaron’s sneer swiftly undermines the small amount of ground I’d gained in calming my mind.
Drawing in a final deep breath, I step out of the truck, not bothering to address his snide comment. “What’s up?”
Aaron puffs out his chest. “I just wanted to let you know we’re not doing that today.”
“Doing what?”
“Calling every pitch like I can’t think for myself. I’ve reviewed the data on this team, same as you. I’ll make my own decisions today.”
My molars grind together, but I try to keep my tone even. “Patrick is going to want us to go over the game plan, like usual.”
We’re on a winning streak, but the Detroit Sluggers are one of the tougher teams we’ll face this season.
Aaron scoffs, glancing toward the stadium. “I don’t pitch by spreadsheets. I pay attention in real time, making adjustments, like any good pitcher should.”
I pause, shifting my duffel onto my shoulder to give my irritated muscles something to do. “I know. I’m just giving you options.”
“Don’t do that.”
It requires more effort than usual to keep my expression even. “I’m trying to help you, Aaron.”
“I don’t need help.”
“That’s my job,” I tell him, squeezing the strap of my bag so I don’t snap and do something rash.
“No, your job is to catch what I throw.”
I blink, barely keeping from shaking my head at his arrogance. If I didn’t need him in top shape for tonight’s game, I’d seriously consider twisting his pitching arm behind his back and pinning him against the side of my truck.
“We’re a battery,” I say carefully, to remind myself as much as him. “We’re supposed to be on the same page.”
The corner of Aaron’s mouth quirks upward. “We will be. As long as you trust me.”
