It’s fury.
I drop my bag on the counter harder than necessary and pace my apartment, heels clicking against hardwood.
They all decided.
Kamden.
Coach Carson.
Susan.
Wilder.
They sat in a room and determined the course of my life like I wasn’t even in it.
Like I’m still sixteen.
Like I’m fragile.
Like I need protection from myself.
My hands curl into fists.
I am not a child.
I am not the girl screaming on a baseball field anymore.
And I am not some weak intern who fell into something she didn’t understand.
Yes, my heart got involved.
But that doesn’t erase my degree.
My training.
My skill.
My work.
If anything, it proves I can separate the two.
Because Wilder didn’t spiral when we were together.
He didn’t miss practice.
He didn’t lose control on the mound.
He didn’t become reckless.
He became better.
Calmer.
Focused.
The league loved that version of him.
I stop pacing.
