And I walk out knowing damn well I just crossed a line and the worst part is, I don’t fucking care.
SEVEN
Amelia
By the time Friday night rolls around, I feel like I’ve lived a hundred hours in five days.
My apartment is quiet when I get ready, music playing softly while I trade buttoned blouses for something that actually makes me feel like me. A black sexy dress that cuts low in the back and shows just enough cleavage to feel sexy. I let my hair fall loose down my back, the weight of the week finally lifting as I swipe on lipstick and slip into heels.
One week.
My first full week as an intern.
And I survived it.
“Drink,” my friend Roxy says the second I slide into a booth at the bar, already pushing a cocktail toward me. “You look like you’ve been carrying the weight of the world.”
I laugh, lifting the glass. “I kind of have.”
We clink drinks, the first sip cold and sharp, loosening something tight in my chest. The bar is packed. Friday-night energy buzzing through the room, music thumping, bodies pressed together on the dance floor.
After that first session with Wilder, he never came back.
Susan tried. I tried. Texts went unanswered or answered with excuses like practice running late, family in town, or schedule conflicts. Always something. I told myself not to take it personally, that grief doesn’t move on a timeline.
Still, it lingered.
But the rest of the week? It was good. More than good.
I sat in on sessions. Led a few myself. Helped Wrangler Woodard, the rookie, talk through pregame anxiety. Watched Asher Collins, a veteran second baseman, leave my office standing taller than when he walked in.
I belonged here.
And I was exhausted.
“So,” Roxy says, leaning in close so I can hear her over the music, “are there any hot athletes involved in this new job of yours?”
I groan. “Don’t.”
She grins wickedly. “Oh, there are.”
I shake my head, laughing despite myself. “It’s complicated.”
“It always is.”
A couple more drinks in, and the dance floor is calling. We let the music pull us in, moving with the crowd, laughter spilling out of me in a way it hasn’t in months.
It feels good to let my hair down.
To stop being careful.
To just exist without thinking three steps ahead.
Roxy spins me around, shouting, “See? You needed this!”
She’s right.
For the first time all week, I’m not thinking about locker rooms or therapy sessions or a grieving pitcher who vanished as soon as he cracked open.
