He’s not here, and he certainly doesn’t have a voice to speak of—that got stolen by the water—but I can imagine what he’d say. The way he’d clap me on the shoulder, a grin digging lines around his eyes, and laugh when he said, “Always knew you weren’t as big of an asshole as everyone thinks.”
I roll my shoulders again, each cleat stamping into the dirt, kicking up mounds of dust from the field, and I try to shake off his phantom hand when the moment of silence starts.
His picture projects across the screen.
Matthew Burke
# 10
Pitcher
World Series Champion
Forever Twenty-Seven
Usually, I close my eyes.
People have thoughts about that, too. That it’s repentance for what everyone thinks I did wrong. Other people say it’s a privatemoment of grief made public because the team mandated a moment for Matt before every home game for the rest of the season.
It is mourning, in a way.
But it’s got more to do with the last time I saw his face—not the perfect version projected onto the screen.
Today though, my eyes don’t close. They don’t snap to the screen either.
They find the infield wall, and the beautiful redhead standing behind it, my jersey hanging around her shoulders and covering the stain on her shirt. I can still see the yellow in her hair from here, and the colour pulls at the corners of my mouth.
Her head tips, thoughtful, an absent finger tracing the empty space on that jersey where Matt’s number sits on the one I’m wearing. Her lips move, slow, articulating words I’m used to reading on mouths from years on the field.
Colson-Burke. She repeats it, lips moving before they stumble over the second name.
Burke.
Her eyes flit to the screen, her fingers dig into the empty space on the jersey above her heart, and she blinks at me all the way from beyond the wall. The pieces of some sort of puzzle she’s trying to fit together slotting in. She nods softly, like it’s understanding dawning, but it couldn’t possibly be—because no one will ever understand.
No one could. And I don’t want them to.
But I tip my chin at her, her lips move into a quiet smile when everyone starts taking their positions on the field, the photo of Matty blinks away from the screen to reveal the starting lineup, and the number ten burns a hole through my chest into my heart.
“Miller.” Pascale leans around the open locker room door, fingers snapping to get my attention. “Olson is ready for you, and then press in fifteen.”
My fingers bend the brim of my hat into an anxious curve. I nod, muttering a “Got it, Coach” under my breath.
His eyes narrow before he knocks once against the doorframe and pushes off into the hallway.
I wait until his footsteps reverberate further and further away before knocking my head once against the shelf in my locker.
A hand claps my shoulder. “You good?”
I nod, flexing down on the brim of my hat again, veins straining along the backs of my hands, popping beneath the inked M. Shoving it over my hair, still sweat-damp, I turn towards Chourio and try for a grin that doesn’t quite meet my eyes. “All good. I played well. We won. Press is a breeze.”
Chourio cocks a brow, disbelief colouring his usually warm brown eyes. “You sure? I don’t mind taking the post-game for you.”
“All good,” I echo again, tipping my chin. “They don’t usually want to talk to outfielders, anyway.”
His eyes roll, dimples popping in his cheeks, hardly visible underneath his beard but enough to tell me the joke landed. “Oh, fuck off, Miller. You’re so full of yourself.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” I start walking backwards towards the door, arms spread wide like they can’t contain all my athleticprowess and records and wins, when really, I’ve got no idea what they might be holding up. Pieces of me, maybe.
