But she’s also terrified, and I can’t fight fear with logic.
So I do the only thing I know how to do when my head won’t shut up.
I go to the field.
The stadium is empty at this time of day. The staff has gone home, and maintenance won’t be here until tonight. I grab my bag from the truck and head to the bullpen, muscle memory guiding every step.
The mound feels solid under my cleats. I wind up, focus on the catcher’s mitt, some helpful soul left propped against the fence, and let it rip.
The ball cracks against leather.
Again.
Again.
I lose track of how many pitches I throw. Fastballs, curves, sliders, and each one hits exactly where I aim, precision honed by thousands of hours of practice. My shoulder starts burning around pitch seventy.
I ignore it.
The sun drops lower. The shadows stretch long across the field.
I throw harder.
“You trying to tear your rotator cuff, or is this a new conditioning method?”
I catch the ball on the rebound, turning to find Mack leaning against the dugout, arms crossed. He’s my catcher and closest thing I have to a best friend, even if he’s annoying as hell ninety percent of the time.
“Didn’t know you were here.”
“I wasn’t. Got a text from security saying someone was beating up baseballs in the bullpen.” He walks over, eyeing the scattered balls. “Want to talk about it?”
“Nope.”
“Does it involve a certain tattoo artist?”
I fire another pitch. “Drop it.”
“So yes.” Mack crouches, starting to gather the balls. “What happened?”
“Nothing happened. That’s the problem.”
“Ah.” He straightens, dumping an armful of balls into my bag. “She shut it down.”
“She set boundaries. Big difference.”
“Is it?” He studies me. “Because you look about thirty seconds from putting a hole in the outfield wall.”
I wipe sweat from my forehead. My arm is screaming now, a deep ache I’ll definitely feel tomorrow. “I’m fine.”
“Sure you are. That’s why you’re out here destroying baseballs instead of doing literally anything else.” He tosses me a water bottle. “Drink. Then tell me what actually happened.”
I down half the bottle before speaking, “She doesn’t want to risk it. Her dad, the media, my career, they’re all valid reasons.”
“But?”
“But I think she’s scared. And I don’t know how to convince someone to stop being afraid.”
Mack sits on the mound, patting the dirt beside him. I drop down, wincing as my shoulder protests.
