“What do you mean?” I ask, my head snapping toward his.
“I mean, you’re not the guy who goes after something. You let things happen.”
I stiffen. “That’s not true.”
“It kind of is,” Logan says. He’s not being harsh, but the words still sting. “You’ve always been the ‘it’s fine’ guy. The ‘I’ll wait’ guy. The ‘whatever happens happens’ guy.”
“That’s called being a team player.”
“That’s called being scared,” Logan says.
That word stings even worse.
“I’m not scared,” I say, not sure why I feel so defensive.
Logan shrugs. “Then why are you sitting here?”
I look at my hands in futility—hands that throw a hundred and two miles per hour but won’t just reach for what I actually want. Is Logan right?
Am I scared?
I’ve spent my life as a bridge. A shiny wrapper, a helium balloon—the guy you use to get where you’re going, but never the guy you want with you in the end.
I was the setup man for the eighth inning, and now I’m the man they set up to take the fall so Jake can have his “clean start.” The bridge his agent walked all over to get a seven-figure endorsement deal.
I told myself that not crossing Scottie’s line was a show of respect. Even now, arguments rise and fall on my lips—protests about ruining her career, proving Doug right, justifying Jake’s tabloid smear.
But it’s crap.
Logan raps his fingers on his knee, reminding me of Scottie’s nails. Of the clacking of Mom’s keyboard. I wanted Mom to live so badly. It’s all I cared about—everything I thought about, everything I worried about.
And she still died.
That’s when I learned the worst lesson of my life: that wanting something doesn’t mean you get to keep it. So I stopped trying to own the end of the game.
I’ve embraced the persona of the Setup Man because it’s safe—I do the work, I hand off the ball, and I don’t have to be the one standing there when the final lights go out. I don’t have to be the one who fails if I never try to win. I’ve been playing for a crowd that doesn’t matter because I’m so afraid that if I stop being a human light bulb, everyone will leave the stadium.
I’ve proved her worst fear true.
Coop leans forward. “She’s trying to sacrifice herself, man. She’s been taking the hit for Jake for years so he doesn’t have to.”
“No,” I say quietly. “It’s because she wanted her family to notice her.” The realization hits harder than a comebacker to the ribs. “She knew they wouldn’t come find her, so she stayed in the one place she knew they’d always be—watching over Jake.”
“Ouch,” Logan says.
Coop studies me. “By sitting here, you’re proving her right again. People don’t come looking for her. Not even you.”
Not even me.
The truth drops like a bomb: my lifetime of passivity has hurt the woman I love.
“You gotta go after her, man,” Coop says. “You can’t just let this one happen.”
My heart starts pounding as images flash through my head—Scottie folding her arms, stepping back from me in the lot, sayingWatch me.
She doesn’t need a public declaration. She needs the one thing her family never gave her: someone willing to come find her.
Someone who refuses to let her disappear.
