The museum atrium looks almost like it did two weeks ago when I followed a bunch of kids who ran screaming towards all the fossils.
They weren’t running towards the woman at the front of the tour with the beautiful hair and seemingly soft heart.
But they should have been.
I should have been, too.
The part of me that’s been asleep since Matt died woke up, sitting across from her in the downstairs café drinking coffee.
But it might have been at the cost of something else going to sleep.
My teammates and more franchise staff than I’ve ever seen are spread out around the atrium, a sea of black tuxedos with the occasional pop of colour from a silk dress trailing along the floor, or someone with a particularly flashy sense of style.
Everyone looks happy to be standing under dim lighting, surrounded by bones while they sip champagne and glasses of scotch being passed around by waitstaff.
I’m not sure anyone in our organization should be happy. We’re coming off two abysmal road series.
I haven’t played this poorly since I had strep throat during the playoffs my second year of college, and I still managed to field more balls in one game than I did all week.
So much for all the records Yas said I was closing in on.
Autopilot Miller, the one who’s done his best to move through this season relying on nothing more than the mechanics of his body, turned off two weeks ago when something sparked to life behind her eyes.
The Miller who woke up and tried his hand at flirting with her, thought it might be a good idea to try to really smile again—apparently, that Miller can’t play without Matt.
Another text lights up my phone, but I don’t bother to read it, shoving it in the pocket of my tux, shifting back and forth on uncertain feet. I should move—I’ve been standing off to the side by some giant skeleton I couldn’t name with a gun to my head since we took all the obligatory photos to start the event and Olson made what was probably supposed to be a rousing speech with the head of the Paleontology Department about the importance of funding educational programming.
But when a waiter walks by, a tray laden with scotch winking behind crystal under the dim lighting, a drink seems like a better idea.
Someone else thinks so too.
“Hey.” Joel nods at me, snagging a glass with his left hand—he doesn’t seem to use his pitching hand for anything, and it could be a superstition thing, but I wouldn’t know.
I haven’t bothered to ask our new starting pitcher much of anything.
“Borges. Hey.” I tip my chin.
“You can call me Joel.” He lifts his glass to me. “Friendlier than a last name.”
“Oh.” I shrug. “Sure, yeah. Joel it is. You can call me Miller.”
His brows snag together. “I ... uh, yeah. Sure. You prefer that to Colson? CB?”
He moves on to an endless list of nicknames my teammates and press throw at me. They all start to bleed together. But all I do is mutter, “Nah, Miller’s fine.”
I don’t think he’s ever called me anything other than my first name in the months I’ve known him, but I can’t really remember. No wonder people think I’m stupid.
“We haven’t talked much.” He nods, moving right on in conversation. “I know it must be weird for you. Me coming in and starting. Taking over for him.”
“All good.” I take a measured sip, hoping the alcohol burns away the absence of Matt’s name. “It was just business.”
And it was business.
You have one of the best pitchers in the world. He walks you through an undefeated wild card round, clinches you a division title, brings you to the league championship, and then takes you all the way to the World Series.
But then he dies in the offseason.
You need to replace him.
