“Have the comments not gotten any better on social media? We can release a statement or—”
I interrupt with another thing on my list of things I don’t do anymore. “I stopped posting.”
She exhales now, and I imagine her lips pursing while she blinks thoughtfully. “Well, maybe it’s a moot point then. I won’t force you to do anything you’re uncomfortable with if it’s not a contractual obligation but seeing as you haven’t really looked online ... ever since the press conference, the headlines have shifted. The city seems to love your chivalry, Miller. You giving the girl your jersey is the only thing anyone can talk about. And seeing as it’s certainly not going to be the last time you see her ...”
Yas trails off, waiting. Despite the general populous believing there’s nothing else in my head but baseball and women, and Matthew always being the smarter one—I’m not dumb.
I’ve just never really cared about anything else, and I never thought I’d have to.
Her implication settles around against my skin, and I shift against the couch. That doesn’t fit either. Shaking my head, I tell her, “I’m not interested in some harebrained publicity stunt to distract people from asking me about Matt. Even if you think it’s going to help my prospects and keep my value up.” But air whistles out of that hole in my lungs, the one shaped like Matt. “It was—nice.” I choke on the word. It doesn’t feel like the right descriptor. The absence of him isn’t something I’d ever associate with positivity. Swallowing, I keep talking, even though my leg starts to twitch, and the corners of my eyes burn and blur. “It was a relief, to not be bombarded with questions about him instead of the game or the season. But I’m not acting out some rom com, seeing if I can use her moment of embarrassment to my advantage ... I was just trying to be ... I don’t know. It’s what he’d have done.”
I’m sure her next words come through pursed lips. “I’m not suggesting you take advantage of the poor girl. I’m suggesting you leverage an opportunity to not only get what you want, but to give yourself a break. The more and more you react to questions about Matthew, the more and more you avoid talking about him, posting about him, doing things you used to love, the more and more youaregoing to get asked about him. You are going to crack, Miller.” She pauses, letting those words settle, too. But there are already cracks all over me, and I’ve got no idea where these ones dig in. “The girl is right there. You’ll have to see her more than once. You have to see her at that gala the museum is hosting for all their philanthropic partners in a few weeks.” I’ve got no idea what she’s talking about, but my phone pingswhen she forwards me my press schedule again. “Ask her to dance, ask her to tell you about a dinosaur bone, pose for a photo together, and let the press do the rest. Give yourself a break.”
I do decide to give myself a break. From this conversation.
“Yas—” I cut in, thumb already hovering over the screaming, angry, red end-call button. “I’ve gotta go. Matt’s parents are calling.”
I hang up before she can say anything else.
It’s a believable lie.
She doesn’t know I haven’t seen my aunt and uncle in months, that I do my best not to take their calls, and she certainly doesn’t know that I definitely can’t face them now that I’m trying to run away from them and Matty’s memory like a coward.
Silence rings out, and it sits on my shoulders beside everything Yas said.
It feels nice, at least.
My thumb still hovers over my phone screen, dark and quiet now, spending its time like my television does.
But in the silence, something else taps on my shoulders: curiosity about a beautiful—brilliant, apparently—woman.
I do something I haven’t done in months.
My thumb swipes up, it navigates across my home page until I open Google.
I type in my name.
Before Matt, the first thing that popped up would usually be stats, an article or two about my recent games. Maybe even a picture of me on a date.
But now, it’s her.
Smiling softly at me in thanks when her hands reach out in space across the infield wall to take my jersey from me, somehow looking beautiful despite the condiment in her hair, the tears shining in her eyes and the stain from an overpriced drink on her shirt.
The corners of my lips tug upwards.
Miller
This was a colossal fucking mistake.
The kid directly in front of me with the dinosaurs on his bucket hat and the baseball on his T-shirt keeps looking back at me.
He can’t be more than seven, but he looks ... shrewd, or something. Like he can see through my shitty disguise—a black ball cap with no identifying information pulled down low on my head, and my tattooed hand shoved into the pocket of my navy jacket.
There’s a smear of something that might be dirt or chocolate on his cheek, but I swear his tiny little eyes narrow on me right before he starts tugging on the sleeve of his dad’s shirt for his attention.
He’s going to rat me out, little shit.
I smile and make a face at him—I’m not sure what kind of face. I’m not really around kids very often—and it wasn’t exactly supposed to scare him, it was supposed to be something funny to convey this was our little secret: Miller Colson-Burke, bestshortstop in the league, walking in the back of a museum tour that’s definitely meant for children and their parents.
